Amen

Below is a slightly revised, updated version of a previously published piece about perhaps the most iconic of all professional sporting events--the Magical Masters...

I wonder if when they built it, they knew what it would become. Bobby Jones and Clifford Roberts were iron-willed men on a crusade to create a thing they could see and taste but on earth were unable to find.  So maybe.  Maybe they had an idea. But it would be impossible to have known then what an icon it would become. When the two men first laid eyes on the abandoned 400-acre Fruitland’s Nursery running parallel to the Savannah River, Jones said it seemed as though “the land had been lying here for years waiting for somebody to lay a golf course on it.” So they grabbed it, and with the help of Alister MacKenzie, that’s exactly what they did. They built Augusta National’s sweeping fairways between the trees, and layered dogwoods and azaleas in the straw underneath the pines. They used the bends and hills as guideposts; they built water and sand to act as foils.  And for the last 90 Aprils, it’s been hard to tell what the “and 1” is at the Master’s— the landscape or the golf.

They say the drive into Augusta National down the centuries-old Magnolia Lane transforms people.  It’s been known to re-set the sputtering and heal the wounded. To re-invent the fading and to birth the next in line. The magic is almost palpable though you never get a warning about where or when it might descend. 

Sometimes it wraps its arms around an athlete-- like the metaphysical embrace Harvey Penick gave Ben Crenshaw on the green in 1995. Sometimes it weaves its way through the athletes and the crowd that’s there to watch them, connecting the two in the kind of powerful retribution that only sport can spawn.  And sometimes it breaks open the link of a chain that we thought had been soldered together, like it did in 2019, when Tiger tapped the final putt in to end his 11-year drought. From the GOAT’s raw emotion to the unfettered embrace with his son to the deafening roar of the crowd that willfully refused to subside, everyone who watched it felt the crust fall off. For at least a moment, the spirit of Augusta National loosened the death grip we all had on ourselves.

Sometimes the magic grabs the club that bends the ball, as it did in the hands of Bubba Watson, deep in trouble on the 10th in 2012.  And at other times it seizes the ball itself, balancing it precariously on the edge of the cup while the world holds its collective breath, a tease to heighten jubilation before it rotates one last time. The magic swirls and swoops and lies in wait for those who earn the right to walk the grounds. 

The year I turned 50, as a gift, I got to go. It was hot that day in Georgia. The brutal kind of heavy hot where the air is almost wet, and the wind is playing peek-a-boo in the trees.  Vintage southern conditions that make the azaleas and the dogwoods swell--the very kind that cause the corner at 11 to say “Amen”. I remember closing my eyes and squeezing, an attempt to freeze the pictures in a baggie in my mind. I just kept saying under my breath, “Do not forget this.  Do not forget this.” The same kind of mantra that mamas repeat when they watch their babies sleep.

On the practice round that day in April—the one that made my 50th not feel quite so bad-- we walked the course instead of following particular pairings.  I wanted to see every nook and cranny of every hole regardless of who was hitting where and what their next shot should be. But it felt like I was on one of those game shows where you gather as many dollar bills as you can in a certain amount of time as the money blows around the room. I couldn’t grab it all no matter how hard I tried.

We paused for a bit to watch Jason Day on the practice green, as his toddler dressed in caddy whites ran like a weeble toward him after every third or fourth stroke.  We bought merch and ate egg salad sandwiches while drinking lemonade and marveling at the grassy undulations that cannot be done justice on TV. And in the afternoon when tradition called, we beat a path to the par three course to watch the legends do their thing. 

There, we followed Gary Player, Ben Crenshaw, and Jack Nicklaus as if they carried the Holy Grail. 

Sometimes we jostled our way toward the front at the tee box so we could have an up close and personal with their swings, and sometimes we raced ahead down the fairway to grab a birds’ eye view of the flight of their drive.  Watching them was like watching Nat King Cole sing or Fred Astaire dance.  Everything they did looked effortless and easy. That’s how it always looks when masters are at work. 

While Father Time had altered the legend’s swings a bit, the results of their hands on the sticks still reigned supreme.  I loved watching their confidence and their prowess and how much they loved to play the game.  But I think I loved how much they seemed to enjoy being there in the middle of God’s handiwork, together, even more.  I kept pinching myself and couldn’t help thinking I’d give away just about anything for my dad to be standing in my shoes. 

Then Heaven got a little bit better. Jack jugged it from the tee on number four.  

Masters’ magic strikes again. And I was there to see it.  I could not believe my luck.

Every year there is a moment. Or two or ten or twelve. This year was no exception, despite the lousy conditions leading up to Sunday’s final round. There were eagles and chip-ins and Tiger’s grit and gumption as he boldly traipsed his way around the course for the 24th consecutive time. Past champions fell back, new talent surged forward. Scottie Scheffler did what Scottie Scheffler does. The magic dipped and twisted like the wind that whipped the yellow flags and blew the ball off tees. And for just a little while, we all got lost in the reverie of Bobby Jones’ fantasy brought to life. What a way to spend a weekend.

Thank God for Augusta, Amen.

P.S. As good as it gets…