By Tom Poland, A Southern Writer
TomPoland.net
I never had time for golf, but I love the Masters. I never miss the Sunday round on TV. It almost always provides high drama. I speak for a lot of Georgians in the Central Savannah River Area when I say we take great pride in Augusta National’s Masters Tournament. It’s the world’s best-run sporting event in my opinion and a place of sublime Southern beauty.
Men built a garden of Eden on what originally was Fruitland Nurseries. Dogwoods, azaleas, velvet greens, and snow-white sand traps of chipped quartz from Spruce Pine, North Carolina, make for TV grandeur. CBS announcer Jim Nantz compares the sand traps to bowls of sugar. Threading through the course, blue-dye-enhanced Rae’s Creek reflects the course as do the ponds.
Amen Corner is a pocket of floral beauty and treachery and is the most-recognizable three-hole stretch in golf. It’s often a pivotal spot in deciding the Masters Tournament. Holes 11, 12, and 13 are respectively named White Dogwood, Golden Bell, and Azalea. The two stone bridges add a perfect photogenic touch to the corner. Such beauty appeals to just about everyone including three adolescents from Lincolnton, Georgia.
Back in the 1960s it was easy to attend the practice rounds. No lottery for tickets. Just hop in the car, drive down Washington Road, park, and buy a ticket. So easy it tempted three boys in high school to enjoy a day at the Masters, the only time I cut school. I was sitting on a knoll overlooking the 15th hole. Suddenly people began to yell. “Watch out, watch out.” A “Spalding Bruce Devlin” ball thumped the earth, then it thumped me in the back. In a flash two men from nowhere took me by the arms. “Sir, are you all right?”
I was, and as I stood, the ball rolled downhill between my feet. Devlin finished in a tie for 28th place. The Australian is still with us, still active in golf, and 88 years old.
I was standing close by when Jack Nicklaus made a putt to get in position to win his last Masters in 1986. Trim and athletic, he walked to the 18th green, his crown of blond hair gleaming. Twenty years earlier I had seen him in his Fat Jack days. He made lifestyle changes and went from Fat Jack to the Golden Bear. To me, golf has not been the same since he retired.
I stood near the Hollywood-handsome Spaniard, Seve Ballesteros, when he won the Masters in 1983. He left the world too soon. Gone at the age of 54, brain cancer.
I stood near Greg Norman as he talked to Bernhard Langer. The Shark’s shoulders seemed as wide as a yard stick is long. No wonder he could knock a golf ball a country mile. I pulled for him to win the Masters. Never did. Came close in 1987. After Seve Ballesteros was eliminated on the first playoff hole, hometown-boy Larry Mize won on the second hole with a miraculous 140-foot chip-in birdie. The Shark never seemed to get over it.
In 2022 I was walking through pines as Tiger Woods approached a nearby green. A roar like an apocalyptic roll of thunder came from the gallery.
Among my other memories are green cups of cold beer, Pimento cheese sandwiches, and ultra-polite galleries. In 2022 the galleries weren’t as polite as I recall. Some yahoo always has to shout, “You da man.”
One thing I love about the Masters—no cell phones allowed. Can you imagine the rings, chimes, dings, and all those custom sounds? Imagine folks taking selfies with a golfer about to tee off? Thank you Augusta National for banning cell phones. Folks, make your Masters memories in your head. I did and hope to again.