Hate and Love – The Masters

I am doing something this week just the way I do it every year around this time. You see, this is Masters week, the time when the best golfers in the world fly their private jets to Augusta, Georgia and do their best to tame the Augusta National Golf Course. And this week, I am addicted to watching as much of it as possible.

But here’s the thing – I hate everything that The Masters stands for.

If you are not familiar with the Masters, it was founded by two people. One of them, Bobby Jones, was a champion golfer in the 1920’s and 30’s. He won everything during that era. He’s still the only person to win the US Open, British Open, US Amateur and British Amateur Championships all in the same year. The other founder was named Clifford Roberts, an oil and gas speculator and Wall Street broker. Roberts was the Chairman of the Augusta National Golf Club, which the two of them also founded and where, of course, the tournament is played. Both Jones and Roberts were indisputably misogynistic racists. 

They considered themselves Southern Gentlemen in the sense that the term describes nobility. And as would any noblemen, the Masters of the Masters prided themselves on their traditions- the Green Jacket and all that (and, by the way, have any of you ever even considered wearing a green blazer? Do they even sell them?). The catch-phrase used to promote the Tournament is “a tradition like no other.” Those who have followed Jones and Roberts have done so in their footsteps.

So, what are those noble traditions? Here are some of them.

The fans who attend the tournament are only allowed to be called, “patrons.” One TV announcer once called them a “crowd” and the Masters of the Masters banned him from ever announcing there again. The longer grass on the side of the fairway cannot be called, “the rough” as it is called everywhere else. At Augusta, it must be called, “the second cut.” The word, “rough,” is obviously too rough for the sensibilities of the Lords of Augusta. The Augusta greens are typically treated so that the ball will roll very fast. One TV announcer dared to describe them as “trimmed with bikini wax.” How plebeian of him. He, too, was banned from future participation.

And, of course, there has been the racism. There were no black members until 1990. And since it is the policy of the Club not to disclose the names of its members, when it announced this majestic concession to rationality, it described the new member only as a “black gentleman.” No women until 2012. And then only two. One was described as a “financier,” and the other was Condoleeza Rice. Until 1982, players could only use Augusta’s caddies, not their own. All those Augusta caddies were black. All the players were white. That, to the Masters of the Masters, was the required order of things.

I am not generally a big fan of tradition. Tradition stands in the way of progress. The Masters is built not only on tradition, but on hideous tradition. And yet I cannot remove my eyes from the TV screen or the iPad screen or the iPhone screen or from whatever screen on which I am then watching that traditional Tournament. What’s wrong with me?

My justification is twofold. First, the answer is Tiger Woods. He is, at the same time, both the opposite of The Masters and its King. In the place where no black people feared to tread unless they were servants, he is now worshipped with every step he takes. And the Masters of the Masters can’t say anything about it. I love that.

But I enjoyed The Masters even before Tiger. One of my prior blogs was about how it’s necessary to divorce the character of a creator from the value of what they created. The Masters of The Masters have created a Master-piece. I reject the phrase, “a tradition like no other,” but I embrace the idea that Augusta National is “a course like no other.” The course is constructed so perfectly that every hole offers, even to the best golfers in the world, the possibility of great success or of catastrophic failure, and the line between those two is miniscule. Sports is all about drama. It is the last refuge of the true reality show. I feel badly for those who do not watch sports. They are missing the best drama available. Imagine a magnificent Broadway drama where in each performance the ending is unpredictable, even to the actors. That’s what sports is, and The Masters is the epitome of it.

So, I can set aside the loathsomeness of those who created and now manage The Masters, and I can simply enjoy their creation. But only for one weekend a year. Otherwise, I despise those assholes.