1996 Masters: Norman’s fall, then a magnificent Monday
In the world we once knew, the Masters golf tournament would be starting Thursday. In its absence, ESPN is airing five classic final rounds of the past, running Wednesday through Friday, with some vintage Jack Nicklaus and Tiger Woods included.
There will be no sign of Nick Faldo or Greg Norman. The 1996 tournament was excruciatingly difficult to watch at the time, and nothing has changed. It’s pleasant viewing only for those who enjoy train wrecks or skiers cartwheeling out of control for a few hundred yards.
I attended that Masters, the only one I ever covered for The Chronicle. I wanted to do it just once, and was allowed the privilege through some compassionate colleagues. I’ll never forget the 18thgreen image of Faldo hugging Norman, who took a sixshot lead into that final round and wound up losing by five. Norman had a reputation for falling apart on Sundays at the majors, and there was no debate about this one. It was an outright choke job.
Just as stunning, in my memory: the fact that I played Augusta National the following day.
A media lottery is held each year, allowing a dozenodd writers to play on Monday. I’d heard about this but sort of laughed it off, figuring there was no chance a firsttime candidate would be granted the honor. As such, I wasn’t so presumptuous as to pack my clubs. I’d look like one of those idiots at big tennis tournaments, cradling rackets and dressed as if they have a match scheduled that day.
I learned of my astounding good fortune around midday Saturday. The club had no interest in procuring equipment for strangers, but that evening I was told to check out an enor
mous golf warehouse nearby, on the Bobby Jones Expressway. About $600 later, I had a modest ensemble that would nicely replace my beaten relics back home. Now I could relax on Sunday and savor the distinction of walking Augusta National with the only two players who mattered, start to finish.
I always liked Faldo, his wry humor and grace under pressure, and wasn’t terribly fond of Norman. By the end of the day, nobody knew quite what to think. “I don’t know how it happened,” Faldo said. “It was the strangest turn of events I’ve ever seen.”
It had to be the least celebrated Masters title of them all, leaving Faldo plainly baffled as he donned the green jacket. Norman is a renowned sportsman, a sophisticated citizen of the world, and he was remarkably patient and levelheaded as he addressed the media. One could only imagine the stress and anxiety — the haunting — to come.
And then came Monday. The storied course was empty, with Sunday’s pin placements unmoved, awaiting the You Gotta Be Kidding Invitational.
My media foursome had a 7:30 a.m. tee time, without a breath of wind, and it was a pleasure to learn we’d have Augusta caddies, right down to the allwhite outfits. My guy, George Jackson, was a delightfully engaging sort, full of knowledge and and good humor. He saw me taking notes and immediately pegged me as a mobster.
“Don’t see people jottin’ down stuff here unless they’re up to no good,” he joked. Then I explained myself.
“So you’re tellin’ me that you’re covering the tournament, and you get to play the course, and you’re gettin’ paid?” he said. “I guess so, yeah.” “Brother,” he said, “you
definitely the man.” A classic moment unfolded almost immediately, when the media group ahead of us launched into action. Some of the caddies were standing around the first tee, and another was motoring along toward the veranda, when all of a sudden this guy tees off and hits a stupefying little floater that narrowly missed the caddie in his cart. The poor man nearly hit it behind himself. Now it’s a little before dawn, the first sips of coffee are going down, and a bunch of Masters caddies are in hysterics, absolutely doubled over with laughter.
As for my round, let’s just say that when someone asks “How’d you hit ’em?” your best reply cannot surpass a dozen words. Otherwise, a crushing sort of tedium sets in. Just say I had some choice moments and some dreadful ones. A couple of times, lining up shots that reminded me of specific Masters episodes past, my eyes started watering. I wasn’t crying; the moment was just so heavy. But forget the details. It was all about being there, immersed in a fine tradition, playing shot after shot without a bad lie, watching the sun come up through the trees.
It was wild, it was deep, and a heavy storm was gathering by the time we hit 16, with howling winds and dark clouds. Everything’s cool when you’re playing Augusta, but we were relieved to have teed off when we did. One of our guys snapped the occasional picture, and I had him shoot me walking up the 18th fairway, tipping my cap to a wildly enthusiastic crowd. In my mind. Where it safely resides.