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.

“Aim higher,” the tennis guru said as my forehand laced with topspin slammed into the tape on the top of the net. “Really?” I thought (and I think I said out loud.) “You get paid to tell people THAT?”

My assistant coach’s first “courtesy car” was a four-door Chevy Malibu in a purple-ish shade of blue. In the early days of Division 1 coaching, a car loaned to the athletic department by a local dealer (aka University supporter) was part of a coach’s package. Recruiting required lots and lots of driving, so a car on loan -- periodically rotated so as not to pile up miles -- made sense. It was an added value for a coaching worker bee whose salary didn’t compute, while simultaneously being a write-off for a donor who wanted tickets to football games. Typically, these vehicles were swapped out every 4-6 months before wear and tear could accumulate— or whenever a dealer had a buyer in the market for a slightly, mostly-loved “new car.”

In the middle of life, dichotomy reigns. “This stage is awful and it’s awesome,” a friend so aptly stated, as he weaved his way through an ordinary day that was suddenly anything but. “The highs are high and the lows are low,” he matter-of-factly lamented. In almost everything he touched he could feel both sides of the coin.

My granddaughter was sitting in the middle of the living room floor at my in-laws’ home on the day after her first Christmas. Austyn was the nine-month-old wonder that had taken precedence over the sparkly packages underneath the tree. Her Aunt CC was sitting on the floor tossing her a little green ball that Austyn, who was poised between her mother’s legs, would “catch,” together with her mom. Every time it happened the room erupted.

It’s March and the sports world is about to go mad. Conference basketball tournaments, the opening acts for the much-ballyhooed big dance, are calling from just around the bend. In a now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t flash, the ball will be tipped, the champion will be crowned, and the confetti will fall from the rafters. Then in the next frantic breath-- sometimes only minutes after the last buzzer sounds—the selection committee will release the 2024 Men’s and Women’s NCAA tournament brackets. Immediately following that, almost everyone—both those included and those who get left out—will find a way to somehow think that they’ve been wronged. The first four out will state their case for why they should have made the cut while the top four seeds will clamor about how unfairly stacked their designated region is. Those in between will mostly claim that their team should be sitting on a different line or facing a different opponent or packing for another geographic locale. Satisfaction, like my Walgreens readers, will be tough to find.

Ten in a row. The eight-year-old aspiring baller was working toward a goal. Ten lay-ups without missing on the right side, then once we got that in the books, ten more in a row on the left. Every time she got to eight, the ball lipped off the rim. 

Toby Keith loved Clint Eastwood. I can only guess that a line of snarly-tough authenticity connected the men like 10 lb. test. No two bigger Big Dog Daddies ever lived. The legendary country singer once asked the Academy Award-winning actor, who was at the time working on another movie at the age of 88, “What keeps you going?” Eastwood answered, “I don’t sit around. I get up and go outside. I move. I do things.” And then he added, “You can’t let the old man in.”

In a pivotal scene of FX’s smash-hit series “The Bear,” Richie-- a 40-something, recently humbled, trepidatious intern at one of Chicago’s top restaurants-- happens upon the establishment’s owner/chef serenely peeling mushrooms in a quiet, empty kitchen before the start of the day. As a follow up to his childlike “whatcha doin’?” she asks him if he’d “like a go.”

I’m a classic pre-liver. Whenever something big is coming, I take it for a test drive before it actually arrives. I do the hills, the sharp turns, the narrow parking spaces that appear to be too skinny for a fit. Just me and the “big deal.” A time or two or twenty, we hit the road to go for a spin so she won’t feel so foreign in real time.

Before my freshman year of high school, I wrote on a small piece of notebook paper, “1. Go to State. 2. Be an All-Stater. 3. Get a full ride.” Then I ripped it from its spiral wiring and taped it--curly edges and all-- to the inside back of my royal blue locker. Those were what I wanted more than anything. So every day during my freshman year when I would go to my locker to gather my books and supplies for first hour, I’d read, “1. Go to State. 2. Be an All-Stater. 3.Get a Full Ride.” When the bell rang at the close of class, I’d return to my cubby and read, “1. Go to State. 2. Be an All-Stater. 3. Get a Full Ride.” Six times a day for the 181 days of our school year, my eyes told my brain and my body what to do.

The 6’3” center on my college basketball team drove a lovingly-used black Volkswagen Beetle. Watching her unfurl from its tight confines was entertaining, but it paled in comparison to the ride. Most of our teammates and I had cars in varying size, form and functionality, but hers was the one we took when we were more about the going than the place we had to go. The Bug was perfect for short jaunts from the gym to the dorm when the undeterred north wind was howling and we, soaked with sweat, needed to get from point A to point B (preferably without catching pneumonia). It was our vehicle of choice for a 7-Eleven Slurpee or a stack of pancakes at IHOP. It was always what we took when we had nowhere to be but felt the urge to go. As the point guard --aka, the only one who could fit-- my spot was in the backseat behind the driver, knees tucked under chin.

My daughter has long been the best gift giver I know. Sometimes her presents are practical—like the Smeg toaster that I didn’t know I needed but can’t imagine being without. Or the towel I wrap my hair up in after a shower. Or the amazing vacuum cleaner that sucks up debris from every type of flooring in our home. Some of her gifts are creations—painted canvas signs or photographs or albums painstakingly organized to tell a story she knows I’d like to be able to get to and hold in my hands. But everything she gives—pragmatic or sentimental-- is wrapped in insightful paper that’s stuck together with “I get you” tape. Her presents say, “You are loved” and, “You are celebrated”, certainly. But mostly they say to those of us lucky enough to receive them, “You are known”. And that might be the greatest gift of all.

People thought the song was about the Vietnam War.

“I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?

I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?“

The ominous lyrics penned by John Fogerty fit the mood of the country in 1970 as the controversial overseas conflict waged on. Even sunny days were plagued metaphorically by rain. But people were wrong about the song. The Creedence Clearwater Revival hit didn’t have anything to do with the war. Instead, the doomy tune told the story of a conflict happening much closer to home. The band who finally had it all together was coming apart at the seams.

He couldn’t slow his horses. No matter how many plays he yelled out, or substitutions he made, or time-outs he called. His team started the game like pent-up thoroughbreds released through an open gate. He could not grab ahold of the reins. Their thirst was admirable. Fervor usually is. But that doesn’t mean it’s not sometimes in the way. In their haste, his players cut prematurely, they left early when using screens, they dribbled into traffic that hadn’t cleared yet and shot as if the ball were a hot potato they had to get out of their hands. On the wings of grand intentions, they made a mess of things.

The New York Times generates a word game called “Connections” that can be accessed daily on a smart phone. Its one-dose-a-day design provides an opportunity for regular brain stimulation while discouraging screen addiction. You sign in, play the game-- and win or lose, you’re done. It’s a delightful morsel for word nerds (like me). It lures you in but doesn’t take you hostage for the day. Like that tiny piece of chocolate swanky hotels leave on the pillow at turn-down service, it’s a little “somethin’ somethin’” that just keeps you coming back for more. 

My dad once ran for school board in the small rural town where I grew up. There was some fuss about our superintendent-- best I remember-- though specific fuss about what I’m no longer sure. (If indeed I ever was.) I just remember people being wound up. Almost everyone in the 14 square miles of our oilfield community had pledged allegiance to an opinion and thus had chosen a side. Our tiny town was as fractured as an oil and gas pay zone after the drilling is done.

Go write. And please don’t try to get it right. Just write. Because trying to do it the way you think it’s supposed to be done just gets in the way.

The daily practice of writing is a foundational habit loads of successful people share. Daily writing grounds busy minds. It serves as a conveyor belt for sorting thoughts and feelings. It leads people out of corners they have backed or worked their way into by revealing doors and windows they weren’t aware were there. And yet just as many folks who do write don’t because they think they don’t know how.

“All things in moderation,” Benjamin Franklin said. And Aristotle before him. And Jesus through the apostle Paul, way before either of them. “Let moderation be known.”

Plants need water, but too much causes fungus. And root rot. An overzealous gardener can drown a hardy hydrangea into the ground. Fire contained within a cauldron of rocks keeps us warm and emits a smell that chandlers scramble to duplicate and sell in stores. But fire, if uncontrolled, devastates and destroys, leaving behind the stubborn stench of all it has consumed. Too much ice cream will make your stomach hurt. Too much sun will harm your skin. Too much exercise will break down your body. Too much sleep can cause fatigue.

In the fall of 2009, our basketball team kicked-off the season by competing in a pre-season tournament in the Virgin Islands. We were on the heels of our program’s second Final Four appearance, but we had just graduated our leading scorer and rebounder, along with her twin sister who was a major contributor, and a walk-on turned captain who had become our glue. The world was watching with a side-eye to see how we would fare.