Brattish Reed has devil’s own luck
Patrick Reed may be one of the most unpopular winners in Masters history, but just about everyone is portraying him as a deserving champion. Well, it’s piffle and poppycock. Somewhere down in those Georgia woods Reed must have done a deal with the devil.
The young American is far from the best to ever don the green jacket, but he may be just about the luckiest.
Us humans don’t like the smell of luck. We cherish the thought that we are masters of our own fate. We like to quote Gary Player, the black knight of destiny, saying that the harder he practised, the luckier he got.
I reckon that the devil went down to Georgia, looking for a soul to steal, and somewhere in college he found a doughy frat boy called Patrick Reed hitting golf balls in a field. Bet I can hit it closer to the pin, said the devil. Only he couldn’t. Every time the devil hit a perfect shot, but a gust of wind blew it off course. Every time Reed hit a shot it landed by the pin. The boy has the devil’s own luck.
On round three of the Masters Reed’s playing partner Marc Leishman must have burned the edge of every hole. Nothing dropped. Reed also skirted a few edges and just about every putt dropped.
Reed chipped in for eagle on the 15th in his third round, a possible two-shot swing, because the ball was going 15 foot past when it hit the pin. On Monday, Reed caught a tree with his back swing on the first and still got his ball in the front bunker. He thinned his bunker shot and miraculously his ball held the back fringe.
On the third hole Reed’s putt from the fringe jumped, gathered top spin and momentum and was rattling way past the hole when it dropped. At any other Masters his ball on the bank of 13 would have rolled back into the creek. But time and time again the marginal shots of Reed, those shots that Augusta usually savages, stayed dry or left him an angle to the pin.
And finally his long range effort on the 17th is again trundling way past the hole and probably off the edge of the green, smacks the pin, and rebounds close enough for Reed to save par. Reed could have fallen off the bridge over Rae’s Creek and somehow stayed dry.
Was he thrown out of college for doing a deal with the devil? Teammates accuse him of having massaged his score on a couple of occasions, allegations backed up by the assistant coach. Wherever Patrick Reed walks, the dry grass seems to catch fire.
The guy appears to be delusional. Reed started wearing red in the final round of tournaments, presumably because he thought he was Tiger Woods. Nike put a stop to that, instructing their golfers to wear the same shade of colour in each of the four rounds of a major. That’s why Reed, like Paul Casey, was in azalea pink.
Woods wore red, of course, but it only peeped through the black. It was almost just an apologetic glimpse of red, as though he was not quite worthy yet. Still, it was nice to be at Augusta and to do something other than eat, as Woods said.
Reed has never had any trouble seeing himself as the best. Jordan Spieth has told the story of when he and Reed were playing together at the Ryder Cup, watched over by vice-captain Woods. Reed is bragging.
Woods looks at Reed and says: ‘‘Don’t worry, Patrick, you only need 74 more wins and 14 more majors.’’
Spieth says: ‘‘It was a funny moment with Tiger because you don’t really hear Tiger talk about everything he’s dropped to go back on Patrick and he used it there, because he was just like, ‘Screw this guy. I’m using this right now. Who is this guy?’’’
Spieth says that Reed won’t just play the match for the sake of it, but it’s about ‘‘sticking the knife in’’. Not for nothing did his fellow pros vote Reed the second most unpopular man on tour. Even his sister called him a ‘‘selfish, terrible stranger’’. I’m almost starting to feel sorry for the man. It must be terribly lonely to be so disliked.
At the age of 27 Reed has now joined the American brat pack. Reed holds the Masters title, Justin Thomas, aged 24, has the PGA, Spieth aged 24 has the Open Championship, and Brooks Koepka, aged 27, has the US Open. But according to the others, Pat is more rat than brat. It seems that Captain America, as Reed was dubbed after his Ryder Cup heroics, is a stranger in his own country.
Reed said after his final round at Augusta: ‘‘It’s just a way of God basically saying, ‘Let’s see if you have it. Everyone knows you have it physically with the talent, but do you have it mentally? Can you handle the ups and downs throughout the round?’’’
Is this the same God that dislocated Tony Finau’s ankle on Wednesday and let him fire six consecutive birdies in the final round? Is this the same God that let Tom Watson become the oldest winner of the par three contest at the age of 68? Is this the same God that stuck out a limb, ‘‘one limb’’, he wailed, and struck down Spieth’s ball on the 18th?
I could not tell you. But I do know that Rickie Fowler and Spieth played divinely in the final round and I do know that Pat Boy Reed had the luck of the devil. As Tiger always said, you need a stroke of luck to win a major.
It’s just that we lost count of Patrick Reed’s strokes. He could have signed for anything.