A pilot, you racist.
Jokes aside, spring has sprung. Can you hear the music?
For me, there's warmth and sustenance in the manna from Bobby Jones's little toonamint
which starts in less than two weeks. Golf's big boys will kiss the
King's ring in Orlando, swing through Houston, and re-assemble at the
Cathedral of Golf that is Augusta National.
Way before I became a curmudgeonly ex-lawyer and cyber-entrepreneur,
there was, and there remains, an epic quality to the Masters which I
will admit holds me spellbound, if not because of the ethereal
atmosphere created by their meticulous greenskeeping, then only for the
theater of human folly which is golf, placed on emerald pedestals amid
the looming yellow pines, bright azaleas, and wound around the depths of
Rae's Creek.
The
Masters mythology lives in the same realms as the World Series, the
Super Bowl, the Kentucky Derby, Daytona, Indy, and, okay, sometimes the
Stanley Cup.
In spite of the degrees of separation experienced in daily drudgery,
what passes as a banal earthly existence becomes the stuff of legend
when we gather for these cultural festivals, when simple human will
expels the fickle formulations of spreadsheets and peurile aspirations
of foolish discretion. There is a shared ethos in sport that gives
substance in its immediacy. Reality TV also gives spectacle, but is
empty of character. It is perverse where sportsmanship is noble.
Fans who consider themselves to be "purists" may now be only remnants of
those who have loved sports. The couch-riding, nacho-slurping, beer
guzzler shatters the myth in the same way fat Roman child molesters
cheered for their favorite gladiator in the Colisseum. That is one of
the realities, as are the obsene piles of money changing hands as fans
wager predictions among the winners and losers.
All
the more reason, I think, the Masters is a special event. Its values
and venue serve to give to golfers and fans alike, but especially to
golfers who cherish the game, a chance to portray to the world, a higher
ideal. At this level, golf is not merely token fancy. At Augusta, you
are a "Patron", sharing in the competition in a process taking you
beyond mere spectator. For golfers, the Masters allows us to partake of
the experience whereby we look into ourselves.
Epic sporting events mark time, so that you can know what you were
doing, where you were, at a given point during your life. Humans have
always sought these archetypal reference points, and the individual
dramas played out provide the particular shared experiences for us not
only to enjoy, but to draw upon, for whatever we need that is good;
whatever we need that endures; whatever we need that triumphs;
whatever we need, whatever that may be.
Whether the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat, we golfers share
unlike any other sport, a knowledge of our impermanence and the frailty
of human endeavor. Yet, we gather again, to show the world there is
another world of better things.
The event is not without taint. As a 500-plus year old game, golf has had a beleaguered history fueled by social contingencies, sometimes castigated and sometimes praised by agents of social change. But a real golfer will tell you there are few greater joys than the freedom of spirit found in our game.
Ultimately, though, pro golf is a game of Sorrows. Like every shot in
life that we have ever taken, our old selves are dead and gone. You
will never play a round of golf as the same golfer you were. The
Masters makes an exta effort to pay homage to the amateur golfer, who
has nothing to gain from shooting 65 on Sunday. The touching scene of
Ben Crenshaw's 1995 victory serves as my own "Masters moment" because
the price of victory was death. Transcending sports, the Masters serves
as an "F--- You" to the slimy, ugly, and vulgar things in life.
I'll see you on the back nine Sunday.
[NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The above essay was posted on my previous blog, "Wit, Gun and Stein" on March 26, 2009 and is presented again for the benefit of golf aficionados and fans of the good side of Tradition -- everywhere.]
© 2009 by Roy Santonil
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