I already have next Sunday all planned out.

This weekend I am up at school, working on the newspaper with my students. And for part of next weekend, I’ll be riding a bus to Lubbock to watch my students compete in a regional academic competition.

But next Sunday… write it down. Me. A couch. The Masters. Final round.

Always the second Sunday in April, always at the Augusta National Golf Club. Founded by Bobby FREAKING Jones in 1934. The Green Jackets. Arnie. Jack. Tiger.

Truth be known, I’m not a huge golf fan. But I figure the final round of the Masters is kind of like the Super Bowl. If you’re only going to watch golf once a year on TV, this should be it.

My dad loves golf. And I love my dad, though I haven’t always shared his enthusiasm for the sport. I have vivid memories of him when he was still in his 30s, not much older than I am now, lying on the floor, propping one arm under his ear, supporting his head while he watched golf on whatever model of various console televisions we’ve had through the years. When his arm would be tired, he’d lie on his back, with the heavy-duty, 1980s-model, plastic remote control propping his head up like a lean-to. I still admire any man’s pain threshold who could consider THAT to be a leisurely position.

I’m sure I came in the room hoping he would spontaneously change the channel and find “Clash of the Titans” or “Iron Eagle” or “Smokey And The Bandit” on another station, anything but golf. But that was wishful thinking. He’d stay in that same position on the floor. When he had noticed I was there, he’d pat the carpet in front of him for me to join him. Sometimes I would. And sometimes I’d leave to play in another room.

But like I said, my dad loves golf. I love my dad. So my brother and I became golfers. Actually, we became golfers only in the “narrow sense” that we had clubs which he had purchased for us. And that we had been to the driving range with him a few times, making comical attempts to hit a small white ball long and straight. Not listening to his advice… Keep your head down… arms straight… don’t break your wrists… bend at the knees… HEAD DOWN! No doubt we’d get frustrated when he’d demonstrate and make it look easy.

I do know there were times when we would listen, the stars and planets would align and our hapless chops would somehow hit a sweet spot and launch a battered range ball for a beautiful flight. And those shots would be enough for us to keep chopping. I have no memory of hitting two great shots consecutively.

We were golfers in the sense that we spent one summer at Cadron Valley Country Club taking lessons and played in a “tournament” at the conclusion of the camp in which I’m pretty sure I missed the ball more often than I hit it.

But still, my dad loved golf. And in the same sense that I’m always anxious to share a great album or a good story or film, my dad wanted to share his love with me. Because he loved golf. And he loved me.

So for some teenage birthday, I got another set of clubs – cavity-back Big Chiefs, “Bertha knock-offs,” my dad called them, and just as good. With an Arnold Palmer putter tossed in the bag, I was a golfer again. But a golfer only in the narrow sense that I owned clubs, and I went to the range about once every four years or so, and in the sense that I have played about 36 holes total since then.

I shot a round with my Dad at Cadron Valley… and hit a perfect tee shot on a par 3, a high arcing shot that landed about eight feet above the pin, leaving me with my first legitimate birdie attempt. Four putts later, I had my double bogey. I’m sure it was my best hole of the day.

I shot nine holes with my friend Jeff Matthews. And I think with a few mulligans and a gimmie here and there that I might’ve broken 45.

I tried to shoot 18 with my friend Erik Ramsey. But we blew out a tire somewhere near the back nine and had to push the cart back to the clubhouse. That was the end of that round, the last one I’ve played.

I’m still a golfer, in the narrow sense that I still have those clubs (in remarkably good condition by the way). A putter and wedge and several used balls, white Top-Flites and ancient Titlelists, plus the odd orange Pinnacle, sit near the kitchen counter in my apartment. When I moved into this complex, I was excited to see a “PGA-approved” putting green in the lawn just behind my unit. I haven’t made it out there yet, though I thought I saw a coyote sitting out there one night and grabbed the putter to use as a potential weapon when I went out to investigate. But that’s the closest I’ve gotten so far.

I talk golf with Dad every now and then. We usually stick to football, or basketball, or baseball… or even the Ultimate Fighting Championship on occasion. But every so often, the subject will be golf. I’ll ask him how long it’s been since he took out his nice clubs and played. He’ll say, “Oh, it’s been awhile. I’d like to get out and play some more.” But his work schedule prevents him from doing it. Maybe there are other factors too, I don’t know. But I always encourage him to do it. Because my dad loves golf. And I love my dad.

And part of me wishes I was better at it, and more into it. If that were the case, we could go out and play when I’d come home. Because I love my dad. And my dad loves golf. But we have other ways to spend time… and other ways to show love for each other. But I still wish I could hit a ball long and straight. And then that could be our thing too.

About a year ago, my friend Ben posted this story on his blog. It’s by Wright Thompson of ESPN: The Magazine. It’s about him going to do something his father always wanted to do: walk the course at Augusta, during the second weekend of April. Now his father had passed away, and Thompson, who had covered the event several times at a journalist, chose to go and walk it again. Because he loves his dad. And because his dad loved golf.

Wright’s story of his relationship with his dad and this golf tournament ran on the ESPN Web site for Father’s Day. The response it got was overwhelming. I left tears on the keyboard of my laptop. Not once, but several times.

I came across the story again this week. I read it again. I remembered that Wright is not much older than me. And the tears came down again. And I decided to make time to lie on my couch, on my ‘tumbucket’, and watch the Masters next Sunday, with the cell phone close by, in case I needed to put a call in to Arkansas. Because I love my dad. And because my dad loves golf.

AUGUSTA, Ga. — Most everything makes me think about my Daddy, and this morning, of all the stupid reasons to fight back tears in public, it’s chipped beef on toast. I’m sitting at the corner table on the clubhouse veranda, waiting for Arnold Palmer to hit the ceremonial first shot of the Masters. Man, my father loved watching Arnie. To do it from the veranda with a plate of chipped beef? Hotty Toddy, brother. Only, the excitement of incredible moments like this is muted for me now. I’ve learned in the past three years that I did many things solely to tell Daddy about them later.

The crowd stands on Washington Road, waiting for the gates to open. For a moment, the course is quiet. Birds chirp. Mowers drone. Soon, another lucky diner asks if he can join me. His food arrives first. As we talk a bit, bundled against the chill, he looks at the empty space in front of me.

“What did you order?” he asks.

“Chipped beef on toast,” I say. He laughs. “Breakfast of champions,” he says.

“It was my dad’s favorite meal,” I explain.

“Did you ever bring him here?” he asks.

There is a silence. “No,” I say, turning away.

Daddy watched the Masters every year. He dreamed of attending just one, and he’s always on my mind when I come here for my job. Indeed, for all of us lucky enough to actually walk through these gates, we cannot leave without having thoughts of our daddies, for Augusta National is a place for fathers and sons. Davis Love III navigates the same fairways as Davis Love Jr. New fathers carefully hold toddler hands. “Can you see?” you’ll hear them say. Strong arms tenderly steer stooped backs. “Look out, Dad,” you’ll hear them say softly. That is Augusta.

When Jack Nicklaus finished his final round ever at the Masters, his eyes welled on the green. He glanced at his son, who was caddying for him, and repeated his own father’s last words, “Don’t think it ain’t been charming.” As Jack ended his relationship with this special place, he looked at his son and thought of his father. That is Augusta.

When Tiger Woods won for the first time, his eyes searched the gallery near the scoring shed for Earl Woods. They hugged, Tiger’s head cradled on his father’s shoulder. And when he walked off the green almost a decade later, and Earl Woods was no longer there, Tiger remembered that shoulder and he mourned. That is Augusta.

This, too, is Augusta: me, needing a daddy more than ever, finishing the chipped beef on toast, walking the grounds in search of fatherly wisdom. Me, a 30-year-old man, who failed in my promise to bring Daddy to this place he longed to visit, unable to control my emotions when I see a father and a son standing by the first fairway. The boy is a half-head taller and growing. Both wear blue Penn State gear. I see myself in that boy, standing with his father, both thinking they have all the time in the world.

To read the rest, go here. You might want to grab some tissue first.