April 9, 2018 By Chris Varney
When the Masters golf tournament comes around, I get lazy. I love the Masters. I love watching the Masters. Sometimes when the weather is nice outside, I feel a little guilty as I sit inside in front of my TV watching one of sports premier sporting event. Yesterday, there was no guilt whatsoever as the snow fell all afternoon long and images of the green Augusta grass and beautiful azaleas beneath tall, lazy pine trees burst through my TV making me forget the cold weather outside my front door.
I fell in love with the Masters back in 1986 when the Golden Bear came charging through the field, giving the patrons at Augusta National one last taste of the Jack Nicklaus glory. I can still hear Verne Lundquist shouting, “Yes Sir!” as Nicklaus drained a dramatic birdie putt on the 17th hole. The roars of the gallery made it fell like I was there, witnessing history.
There have been many moments over the years that have tugged at my emotions. Ben Crenshaw winning his second green jacket the week after his mentor Harvey Penick passed away, breaking down in tears after sinking his final putt on 18. Tiger Woods hugging his father after winning his first major championship and then later his fist flying high in the air after his dramatic chip in on 16 eventually bringing him his 4th Masters title.
With most sports, the venue means little. When you play a football game, it does not matter where you play the game, the field dimensions are the same and the stadiums have little character, with some exceptions. In golf, the venue matters the most and Augusta National is the most dramatic of them all. Sure, its the not the most difficult of courses but do you really want to see the best golfers in the world scratching shots out of deep grass and having their shots blown all over the place? Unlike the open titles in the U.S. and Great Britain, the excitement lies in who will eagle the 13th or 15th holes. Can they hit their tee shot over Rae’s Creek at the 12th? You can even get a hole-in-one like Charley Hoffman did yesterday at 16.
You visualize every hole on the back nine at Augusta. From the huge fairway bunker at 10, to the pond by the green at 11, then you cross Ben Hogan’s bridge to the 12th. Every hole has a name. Cell phones are not allowed on the grounds at Augusta so you live by the hand operated scoreboards and the roars. Oh, the roars. Every roar has its own distinct sound. There is the polite par roar. The loud birdie roar. And then there is a eagle roar, which sends chills down your spine.
On Sunday, I was rooting for Jordan Speith as he was making a potentially historic march around the course, trying to comeback like Nicklaus did in 1986. I was also rooting for Rickie Fowler, who is a fan favorite and has not tasted victory in a major. As much as I would have liked to see either one win, I also did not want to see Patrick Reed give the tournament away. He was the leader, the tournament was his to lose. The low-key Reed is not as flashy as Spieth or Fowler so his victory this weekend is not as popular with the fans but it was a thrilling final round anyway.
And now let the wait for next year’s tournament begin. I will be watching.