Augusta set to deliver a showdown for the gods
FOR a sport that is supposed to be too slow-paced, it is amazing how the prospect of the 82nd Masters beginning today quickens the pulse.
For a game that is supposed to be boring, there appears no shortage of excitement regarding what might unfold over the next four glorious and potentially historic days. Listen to the golf pedants and they will tell you the ball travels too far and it is draining the skill and interest from the game.
They might have a point, but it is all rather buried amid the welter of anticipation generated by the pageant that lies before us this morning.
I started covering this event in my mid-twenties and now, in my late fifties, I can’t remember another edition with as much going for it as this one.
If this is a pastime beset by problems, why is the biggest merchandise set-up in the sporting hemisphere attracting so many people that you have to queue outside the door at both ends of the day?
Let Rory McIlroy, the man with the most on the line this week, the golfing nerd trying to become the first player since Tiger Woods in 2000 to seal the deal on a career Grand Slam, speak the truth: ‘We all know about the problems and what our sport needs to fix but the fact of the matter is, if you look at the big picture, golf really is in a great place right now.’
Indeed, you only have to look at the wondrous scenes from Augusta these past few days to get caught up in the atmosphere of a sport in thrall. A game where one great story after another has presented itself over the past two months, as every top player has seemingly laid down an Augusta marker.
Where the two biggest names of the past 20 years have re-entered the fray to post realistic claims as to why they can add to their aggregate total of seven green jackets.
First, there was Phil Mickelson, at the ridiculous age of 47, beating world No 2 Justin Thomas to win a WGC event in Mexico last month.
And then, of course, there’s Tiger Woods. Naturally, there would not be this overwhelming feelgood atmosphere without him. He is the reason why there are so many people outside the gates holding signs saying ‘Tickets wanted’.
Restaurants on Washington Road outside the main entrance where you could get a table last year with only a short wait are stiflingly crowded this time.
On Monday night, a classic country club couple in their sixties from Kentucky allowed me to join their table, with no others available.
They had been drawn out of the lottery for practice tickets on Tuesday and, such was their level of excitement, they couldn’t have been happier if they had won the other lottery offering millions. ‘Do you really think Tiger can do it?’ they said, over and over.
At times in life, it is wonderful to witness the capacity for forgiveness, and the fact that genius conquers all.
God knows, we are all familiar with Tiger’s weaknesses, but the vast majority of sports fans will be rooting for the ‘walking miracle’ over the next four days. ‘I’m done,’ he confided to Jack Nicklaus at the Champions Dinner last year, having to get up every five minutes from his seat owing to his troublesome back.
Yet here he is, the poster boy for fusion surgery and testament to the fact nothing is more powerful than desire and ambition.
All those days when he couldn’t get out of bed, all those hours of rehab and reps for a man who had entered his forties with his legend and his bank balance secure, and still he wants it. This, truly, is sport at its zenith.
And still there is more. So much more. There is Rory, standing on the edge of history, to use Paul McGinley’s evocative phrase.
There is Mickelson, with his authentic shout at becoming the oldest Masters winner at 47.
There is Bubba Watson, the man with his own brand of self-taught genius who still hasn’t had a lesson to this day, trying to claim his third green jacket and third title in the space of eight weeks.
There’s Open champion Jordan Spieth, back to something like his best in the nick of time.
There is a whole crop of English hopefuls too, from 20-somethings
Tyrrell Hatton, Matt Fitzpatrick and Tommy Fleetwood, to the revitalised 40-somethings Paul Casey and Ian Poulter, to England’s best hope of all, 38-year-old Justin Rose. There is Jon Rahm and Thomas, while we’ve almost forgotten the world No 1 Dustin Johnson.
And don’t rule out a successful defence for Sergio Garcia.
The gods are smiling, too, for a foreboding weather forecast a week ago has turned favourable, and another major championship season will begin this morning under blessedly blue skies. No one should seek to sweep golf’s problems under the carpet, but come Sunday there is a pretty good chance someone will leave us slack-jawed with their prowess, a plucky runner-up will speak graceful words in defeat.
And once more it will be this game that shows the wider sporting world that there really is a right way to win, and a right way to lose.
At the very least, we can be absolutely certain that Australians Adam Scott, Marc Leishman and Jason Day won’t be caught sandpapering their golf balls.