The Masters. Those two words carry much significance in the sporting world. They conjure memories — memories of Larry Mize chipping-in from 100 feet to win in 1987, of Tiger Woods winning by 12 strokes at the age of 21 in 1997, and of Jack Nicklaus storming the field in 1986 with a back-nine 30 at the age of 46. All of these stories are, of course, an inextricable part of Masters’ lore, where they endure no danger of being forgotten. At the Masters, tradition reigns supreme, as dust and moths cannot touch the sacred canon of Augusta National.
It is, perhaps, the most beloved sporting event in the world, disliked only by a handful of social activists — though the inclusion of Condoleezza Rice in 2012 as a member of the club quieted most of those protests — and Sergio Garcia. This will, in fact, be my seventh straight year picking Sergio to triumph on Sunday. Call it my own, personal, Masters tradition. I swear this is his year, although I wouldn’t be surprised to see Jordan Spieth donning the green jacket again on Sunday.
Aside from the few select patrons, journalists, and players, most people experience the Masters on television. The experience of watching the Masters live from the comfort of your couch has become a tradition in its own right, a custom available to nearly anyone who wishes it. Hearing Jim Nantz’s lush baritone deliver the now-trademarked phrase, “A tradition unlike any other” is quite possibly the most therapeutic experience in the world. Thousands of perfectly manicured azaleas wander across your screen, while the gentle pure notes of a grand piano cut through the stressful, ambient noise of suburban America, and transport you to a place which nothing disturbs save excellence, beauty, and the occasional wayward drive from Rory McIlroy.
Tiger Woods is not playing this year. The phrase, “Don’t hate the player, hate the game,” is an old cliché, but in the case of Tiger Woods, you should absolutely hate the player. His absence will undoubtedly comprise around 30 percent of the television coverage, which is perennially frustrating, given that it starves talented golfers such as Adam Scott or Rickie Fowler of well-deserved attention. Those are the guys who should drift into the spotlight during the Masters. Class personified, just like the event in which they are competing.
Change and progress, they are bothersome things, and they rarely appear anywhere near Augusta National. Thank God. It is comforting to know that some things never change. The Masters, an orchestra conducted amidst soaring Georgian pines, over stone bridges, and through deceptively hilly fairways, deserves no alteration. So remember this, as you settle into your chair this Sunday afternoon, and let the roar from the crowd wash over you, as Phil Mickelson sticks his high left-handed fade next to the pin on 12 in the warm Georgia sunshine. This is truly a tradition unlike any other, and it would be wise to pay it its due reverence.
