At my house the second weekend in April is “Masters Weekend” not “Easter Weekend.” I get how the resurrection of Jesus, Lord & Savior, is worth weekend naming rights for a lot of families. Just not ours.
At this point in my life there are only a handful of contemplations that give me goose bumps of the “kid-at-Christmas” variety. The list would include the far-fetched hope of loving a woman forever (admittedly, noting my current prospects, “forever,” might be a shorter interval than its eternal connotation). Spending winters in
For a golfer, there is nothing comparable to
In addition to watching every broadcast for the last twenty years, I’ve been mentally playing the course in family backyards since I could hold a club. I know the undulations on the greens and the holes which play a club longer than they should. I can tell you about every shot in Nicklaus’ supernatural back-nine in 1986 (shot in 30) en route to his sixth green jacket. And I can tell you without reservation that Phil Mickelson’s career began in earnest when he sank a downhill birdie putt on the twelfth three years ago, with my mom yelling, “YES!” in the background, to get into contention on Sunday (Mickelson would then birdie four of the final six holes to win his first Masters).
CBS' ads say it best: The Masters is, “a tradition unlike any other.”
No other tournament wields one-tenth the tradition of
Most PGA tournaments are run by a conglomerate of corporate sponsors, municipal representatives, local golf professionals, and designated volunteers. The Masters, on the other hand, is run solely by the members of Augusta National Golf Club. A group so influential and hands-on that legendary sports writer John Feinstein coined them, “The Lords of Augusta.”
The Lords say what happens when, without interpretation or variation. They are not a group which endorses change.
A coke at the 2007 Masters will cost you $1, approximately the same as it did twenty years ago. Snacks are still $.75; a beer is $2.00. At every other PGA tournament a player can hit as many shots as he wants in a practice round. At
Different and, with the Lords of Augusta at the helm, unyielding.
During the 1994 Masters, CBS golf analyst Gary McCord remarked that the 17th green was so fast it hadn’t been mowed, but rather, “bikini-waxed.” McCord's off-the-cuff comment about the
CBS decided to keep their broadcast rights; McCord hasn’t covered a Masters since.
The Lords are content accepting less money from the networks (for the last 52 years, CBS) in order to ensure control over every aspect of the tourney -- including sponsors and commentators. In 2002 Marth Burk led a group of demonstrators in a campaign to disparage Augusta National and corporations which sponsored The Masters for disallowing women to become members at Augusta National. The Lords’ response: pay for the anticipated commercial revenues out of their own pocket rather than change their policies or allow their sponsors to be criticized. CBS' weekend coverage is now nearly commercial free (four minutes an hour).
For a viewer this means unconscionable access to golf’s shrine. Shot by shot coverage of every hole. Occasionally you even get to see someone other than Tiger Woods. It’s mind-boggling and incredibly satisfying. All the more remarkable when you consider, “the tournament doesn’t even begin until the back-nine on Sunday.”
I don’t know who first said those words, but it’s a quote you’re guaranteed to hear at least a thousand times between now and 3:00 pm on Sunday. For me it’s up there with, “the half-way point of the marathon is mile 20,” as one of the most irrational, yet markedly true, utterances in sports. If by chance you’re one of the select players in contention on Sunday, the back-nine is exactly when the tournament begins.
No other closing nine in golf compares. Each hole has intricacies and nuances that can determine the outcome of the tournament. There is water. There are swirling winds. There are par fives that produce eagles and double-bogeys. There are fairway bunkers which actually come into play. There are greens that slope off the face of the earth. There is history. And there is an unprecedented amount of pressure.
Every year, a player will shoot 32 on the inward nine and finish near the top of the leader board. Another player will shoot 40 and forever remember those nine holes as the missed opportunity of his career. It is disheartening, joyful, invigorating, and awesome to watch.
Simply put, I can’t wait.
How appropriate that most years The Masters is decided on Easter Sunday, when life springs eternal. Miraculously, the azaleas and dogwoods seem to bloom amid Masters week every year. Overall, the
The best part is that I get to share every moment -- every pan of the cameras to the azaleas, every bird chirping in the background (supposedly dubbed insertions by CBS), every decisive shot through Amen Corner, and every crucial putt on eighteen -- with my family.
With my brother off and married, being together for the holidays is no longer a guarantee. Instead, Masters weekend is our annual rite. Without deliberation we circle this week on the calendar and head home to watch the splendor that is Augusta. There are few givens in life, but this is one.
For us, it’s a family tradition unlike any other.
1 comment:
Well done, bro. you put into words the craziness of our family. My flight leaves in 31 hours. Can't wait.
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