As the Heckler’s chief sports reporter, I have covered numerous sporting events spanning a decades-long body of work. This year was my first covering the Masters, and I must admit that I found the atmosphere stifling. The dress code, noise, and distance restrictions were onerous and as a result I was asked to leave on multiple occasions. Those occasions include: 

I was ejected from the course for not obeying the club’s dress code, which requires a collared shirt.

I was ejected once more from the course for not obeying the club’s dress code, which requires a collared shirt that also covers both nipples. 

I had the pleasure of watching Brooks Koepka tee off on hole number 2. I saw him take his first swing and thought to myself, “Adelaide, this kid’s got hands that could sew a wing back on a butterfly and an ass that could drive you to Texas.”  In addition to thinking it, I also voiced this thought at quite a high volume, repeatedly while approaching Koepka at increasing speeds.  As a result, a staff member at Augusta National came over to me and instructed me to keep quiet and not to disturb the game.

As Koepka teed off on hole 5, I noticed that he was overrotating his hips, causing his hands to speed up too much and leading him to strike the ball without getting the clubhead square. I suspected that this was due to nerves, but fellow fans, Augusta national staff members, and Kopeka himself later assured me that it was due to me loudly tuning my alto saxophone at the very moment of his backswing. Noticing that Koepka had begun to falter, I began to strike up the opening notes of George Michael’s Careless Whisper in an effort to lift his spirits and was promptly escorted from the premises. 

On hole 8, Kopeka was spiraling for unknown reasons. He had bogeyed the last two holes, with an ugly duff off the tee box on 7 into the lumberyard. After the shot, I noticed Koepka wiping down the clubface while looking at it in confusion. Thinking quickly, I realized that equipment issues may have been dogging Koepka and sprung into action. I removed my trusty 8 iron from my bag, and tossed it to Brooks, sending it arcing over the crowd and striking Koepka’s caddy in the back of the head. My subsequent throws were no less errant, and I ended up clocking the caddy in the head with a sand wedge, a putter, a 6 iron, and a fairway wood. I was detained by Masters security personnel and then later remanded into the custody of local law enforcement.