Robert Tyre Jones IV Remembers His Grandfather, Bobby Jones
Across the street, at a bar and restaurant called Six Feet Under, you can order an Arnold Palmer and a Mr. Jones, an Arnold Palmer with vodka. Who knows what Jones would have thought of that combo—maybe the ruination of three good drinks.
Dr. Jones represents the end of the line—there is no RTJ5—and he is no blind keeper of the flame. “There are so many myths about him,” Dr. Jones said during a recent interview.
For Bob4 and his relatives, the Masters is an annual family reunion. The heirs of Bobby Jones receive tickets each year, and that lovely springtime sign-off—See you at Augusta!—is like a call to Mecca for them. Bobby’s namesake grandson can stand on a swath of green there, amid the crowds, close his eyes and see his father walking down the fairway on number 1, his mother spreading Famous Sauce on a club sandwich, his grandfather with the winner in Butler Cabin. He can hear him congratulating another Fahn champion.
Now and again, somebody will see Dr. Jones’s name tag and make the connection. One day in 1999 it was a stranger in a hat festooned with Masters badges going back to the ’50s. Bob4 was standing beside the 10th fairway when the hatted man introduced himself and said, “I was standing right here one time, and your granddaddy came by in a cart, driven by your daddy, and they stopped and said hello. I’ll always remember that.” Later, Dr. Jones realized he had never seen a picture of his father and grandfather together at Augusta National. Now he had something better.