Monday, April 27, 2009
Golf at its finest
Steve Huff
Recent columns
- Off on a novel pursuit
- Tolerant, with one exception
- A familiar and familial bond
- Not all tests are worth taking
From the RoundTable blog
"You-da-man!" is the common cry on the PGA tour, shouted by the excitable fan as his favorite golfer blasts a drive off the tee. "Go in the hole!" is the corresponding cry for the putter.
Not so in Georgia, at Augusta National Golf Club in early April. Not at the Masters.
Bobby Jones (1902-1971) is the legendary gentleman, player and personality behind the course and the tournament. His fingerprints and footprints cover every inch.
The 2009 spectator guide reprints his advice from 60 years ago: "In golf, customs of etiquette and decorum are just as important as rules governing play." And "excessive demonstrations by a player or his partisans are not proper because of the possible effect upon other competitors."
Accordingly, as I sat in the bleachers of the practice range, I heard only modest applause as living legend Tiger Woods strode onto the tee. A slightly softer patter accompanied perennial standouts Vijay Singh and Phil Mickelson.
I was about to jump out of my skin. Do you realize, I mentally transmitted to everyone in the stands, that we are at the greatest tournament in the world, and that the greatest golfers of our generation -- and possibly the greatest golfer of all time -- are right here in front of us?
The looks on their faces said yes.
We sat in hushed admiration as Tiger went through his warm-up routine. He pitched a few balls to the end of the tee box, then worked his way down from short clubs to long, curving the ball left, then right, ending up either way at the flag stick. Each swing was like a metronome; each impact, crisp and clean.
When he finally pulled the famous tiger-head cover off of his driver he treated us to a grand finale, blasting ball after ball high into the net at the end of the 265-yard range.
Stunned by both the display of mastery and the dazzle of the bright spring morning I drifted out to the course. For decades I'd watched it faithfully on television.
This year, thanks to the perfect birthday present from stepmom Kathy, I was there, in person, on Saturday, for the third round of the Masters. Known as "moving day," it is when golfers try to move into position for the final round. Scoring conditions were excellent; the atmosphere, electric.
The first hole, known as Tea Olive, had amassed a huge crowd. From midway down the fairway I pulled out some field glasses and saw why: Tiger was on the tee.
He jerked his drive into the woods, pushed his approach shot right, chunked his chip and 3-putted for a double bogey. That thunk you heard on TV was everyone's jaw hitting the ground.
Suddenly the reality of the situation struck me (and maybe Tiger too): This was the Masters.
The rough was like fairway, the fairways like greens and the greens like glass. As beautiful as it appears on TV, the cameras do it no justice, falsely flattening the lovely rolling terrain. Augusta National melts into the land, striking a glorious balance between aesthetics and architecture.
Walking it works up an appetite. At the concession stand I was prepared to empty my wallet but paid less than $5 for a sandwich, soda and bag of nuts. It then occurred to me that there were no sponsor logos plastered about, no shiny convertibles perched next to the pond. On television, only four minutes of commercials per hour are permitted. The Masters is not about profit. It's about golf and those who play it best.
History, tradition, rules and etiquette wash over everyone. Fans lower their voices even in the rest rooms. The younger golfers, who have taken to wearing tight fluorescent garb at other tournaments, settle for looser, more sober styles. There is neither clatter of cameras nor blare of cell phones.
Super Bowl it is not. Golf nirvana, maybe.
By the end of the day I'd watched every player and walked every hole. As evening shadows draped across Holly, the 18th hole, the final group tapped in their putts and received respectful ovations. I took my time leaving the course, savoring the traditional white hand-operated scoreboards, the bridges of Hogan, Nelson and Sarazen, Rae's creek and the Eisenhour tree.
I imagined Bobby Jones himself smiling down on another Saturday well done at the Masters. Mr. Jones, I murmured, you are the man.
Huff, who lives in Patrick County and practices family medicine, is a columnist for The Roanoke Times.
