BY RON GREEN, JR.
As springtime arrives, slower around the Chicago area than in more southern places where the daffodils bloom in late February, the warmth means more than shedding a layer or two of clothing.
For golfers, there is a warming of the soul, a sense that the game is in front of you with all of its possibilities despite its inevitable frustrations.
And there is the Masters, as much a signal of springtime as the budding trees and distant sounds of lawnmowers stirring to life after a winter away.
If you’ve been to the Masters, you may remember the powdery taste of pine pollen on your lips, the tired legs after a day hiking golf’s most famous hills or the green that seems greener than any other.
If you’ve not been, Augusta National and the Masters are still familiar. It’s Jack shooting 65 on Sunday to win in 1986, it’s Tiger’s pitch shot hanging on the lip of the hole at No. 16 in 2005 and it’s wondering who might eagle the 13th hole.
There is a comfort in the Masters returning every year to the same place and at the same time (except for that random November Masters in 2020), bringing with it many of the same feelings, the same memories, the same rituals.
While the professional game remains fractured by a power/money struggle and winter night television screens have been filled by tour stars playing oversized simulator golf, the Masters is like golf’s lighthouse, guiding the game back to a place like no other.
If the Masters is guilty of anything, it’s of inspiring a certain romanticism, whether from writers or patrons or players. There are a few cynical hold outs, but as a wise man once said, they probably don’t see rainbows either.
In the same way many of the patrons (they aren’t called fans or spectators at the Masters) gather at the same spots year after year, eating their $1.50 sandwiches and $2 sodas (they offer cola, diet cola, lemon-lime and sports drink with no brand names attached), golfers and many non-golfers find ways to make the Masters their own.
Maybe it’s playing 18 holes on Saturday or Sunday (or both) mornings then parking in front of a big screen to watch the afternoon happenings from Augusta.
Maybe it’s finding pimento cheese at the grocery store and spreading it on crackers while watching.
Maybe it’s calling your friend or your relative to relive the day you went to Augusta and saw it all in person, bringing home a bag full of merchandise, a headful of memories and a heart full of happiness.
Golf tournaments are played every week around the world, but the Masters stands alone because of what it is and where it is. At a place where money is abundant, what the Masters has created is priceless.
If you are among the devoted, you can probably recite portions of the one-hour retrospective about Nicklaus’ win in 1986. Coming across it on television as the Masters approaches is like coming across ‘The Godfather.’ It’s mandatory to stop and watch at least a little bit.
The story of professional golf is built, to a significant degree, around what has happened at Augusta National since Bobby Jones debuted what was called the Augusta National Invitation Tournament in 1934, sending Horton Smith home with a $1,500 payday and the distinction of being the first winner of a tournament that is arguably now the most beloved event in the game.
Snead, Nelson and Hogan have their own chapters in the Masters story. It’s where Palmer became a star, winning four times in even-numbered years beginning in 1958.
It’s Jack winning six green jackets and Tiger winning five. It’s about Ed Sneed three-putting the last green to miss a playo and Seve, a two-time winner, dunking it in the water at the 15th when the Golden Bear was charging and Rory McIlroy shooting 80 on Sunday after starting the day with the lead.
Careers are shaped by the Masters. Ask Fred Couples or Larry Mize or Trevor Immelman.
In a world that never stops changing, the Masters has managed to maintain a timelessness while operating on the cutting edge. The tournament and club have been willing to push and stretch boundaries without sacrificing the essence of the place and the tournament.
The scoreboards are still hand-operated and cell phones are strictly forbidden on the premises. First-time patrons tend not to believe the cell phone policy but it’s real and, because it forces people to talk to one another rather than stare into their phones, it’s a tradition that will hopefully endure well into the future.
It’s that time again.
Amen Corner is calling.