I’m not the most ardent or knowledgeable golf fan in the world,
but my husband is. And so it was that he and his friends were in
the unenviable position of watching the last round of the Masters
with me. I say unenviable, because it is a proven impossibility
that I can sit still for more than five minutes without offering
wholly unsolicited opinions on almost anything. So, while my
husband grilled up his terrific rib-eye steaks, I dished out my
take on the Masters.
Now, I’m not a total golf illiterate; I’ve actually played
alongside my husband when he’s needed a fourth for a tournament —
you know, the ‘best ball’ kind where you don’t really have to do
anything but take up space — and the quaint customs and rules like
the honor system are right up this conservative’s alley. And I have
for years enjoyed certain televised tournaments, chiefly the
British Open and the Ryder Cup.
It’s easy to see why Americans love the Open. Although the
English and Scottish links courses have little in common with our
manicured marvels, all duffers enjoy seeing their professional
counterparts suffer the slings and arrows of the Road Hole at the
Old Course at St. Andrews and the cold cruelty of Carnoustie, where
Frenchman Jean Van de Velde played perhaps the worst 72nd hole in
major golfing history.
And then there’s the Ryder Cup; that biennial clash
between us and them. Of course the Ryder Cup originally pitted U.S.
players against those from Great Britain, but due to American
dominance, it was expanded to include golfers from the rest of
Europe as well. Being a conservative, and therefore a closed-minded
xenophobe, I love the chance to root for zillionaires who debase
themselves every two years for mere pride of country. Of all the
memories I have of 9/11 and its immediate aftermath, I must admit
that one of the oddest is a bitter regret that the 2001 Ryder Cup
was postponed for a year; especially after the fun at Brookline in
1999.
But, dare I say it? TV coverage of the Masters drives me
crazy in many ways. First and foremost is the theme song. Although
I’ve heard it countless times, I’ve yet to recognize any semblance
of a melody to it. A little research reveals that it is called
“Augusta”
and was written by Dave Loggins of “Please Come to Boston” fame,
which might explain why it so gets on my nerves.
Then there’s the fervent desire of CBS to make every
winner the subject of heart-warming or heart-wrenching background
stories, as well as the reverent whispering of booth-bound
commentators who are not even near the action but feel duty-bound
to maintain hushed tones. This group usually includes the
uber-obligatory British commentator, who must grace every American
tournament to elucidate the finer points for us, despite the fact
that we’ve been playing the game here for hundreds of
years.
But despite the coverage, I really do love the Masters, or
rather, the masterminds behind it: the august members of the
Augusta National Golf Club. The greatest Masters moment for me? Was
it Jack in ‘86 or Crenshaw in ‘95? No, it was Hootie Johnson in ‘02
who, when confronted by feminist Martha Burk, refused to knuckle
under to protest threats, basically telling Martha and the gals to
take a dip in Rae’s Creek. The situation was made even more
delicious as the NY Times
ran nearly three times as many pieces (102) about the protest
than the number of actual protesters who showed up at Augusta (40).
Ultimately, Burk and her Times cohorts ended up granting
all golf fans their ultimate fantasy: a commercial-free telecast
for two years!
Much was made during this year’s Masters about the
domination of foreign players and some saw this as a good thing.
But that’s where my xenophobia kicked in. It seemed like every bite
of my rib-eye brought more Australian colors to the leader board,
making for quite a nasty case of flag envy. So maybe it’s time to
take action, just like the Brits did in 1979 when they enlisted
their European brethren to level the Ryder Cup playing field. I
don’t know, maybe Hootie and the boys can devise a test for
prospective entrants; if they can’t identify the grits at the
annual Masters Prayer Breakfast, send ‘em packing!
