From Monday to Sunday, I watched The Masters, losing track of time, to-do lists, and maybe even a bit of self-control.
The excitement was palpable — truly giddy from the spirit of golf and a well-known tradition of fair-priced concessions, I Googled pimento cheese sandwich recipes and frantically zipped through my local grocery store to snatch up the finest ingredients including cheese blocks, white bread, Duke’s Mayo, cream cheese, and, of course, bright red pimentos. I even messed around and made that egg salad sandwich. Enjoying all to oneself.
Despite a deviation from a healthy eating routine, it was tasty sustenance for the whole weekend. I was so hyper and overstimulated that I even started plotting out a plan to shoot a recipe video in my kitchen, complete with some clever and cheeky ideas to put on my “Sunday Red Chef Hat.” After I mastered the recipe, I decided my time was better spent elsewhere, but here I am anyway like a rocket with some fuel still left to burn up in the tank writing an article, trying to exhaust the final bits of inspiration, energy and feelings that have fired me up since a week’s worth of golf media has engulfed my mind thanks to The Masters.
I really couldn’t help it, like a moth to the flame. The buzz of Tiger being there on the grounds on Sunday the week before got me hooked. Now, I’m officially hungover from binging on the beautiful content. It’s also about time to throw out that jug of Duke’s mayonnaise so I’ll stop using it as an ingredient for every lunch meal I make.
These days, the many ways to watch The Masters are astounding. I am cable TV free, but goodness gracious, there’s the Apple TV app, iPad app, iPhone app, and The Masters channel on YouTube — it’s everywhere I can be and it’s all for free. What do I owe them for this blissful crack they’ve allowed my eyes to gorge upon for a week straight? Not to mention the video vault with every official film and final round replay since the ’60s. This is golf-film-novocaine.
The amount of storytelling, the consistent stream of narratives, film, and photography — I’m incredibly impressed and left imagining what a factory and team they must have to keep up and create with such speed and efficiency. I’ll bet it’s a full-on media-war room like the New York Times in its heyday. And what’s even crazier? I’m all caught up. I read all the articles. Watched the storylines and the features. All I’ve left to do is get back to the routine of Sunday nights watching the Final Round Replays in the background while I wind down and work on some other task. In the right dose, The Masters is good medicine for my mind.
Like legions of other fans, my fascination with The Masters started when I was about 10, seeing a young and electric Tiger Woods in a blazing red shirt fist-pumping, and then draped in silky green threads, that image is forever burned in my memory and I’m gleefully reminded of it via highlight reels. I remember feeling the fervor and excitement around his first win. I remember the exact restaurant I was at with my parents when I looked up at the TV and watched. The era had begun.
The tournament is a storied and beautiful tradition, so shimmering beautiful, and perfect, that one has to imagine the dark power struggles that have happened beneath the polished veneer to produce something so pleasant, dominant, and controlled. The Masters is something I dearly hope never goes away… Something the world wouldn’t be the same without. Is there a better tournament in golf? What other golf tournament would even hold a close 2nd in comparison?
Because of the way it contributes to the game and serves a greater good — a world with The Master's tournament is certainly a better one. Sure there’s a stained past with racism and women, but look how they’ve evolved and grown and adapted. Look at how they’ve brought the past, present and future into the game. Everything surrounding the event, with the Drive, Chip and Putt, or the National Women’s Amateur, and all the initiatives for the Augusta community… it’s an ever-evolving and masterfully guided marketing machine for the sport.
But within that same stroke of appreciation, piercing through the mystique and all the reverence that I have for it — runs through me a rogue river of painful truth. Like Rae’s Creek, if go there, it brings heartbreak.
Envy as green as the fairways and jackets they tailor for their champions.
For many reasons, I loathe The Masters.
For one, I’ll probably never play there. Hell, I might not even have the chance to become a lucky patron. I’ll probably never be invited, and certainly not if I write in disservice to their ethos and mission as the greatest event and sporting tradition in the world. Sure, it would be a dream to play it. But would it fill me with happiness? Because I wouldn’t want to play it just once… just like winning The Master’s only brings momentary joy to its over-glorified champions. One round is as good as one one-night stand with the girl of your dreams… It’s a meaningless fleeting memory and it goes by all too quickly.
Two, the idea of champions. Why does being a champion matter? And why do people who play golf and sports get to be so honored? Why do they deserve such financial success for playing a game? It’s a reminder that life can be unfair — slightly sickening to see they are treated like kings… what a slight to the rest of us, climbing corporate ladders or serving food or whatever else it is we do to scrape by. Where or for what will we ever get our sip of glory?
Three. The false sense of purpose and pride that comes from winning — where are the healthy reminders that life is much grander and more important than the game of golf? It’s as if the prestige of the tournament and The Masters brand itself are timid to admit that there’s more to life than competition, winning, and the moment of glory.
Four. The closed and private nature of the club represents a life of wealth and privilege I don’t have access too. I want in. We live in a time where the ability to travel to space is more public and open than playing a round of golf at Augusta National. Privileged are the few. Dreamers like me are the many. The access is what I’ve always craved. The denial of that is what hurts. The Masters understands this dream that festers in millions and it leverages it to its advantage, it’s built into its brand. Exclusivity… I hate that it works. I wish there was a way to deprogram it from my brain and how it preys on all our human cravings to become accepted.
Five. This may be a personal problem, but I need to remind myself that my life and success is not intertwined with the glory and victories of Tiger Woods. I need to observe with distance that my emotional response to his trials and struggles are not correlated to my interpersonal battles and relationships. If I’m not careful I’ll build parallel narratives to my own life, my own happiness, and my own successes. I create logic out of nonsense and superstitions, looking for meaning in his journey that correlates to mine. Snap out of it — he’s another being living out his own story and it has nothing to do with me.
But alas, let’s not spoil it.
Focus on the good, the greenery — not the greed. The views of towering pines come with their looming shadows, the blooming azaleas and perfectly manicured grounds demand sweat and labor, the spirit of Bobby Jones ties with the suicide of Cliff Robinson — there’s so much to appreciate and adore and less appealing details you can’t ignore.
In the end, it’s too much good. The fun, the roars of the crowd, the thrilling calls, the work and preparation of the pros, all the dedication. The mental grit. The exemplary and gentle behavior, the respect, the peaceful nature inspired within the arena of competition. The highlights and history of past victories, The incredible shots. The focus. The forward-thinking and professionalism of Fred Ridley to expand the game. The Drive, Chip and Putt — bringing in juniors, their invitations to amateurs, opening the doors for women in golf — I’m starting to sound like a PR press release… but look at the beautiful system they’ve built. And, oh, all those heartstrings that get pulled on family day at the par-three.
And what about the honorary starters ceremony? Jack, Gary, and Tom… every time I see Jack tee it up my eyes well up. A reminder that life is speeding by for all of us. Go watch a final-round replay of Jack in the 70’s and it’s amazing to see what a force he was. This Sunday, we got a wave of the cap from Tiger on Sunday and the sight of his hairline hit me too. Not only is my own hairline fading, but it won’t be long before Jack has gone on and Tiger is making jokes about his struggle to bend down and tee the ball up too. Time is moving, and dreams for all of us are slipping.
For whatever it’s worth, the taste of my homemade pimento cheese sandwiches brings me joy, and playing golf has always made me feel alive and at peace. Golf is hard. That’s true. But rewarding in many ways.
Because of that joy and the power to connect with people, The Masters inspires dreams for us all. Maybe it’s going to compete and play, maybe it’s to attend, maybe it’s some narrative that pushes your own path towards mastery and greatness…. in its excellence we’re all driven to be a bit greater.
For me, I still have a dream aiming towards The Masters. I figure, they always need writers to share their stories and photographers to capture their moments. Maybe that’s my road to the Masters. My ticket to drive down Magnolia Lane. I’ll see where hard work can take me, taking my path to creative mastery and hoping one day to experience golf at its finest, firsthand at The Masters.