The Masters is Back

I never left my chair yesterday afternoon. There were the obligatory nature calls during commercial break, other than that the Masters received full attention. We were visiting friends on Captiva Island, the gulf beach was directly across the street, and I wondered over for a half hour, but once Jim Nance’s memories about Seve started at 1 o’clock I didn’t miss a shot. I missed some commentary because of conversation, but I didn’t miss a shot.

I can’t say that about the recent past, Augusta had been ho-hum, and you might have caught me napping Masters Sunday. Whoever made the decision to bring Augusta National back to life, thanks a million; maybe the recession is over now. You brightened up our day and probably brought back world peace. The roars were heard over Tiger and Phil’s conversation; the excitement, anticipation, and memories were stoked on the front nine. We were on the edge of our theatre recliners before the leaders made the turn.

Phil and Tiger together for the twenty-fourth time on this stage, an hour before the leaders, was just what the Masters Sunday rejuvenation needed. Usually folks aren’t real concerned about those first few holes, and I don’t get worked up until the back nine, but Tiger and Phil with Stevie and Bones added that special “what if” question to the ceremony. The question was answered early and often, Phil provided the fireworks and Tiger smoldered. Tiger’s eagle on eight finally sparked a fire

The leaders were still on tape delay until Phil dumped his nine iron into Rae’s Creek, but Tiger brought the cameras back with a birdie on thirteen. Kenny and Angel heard the roar echo from below as they were passing the clubhouse. Lance Barrow, and the directors in the CBS compound, had decisions to make and they hustled camera shots in and out of Amen Corner. I could hear the ghost of Frank Chirkanian barking, “Shut up and show me golf.” The announcers didn’t have to say much; the golf did the talking, the Augusta pines provided the backdrop, and the golfer’s expression told us some more.

Kenny had it wrapped up and someone annointed him Masters champion after the magnificent shot on sixteen. Verne Lundquist should know better, he’s been there for twenty five years. Ask Ed Sneed or Tom Wieskopf, last count there were eighteen holes at Augusta National, and the eighteenth hole can be parred even with splinters protruding from your ball. Angel was dead man walking wasn’t he, after the nasty slice and subsequent pinball shot on the first playoff hole. Some guy named Tiger had a couple bogies coming in. I sure hope they continue showing Kenny walking off the sixteenth tee; that’s how I want to remember him.

Masters Sunday brought back to life again; how appropriate on Easter Sunday. It reinforced the Augusta National chairman Billy Payne’s comments, “Let’s have some fun” shortly after Arnold opened the festivities Thursday. The Green Jacket committee restored faith in mankind and all that is good about living. They brought back the roars, the electricity, “the anything can happen” attitude and look in everyone’s eye. When the patrons walked through the gates Sunday morning they knew they were in for a special treat. They didn’t have to wait till the back nine; Phil’s wry smile and thirty on the front brought roars from unheard of places.

I didn’t want it to end, but it did. All Masters play-offs are over before the third hole. This was a different sudden death rotation; they were starting on eighteen. When did that come about? The Green Jackets just created some new memories. When the playoff participants were determined and regulation was over, all the playoff memories swelled in my head. Most of them occurred on eleven; would we get that far. No, but the Argentinean, the Kentuckian, and the Texan misfortunes on eighteen penned a whole new chapter; it’s called golf and sometimes the beauty of the game is a bit misleading.

The beauty was Angel’s tenacity and fortitude. The golf was ugly his determination was beautiful; his body language told us everything, we didn’t have to listen to anyone else. Kenny and Chad hit caddy shots with their short irons; late Sunday shadows at Augusta National will do that to you. As soon as the ball left the clubface their faces told us everything. Sorry Jim and Nick, I didn’t hear what you had to say; I was thoroughly enjoying just watching yesterday. I hadn’t done that in quite awhile.

Thanks again Billy Payne, the Augusta National committee, and whoever else brought back the Masters. It was a resurrection we’ve been waiting for since Augusta was buried about seven years ago. You rolled that large stone away from the gate and brought back life, and fun, again on Sunday afternoon.