The 2010 Masters Tournament at the Augusta National Golf Club

by Jeff Laughlin

Augusta National displayed its wariness with the evils of contemporary society quickly and efficiently. The signs at the entrance made everyone quite aware of the rules: there would be No Cell Phones, No Pagers, No Electronic Devices, No Guns, No Knives. They were more concerned with civility than the progress and survival of civilization. That may sound awkward or overly genteel, but civility turned out to be a lot more inviting than I had first thought.

I have never been in love with golf. The game itself just seemed to follow me around. I worked at a country club during the summers in New Bern, NC, when I was a teenager because my dad ran the pool there. I worked at another country club in Greensboro, NC, because I had a friend who could get me a job after college and I was broke. My friend M____ became obsessed with golf, so I had a buddy who talked about it a lot. It was a commodity I had no use for, and one I could not dismiss.

Golf was something old people did to pass time until they died. It was a sport for young aristocrats to get away from their cares. On the lips of every player, though, young or old, was Augusta National. The Masters. Even I revel in The Masters, as televised. The limited commercials, the easy-going nature of Jim Nantz and Verne Lundquist, and the sprinklings of nature accompanied by piano music make the program desirable after the high-octane college basketball season and before the NBA Playoffs.

But in person? At Augusta, the open areas of Georgia close up into a cluster of stores-not unlike the first glimpse of a theme park. The distance is not yet filled with leaderboards and the clack of clubs. At nine a.m., the gift shop is insanely popular. A visor purchase seems nearly mandatory.

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Everything is immediate inside. Even before the leaders teed off, there were crowds of saved seats around every good area. The greens, packed with chairs, tagged with names; the grandstands already half-filled with people around the most exciting holes. We walked up on Amen Corner-at the 11th, 12th and 13th holes-early and the mood was already reverent: crowds moving around it like an altar; some just stood frozen. It’s catching. I became hooked into Augusta, my mouth open, my heart flopping about in my chest. I moved only to keep up, since I have no way of finding my friends if I lose them.

Around tee-time, the disappointed golfers play a Sunday round. Number three in the world, Steve Stricker, faltered early in the tournament and never recovered. That is Augusta; the course rewards experience before good play. Comfort is more important than being on point. Some golfers were not happy to be there, like Phil Mickelson or Tiger Wood were; not happy enough to escape the problems of everyday life. Mickelson loves the course because it is benign when you know it as well as he does. He can have rotten luck and still have a chance. Woods loves it because he can treat it badly and get away with it.

While I was following my favorite golfer of all time, Fred Couples, Woods’ approach on the 7th holed in for eagle. Then massive throngs overpowered my hero worship. I was watching someone I truly admired. Couples is perfection in athletics. He is a former Masters champion in 1992, a longtime respected champion, a sockless wonder in easygoing movement. His swing is effortless and his command of his game is as close to perfect as the course would allow. He was -9 and contending when Tiger, -5 and struggling, interrupted my reveries.

That was it. I had to follow Woods for a few holes after that. I was walking the fairway when I ended up a few feet away from his ball on 8 and when he swung, people stood slackjawed. It was like that the whole day. Even when I stopped following, the leaderboard, updated by hand, always reminded me he was there. When his scores went up, people held their breath. When they cheered, they were not cheering for Tiger, necessarily; they were cheering to be a part of history-for the selfishness of being there. Also, they were cheering for talent and perspective. A collective and audible roar on the 7th marked people’s respect for spectacle.

Phil, however, quietly made pars. His was a quiet and contemplative game. As he moved, the crowd moved ahead of him with Tiger. He played a bogeyless round, but seemed, still, to be blowing his chance. Forgotten in the glamour of Tiger’s follies was Phil’s year. He lingered as the second best golfer in the world, with lackluster tour performances. He avoided getting to tournaments for practice to steal more time with his sick wife and to help with his children. He was the anti-Tiger and his craft paid the price. Unlike Tiger’s brash bashing and brute force, Phil’s shots hung in the air and clung to the greens.

At the 9th, I was in the front row of the tee box. Phil wound up and rolled the ball over in his swing. I kept my eyes on him instead of watching the ball. He was despaired. At one point, he mouthed the word “Masters” as if he knew he might have cost himself the tournament, given the way Tiger and KJ Choi were playing. Lee Westwood was playing an average game, good enough for a share of the lead too. He was -12, they were just below him. His recovery from the woods-for par again-was the redemption of his season. It allowed him to save the word on his lips for his wife, waiting to hug him at 18, as a champion.

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On ten, just before the aforementioned Amen Corner, a man complained loudly-seeking attention from the passers-by following the leaders up to the next three crucial holes. The sun was mercifully hid by loblolly pines (or so I think they were, I’m no Sibley) for a moment. The crowd stopped to look at him. He was beaming a huge smile. He said, “I’m gonna milk this for all it is worth.” An ovular redness resonated on his shoulder, his sleeves pulled up to present it to us. As I watched tournament officials approach the area, the place began to buzz. Tiger was approaching. Augusta rewarded the still and the moving. The still saw everyone at least once; the moving got the action between the lines. At crossovers, along fairways, near the tees, there was action to see. At the greens, the finality set in. It all depended on where you wanted to be and what you loved about sport. I was into it all. Seeing Tiger get a ruling and clear a path via security was not so exciting. I was ready to keep walking to beat Phil to 13-my second favorite hole on the course.

Then, Tiger pointed to the most obscure shot he had available. He was going right at the green through an impossible set of trees. We were shocked. There was no way for this to work, except we had all seen Woods do the impossible already. The approach on 7, the shot on 8. This was makeable only for him. He called out to an official: “I’m gonna need a lot more room. Especially near the green.” This was not confidence. It was a little cocksure. But Tiger is what he is: a man of immense golfing talent. Even as the shot dinged off a tree, the crowd was abuzz with his decision. History, again, was unmade, but we knew we had seen something unwieldy. A tournament can be like that. The way Mickelson played the back nine, we knew he was going to win. Still, we watched.

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As for the rest: The Masters is a series of stories pressed together with names I cannot recall. I know I saw names struggle to find themselves on a course meant to define them. Ernie Els was tall, Steve Stricker was just some person (not the third best golfer in the game) and former champions were saddled with putts that just did not fall. Each hole is marked with just a sliver of usable green. Right to left they are wide, but designed to be useless — like a hard pillow with one soft spot where you have been sleeping for years. The course was made not to fool them, but to cull their greatest shots. Even the greatest golfers in the world cannot hit their greatest shots every hole. They do not have to. Imperfection can be tolerable, but you must wade through it with patience here.

Perhaps that is why the accidental tragedies are easier to correct than ones created through mistakes. Only the course feels infallible-every blade of grass perfect, every bunker wildly white in the sun, every tree with a story. At the 4th, a long, 240-yard par 3, golfers plopped into the front bunkers and blasted back behind the hole but each of them cursed themselves. M___ and I blamed the wind kicking into their faces; we rarely blamed the course. When we did, it was because they played the 4th the wrong way. Mickelson and Choi both said, after the tournament, that “the back 9 was where you made runs,” but the front (and maybe even the 4th) made or broke some rounds, I guarantee it.

When it was time to leave-the crowd around the champion was finally too much-I looked back over the course. Droves were heading out into the parking lot, the staff was waving and welcoming everyone back for next year, the crowd was buzzing about Phil and a final leaderboard ran the scores as we exited. It read -11 for Tiger despite 13 bogeys in the tournament, -16 for Mickelson with a bogeyless round, -12 for Anthony Kim, even after a flawless final run, Lee Westwood was second, though no one really mentioned him the whole trip. Couples finished -9. The scores ticked by with little f’s beside each name and we waited for the traffic to stop. This was all proudly on display just outside the entrance-just beyond the Augusta National property line. The scoreboard was electronic, of course.

Jeff Laughlin is the editor of 10 Listens.