(A Treatise on Greatness)
In my humble opinion, The Masters is the greatest sporting event in the United States, greater than the Superbowl, more exciting than March Madness, and more historic moments than the World Series. Out of all the big three sports, not one can touch the majesty of Augusta National Golf Club or the artistry that is on display there every April, when the azaleas and dogwoods are in full bloom and four days feel like an extended Christmas morning. One doesn’t have to be a golf fan to appreciate the sheer beauty and radiance of the place, but to die-hard golf fans, it is our Mecca, our Holy City, and Magnolia Lane leading to the clubhouse might as well be paved in gold.
It wasn’t always this way of course, the manicured fairways and greens you see on TV today, and the perfectly coiffed plants and shrubbery around the grounds, use to be home to an indigo plantation and later a nursery, and during World War II, cows grazed on the lush grounds without a golf ball in sight. But back smack dab in the middle of the Great Depression, Bobby Jones—the Tiger Woods of that day, though still technically an amateur—wanted to retire from the rigors of life of a tournament golfer, that of constant travel and competition. He, along with business partner Clifford Roberts, bought the property in 1931 for $70,000, and soon Bobby Jones’ dream of his very own golf course began to take shape.
Along with architect Alister MacKenzie, Jones set out to design a links style course much inspired by the revered St. Andrews in Scotland and other Old-World courses, but the layout of the property was so perfect that it was said to have basically designed itself, like a great sculptor who doesn’t so much shape stone as simply remove layers, revealing the magnificence underneath. And so, Augusta National grew. Roberts and Jones knew that in order to attract wealthy businessmen from the north to patronize the club, a tournament would be a major attraction, especially one that featured the greatest golfer to ever play the game up to that point, Bobby Jones, and so that is how The Masters really got its start.
Officially, the tournament was called the Augusta National Invitation Tournament, but everyone took to calling it The Masters, and the name stuck. Though Bobby was out of tournament condition, his name alone was enough to draw the biggest and best players of the era, and the inaugural Masters teed off in 1934 and eventually became one of golf’s Majors, the big four--The US Open, The PGA Championship, The British Open, and the Masters—and has been played every year since, save those lean years from 1943-45 when the America was focused on winning something more important than a golf championship.
But the allure of the place goes beyond a simple golf tournament and the prestige that goes along with winning a Major Championship. It has become golf’s hallowed grounds not just for the beauty of the surroundings and the attention to the agronomy, but because magic happens there, and the golfing Gods knight the wishful—armed with clubs and dreams—and make them heroes for the ages. There are moments that happen that can live on in our imagination only because golf’s first Major is always played in the same spot, year after year. And, so, we remember The Shot Heard Round the World—a four-wood by Gene Sazaren in 1935 on hole number 15 from 230 yards out—because we relive it every spring, spread through written and spoken word since there was no video to capture the feat, and thus, a remarkable accomplishment becomes legendary. Then, during the modern age, we see grainy footage of an old Jack Nicklaus “The Golden Bear”, prancing down the fairways once more, and putting a cap on a brilliant career with his 18th major, sixth at Augusta—at 46 years of age no less. And at the turn of the century, the golf course witnessed a Tiger prowling its grounds, first as a young lad in 1997 breaking through, hugging his dad before he hoisted the Trophy, and then 22 years later, as a dad himself, hugging his son, and coming full circle. It’s moments like these that bring us back every year.
The Masters is always full of promise and it never disappoints. This is why I, and millions of others watch, drawn to the majesty of the prettiest golf course on earth. The one that every golfer covets most of all in his heart. Every year, among the azaleas and magnolias, and dogwoods and flowering crabapple, Augusta National comes to life. A true field of dreams if there ever was one. So, it is not hard to imagine a spectral Sam Snead and Byron Nelson, Ben Hogan and Arnold Palmer, and a host of others, getting a pass once a year to walk the land that use to be a nursery and gather on the 12th or 13th and try to hit one flush on the green and share stories of their exploits, triumphs, and defeats.
And so we await the roars on the back nine on Sunday evening, voices raising to the heaven’s mingling with the ghosts of the past. And somewhere Bobby Jones is smiling, and Clifford Roberts too, and every golf fan who loves the games knows that this is the place to be, for four days in April, it is simply masterful.