The Masters

My blog has been quiet this week and not for lack of things to talk about. I have a dozen pieces in the works, all on important topics. But I am notoriously useless during professional golf’s Masters Tournament. This is my favorite week of the year without exception or hyperbole. And besides, all our troubles and challenges will still be here tomorrow.

The Masters is the surest and most predictable indicator of spring, more reliable than a turn in the weather or of a page in the calendar. The lush green grasses and blooming pink azaleas seen on our televisions or streaming devices are the first signs of spring that many of us see. Those sights every April have buoyed spirits. They have even inspired people to take up the game in the first place. Three-time Masters champion Nick Faldo never picked up a golf club until he turned on his parent’s new color television and saw the majesty of Augusta National.

As a kid growing up in New Hampshire it was no different. The Masters ushered in spring. And I cherished sitting with my Dad and watching. Dad was an avid watcher of all things sports. He wasn’t a drinker but he did have an occasional beer watching a game. There were the Heineken years and then, later, the Miller Lite years. And the reward for grabbing one for him out of the fridge was always that I got to take just a tiny little sip. Two of my most enduring memories of all the sports I consumed with my Dad both come from April 1986, coincidentally. I was 13. The first was the night Roger Clemens struck out a record 20 batters. We listened to it on the radio and I sat on the stool of my Dad’s favorite chair as we ticked off every strikeout. The second was Jack Nicklaus’ improbable Masters win at the age of 46, the last of his record 18 major wins.

Beyond being golf’s first major of the year, beyond being a harbinger of spring, there must be other reasons this tournament and this golf course mean so much to so many. Certainly, there is tradition behind it. Certainly, there are iconic shots – Tiger’s chip in on 16, Phil’s shot from the pine straw on 13, Bubba’s hooked wedge out of the woods on 10. And there are iconic images – Jack’s putter raise on 17 or Hideki’s caddy bowing in respect to the course while putting the pin back in after his man won. And there are the iconic voices and iconic calls – Jim Nantz’s “a tradition unlike any other” or Verne Lundquist’s “in your life, have you seen anything like that?” But what else?

Full disclosure, I have been fortunate enough to play Augusta National, both the par 3 course and the full course. It is the only thing I have ever done in my life that exceeded the expectations I inevitably build up in my head before doing something to which I am looking forward. I was on property for 10 hours and I was shaking the entire time. It was magical. I have stood in the spots where the iconic shots were taken and shaken my head at how impossible they were to pull off. I stood in front of the display case that houses the one club left behind by each champion, marveling at how worn out some of the grips were. I can attest that truly no blade of grass is out of place and everything is meticulous, down to the perfect 45-degree angles and spacing between the shoe horns that sit in front of each locker.

The green jackets (members of Augusta wear green sports coats) get a lot of things right. Not everything, but a lot of things. Like most private golf clubs, and our country as a whole, it took entirely too long for men of color and women to enjoy its privileges. And I still think they got it wrong when they didn’t disqualify Tiger Woods in 2013 for a bad drop and signing an incorrect score card. But there is so much they get right that is instructive.

The Masters is a meritocracy.  It invites the best players in the world to compete. But once qualified, each player is an equal. Unlike other tournaments that introduce players on the first tee listing their accomplishments, making some players appear more than and others less than, at the Masters every player, regardless of length of resume, is introduced the same exact way. A three-time Masters winner was introduced this week with the expression, “Fore please, Phil Mickelson now driving.” And a first-time amateur was introduced just as simply. “Fore please, Hiroshi Tai now driving.”

At the Masters, they respect their elders and recognize their contributions toward paving the way. The tournament begins with a champions dinner bringing back all the winners who can attend. The first shots of the tournament are taken by the honorary starters, past champions who are the elder statesmen of the game. And winners get a lifetime exemption to play, allowing them to say when it is time to hang it up. Some of the great moments every year are when one of those men receives their last ovation coming up 18.

At the Masters the tournament recognizes that though we have a commitment to honor those that came before, our most important obligation is to investment in our future. Their Drive, Chip, and Putt competition brings 7-15 year olds from all over the country to compete. Akshay Bhatia, a past finalist in that competition, played in his second Masters this year. In addition, several amateurs are invited to play in the Masters, honoring the tradition of cofounder Bobby Jones who was one of the great amateurs of all time. Many of these amateurs stay right on property during the tournament, in the crow’s nest of the clubhouse. The past is nothing if we don’t invest in and provide opportunities for our future.

The green jackets understand that how fans comport themselves is as important as how the players and members do. Bad behavior is met with expulsion. Phones are not allowed. Enjoy the moment; don’t video it. Be present. Fans can set their chairs up in prime locations, leave to get a sandwich, and know that their spot is still going to be there when they return. Try that at the Waste Management Phoenix Open where drunks shout, taunt players and throw beer cans onto the course. Act the fool at Augusta and you’re out.

Food is cheap. At Augusta your tickets might be expensive and your credit card may melt at the merchandise tent but your pimento or egg salad sandwich will be really good and only cost you $2. Everybody has to eat and everyone should be able to do it without breaking the bank.

The grounds are pristine and they are revered. And it is because they are pristine that they are treated with respect and care by visitors. Our speck of earth, whether our backyard, our favorite golf course, that national park we visit, or the whole of the earth itself should be treated with that degree of reverence and care.

At Augusta they know that it is okay to expect more than is expected elsewhere. It’s okay to say that here you will wear pants. It’s okay to say here you won’t wear that sweater with the obnoxious writing. It’s okay to say here you will not be seen peeing on the course. There are many places with lower standards. Go there.

And it is precisely because of these higher standards that the Masters’ patrons are the best galleries in golf. They are knowledgeable. They cheer good golf and sincerely moan for a bad break or a just-missed shot, regardless of their feelings about the individual golfer. They don’t taunt or tear down; they celebrate and lift up. They empathize, seeing in one, all of us. They know winning is hard and not all hard work is rewarded. They see both men on the final green, cheering the winner but feeling for the one who came so close.

So, what will I remember from the 89th Masters? Of course, I’ll remember that Rory completed the career grand slam. I’ll remember his emotional walk afterwards, the face of that 7 year-old dreamer almost visible in that grown man’s face. I’ll remember Justin Rose’s master class in class. Gutted though he must have been having lost his second Masters in a playoff, he hung back allowing Rory and his caddy to celebrate the moment and then warmly congratulated Rory on the enormity of the accomplishment. Rose knew his loss was bad for him, but Rory’s win was good for golf. I’ll surely remember both shots Rory hit into the 15th hole on the weekend. They are as close to perfection as golf allows. I’ll remember 65-year-old Fred Couple’s eagle on 14. I’ll remember simple moments too, like Scottie Scheffler sitting on the pine straw under the magnolias on 18 while awaiting a rules official. In the midst of the challenge of the moment, he calmly sat cross-legged playing with leaves…childlike in a good way.

And I’ll remember what was missing, Verne Lundquist’s voice covering the 16th hole. Another bit of the past falls away.