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 88 Aprils, it’s been hard to tell what the “and 1” is at the Master’s, the landscape or the golf.

I figured out what I didn’t want to do with my life in the summer of 1982. In between my junior and senior year of high school I worked in a downtown office for an oil company about 20 miles away from the small town where I lived. I dressed up every morning, made the commute, then sat in an office for 400 hours a day logging numbers for something that had to do with drilling, though I can’t for the life of me remember what. Mostly what I did was sigh a lot and pray for 5 o’clock to roll around.

It’s March and the world’s gone mad. People who don’t even like sports are paying attention. And the NCAA tournament, per usual, is proving to be worth the watch. On both the men’s and women’s sides Davids are slaying Goliaths and players the world never heard of are taking center stage. Possibility’s nectar is so sweet and so strong!

We can’t help but be lured in.

We used to call our staff meetings “Happy Accidents” because the best stuff almost always happened around all the important stuff I had planned. We tripped over it when our paths crossed walking in and out of the room.

Small talk in the doorways often led to big ideas. And afterthoughts in the hallway or in the parking lot on the way to the car frequently paved the way to simple solutions that seemed impossible to find inside the room. The edges of our meetings proved more fertile than the middle ever was. All I had to do was call the caucus, sweet serendipity did the rest.

The recruitment poster cut to the chase:

“Men wanted for hazardous journey to the South Pole. Small wages, bitter cold, long months of complete darkness, constant danger, Safe return doubtful. Honor and recognition in case of success.”

Not exactly the kind of advertisement that got folks pushing and shoving to get to the front of the line. And yet it did, so says the legend of Sir Ernest Shackleton.

They entered the building respectfully, as if they were going back home for Christmas, but their parents had a new house. Twenty years had passed since they did what they did together, but you wouldn’t know it by the way they looked. Or the way they talked and laughed. I was reminded (like I could ever forget) of the things that made their journey so grand, and how only a sliver of it had to do with how many games they won. These were remarkable women who simply did anything the way they did everything. That much is obvious when you look at them thriving in the middle of their forty-something lives.

One year at the Women’s Basketball Coaches’ Convention that annually surrounds the Women’s Final Four, I was asked to be on a panel at one of the seminars about “Work-Life-Balance”. I was a head coach, and I had a husband and two kids, so I suppose somebody assumed it was something I should know about. Assumptions can be dangerous things.

Recently, I went back to my hometown to speak at their annual Chamber of Commerce dinner. As I drove past the pecan trees on the north side of town, the substance of a place that never tried to be anything other than what it was washed over me. It felt like I was surrounded by the community who had raised me, though most of the people are long gone. That’s the thing about a place people pour their lives into--it’s as if they live on in the water. For generations, you can feel them in the streets.

The first home my husband and I purchased was in a neighborhood full of new builds. The lot the house sat on was roughly the size of a shoe box with the front evenly divided into driveway and sod. A standard baby oak tree was stabbed into the center of the five rolls of Bermuda grass that constituted our front “yard”, and a tiny flower bed with three unkillable shrubs anchored the front door to the corner of the house. Other than that, there was no exterior dressing. From the outside it looked just like the fifth house down the street, which looked like the fifth house down the street, which looked like the fifth house around the corner, and so on. 16916 Applewood Drive was a naked mole rat in a family of naked mole rats. It needed cover, it needed softening, it desperately needed pizazz. And I desperately needed for it to look like it had been there for more than five minutes. So, I bought a bunch of gardening magazines, a shovel, a rake, and a spade, and I taught myself to grow things in the Oklahoma clay.

I hate running. But I love having run. In the small southern town where I grew up, in high school everybody did everything. We had to. There weren’t enough people to go around. So football players marched in their shoulder pads with the band at halftime, and basketball players ran track in the spring after the state tournament was over (whether they wanted to or not.) My senior year, we got a new basketball coach who instituted cross country, so I learned to do that, too. That’s just the way it worked in a one stoplight town. To get to what you wanted to do, you had to do some stuff that you didn’t. That’s one of those lessons that doesn’t get you much mileage on the ACT but has a pretty good payoff in life.

The Kansas City Chiefs vs the Buffalo Bills might just be the best football game I have ever seen. On January 23rd in the AFC divisional playoff game, two young quarterbacks with their teams hitched behind them like wagons, led their squads through regulation and into overtime in one of those instant classics where neither team deserves to lose and everybody who’s watching never wants it to end. It was brawn and guts and skill and grit and the kind of competitive greatness that sits at the top of John Wooden’s pyramid. But it did end. In overtime. Final score: Bills 36, Chiefs 42.

Every evening about twenty minutes before their phones tell them the sun is supposed to set, people on the beach flock with cameras in hand to stare to the west. Part of why people go to Hawaii is to watch the sun show off. Both the rising and the setting are spectacular on the islands due to all sorts of scientific things like volcanic dust and trade winds and equator juxtaposition and the steep angle at which the sun dips in and out of view. So people –both the ones on vacation and the ones who live there—pause in the evenings to watch it go to bed.

You can study about the Sistine Chapel. You can look at pictures, stare at replica’s, read about Michelangelo’s process and genius, but it’s not the same as standing under the canopy. Once you’re in, the pictures and the rhetoric have a form. They take a shape. A shape you didn’t even know you didn’t understand until you stood there. Looking at a thing is not the same as looking from a thing. Unfortunately, it’s hard to know the difference until you stand inside.

From day one when kids are learning to dribble a basketball, coaches teach them to keep their eyes up. At camp we used to walk backward in front of tiny dribblers while holding up numbers with our fingers that they were to identify as they bounced the ball while making their way down the court.

“You don’t need to look at the ball”, we would tell them. “It will come right back to you from the floor. Like it’s on a string. Trust it, learn to feel it. Let the ball become an extension of your hand. There are other things you need to look at. Just let the ball do what it does.”

My best friend and I have a thing we say to each other when one or the other of us is behaving like a toddler. I might be whining about what a bad friend I’ve been (the kind of whine that’s really designed to elicit reassurance that I have not, in fact, been a bad friend at all but that I have rather been a quite wonderful friend, the type one would pray for by her bedside when she was a little girl), and instead of that, I get, “Don’t be dumb”. Or she might be going on about how she’s not sure if she can do a thing, how it might be out of her ability reach, though there’s never been a thing she could not do once she set her mind to it, and “Don’t be dumb” will be what I say as if it’s a conjunction, moving us on to other things.

The 1998 chick flick was good, but it had no chance of outshining its title. Sandra Bullock made for an irresistible Birdee Puckett, the high school homecoming queen who moved away, married “well”, had an adorable daughter, got jilted, and then returned home only to fall in love with the local heartthrob, Justin Maltisse, who was played by Harry Connick, Jr. (Ah, yes, of course he was.) It’s the prototype for Hallmark Christmas movies with a little more meat on its bones. Yet, it pales in comparison to what they called it. The real star of this show is the title. Two words that do what they sound like when you hook them together and say them out loud.

For as long as I can remember, on the day after Thanksgiving, we put up our Christmas tree. My granny loved Christmas. Her tree was the fake kind you pull from a box and bend until the branches fill and tip like a real-life Douglas Fir. And it was packed with ornaments, the eclectic sort that complimented the strings of Santa face lights she bought by the boxloads at a pre-sale at TG&Y. Her tree never had a theme or a consistent color palette, like the ones we saw on tv or in the windows of department stores. It just bulged with things she loved and couldn’t resist, and mostly purchased at half price. It stood majestically in her living room, happy chaos in the corner from the last weekend in November until the day after Santa came.

Covid has done a Jedi mind trick on time, making it creep for some and disappear for others. At the very least, it’s distorted how we see our days. It has long been an on-again, off-again lover-- this mysterious sidekick we call Time-- the one we can’t get enough of, the one we beg to go. The one that’s rarely, if ever, doing what we think it should. Funny how much we ignore it until we have too much or not enough.

Great waiters and great referees have a lot in common. Both are at their best when you don’t notice that they’re there. It’s ironic, really. Their presence is essential and yet, they only make things better when they don’t get in the way.

Bastions of invisible necessity. Not the life goal a lot of people have taped to the front of their fridge.

“It was so nice to meet you”, said my friend’s grandma, as he put on his coat to leave.

“It was nice to meet you, too”, he said in return, though they’d never been estranged. “I love you so much!”

His headline gift was shining. Chief among his collection of many had long been his ability to meet people wherever they are.

It was Thanksgiving and the family had gathered again after skipping a year due to Covid. The holiday itself felt strangely familiar, like an old high school classmate he hadn’t seen in 20 years. A little awkward, but recognized and appreciated, like it hadn’t been in a very long time.