A different sort of post today. For it is a different sort of a week. The Masters is normally when much of the British golfing population seem to emerge from the sleepy hibernation of a cold winter, encouraged by the vibrant turf and dreamy vistas of some distant plantation land across the pond.
For me, The Masters, along with the Varsity Boat Race, seem to be markers of an impossibly fast transition from one year to the next; time speeding up as I hurtle into middle age. I hadn’t even noticed the Boat Race was scheduled, but a cursory glance at the headlines the following morning brought that annual feeling of confusion, that another twelve months could have passed so very quickly. Where is the justice?
It is hard to not notice that The Masters is coming, though, for if you consume any golf content at all, it is everywhere, and for me, there is a great nostalgia in this. Growing up obsessed by golf, the various marvellous venues of the Open had some appeal, and as I fall more and more deeply in love with links golf, that connection builds by the day, but there is something so different about The Masters, played on the same hallowed turf every year, and it brings back so many memories of a golfing childhood.
The second Sunday in April would be about the only day of the year when the junior version of me would be permitted a late night, in order to breathlessly watch the back nine unfold, often a drama of epic proportions. Jack’s comeback in ‘86, wielding an impossibly large putter, is my first strong recollection of such crescendos down the stretch at Augusta, though my memory of Seve’s dunked four iron on the 15th is not as strong as that of the prowling Bear, pacing after his putts as they obeyed both their owner and gravity, time and again. Later Seve would admit that when he holed out for an eagle on the 13th, he believed he’d already won a third Green Jacket, and that was to work against him as the pressure built. He started writing a speech in his head, or trying on the jacket, and the golfing gods frowned, and intervened.
Two years later, I would watch a golfing hero, Sandy Lyle, ripping his PING one iron way beyond most players’ drivers, and then the drama of the 18th, dragging one into the fairway bunker, followed by a ridiculous recovery that flew within millimetres of the pristine turf in front of him, right over the flag, and then back down towards the hole. A few minutes later, he would roll in that treacherous ten-footer, and I would head up to bed, with no chance of sleep for a while yet. When sport gets binary like that - each shot, or point, or penalty the threshold between winning and losing - it is hard not to feel the emotional swings of the competitors, or get caught up in the adrenaline rush that kept this 13 year old awake, staring at the ceiling and imagining how Lyle must have felt when he picked his ball clean off that white sand; an impossible shot, and one that people remind him off most days, still awestruck all these years later.
In ‘91, our local hero Ian Woosnam would step up, smashing his Maxfli balata around seemingly without fear, and despite another unorthodox approach to the final hole, Woosie would manage to hole his par putt, and get to slip on his own club blazer, congratulated by Nick Faldo, who had won the previous two events in the middle of a fabulous run for the Europeans. Then in ‘92, another great hero of mine growing up would take a turn. How Fred Couples’ ball stayed delicately balanced in the fringe grass above the water at the 12th that year, no one else knows, but I think he and I know that I somehow willed it thus. A regular miracle, that.
For despite the commentators’ certainty that his ball would get a cold rinse in Rae’s Creek, Boom-Boom was too great a player for too long to not win a major, and this one was meant for him. So win he did, and for years afterwards, he would appear on the leaderboard again and again, outclassing the strongest field in golf tee to green time after time but never quite holing the putts. He could have had a wardrobe full of green by this point.
The last Masters I watched properly would be one of the strangest evenings of all; Greg Norman’s slow capitulation against the machine-like Faldo difficult to watch, regardless of your allegiance in that final pairing. It felt like the most public finale to some tragic opera, but of course it is only sport, and the global superstar on that year’s receiving end managed to pick himself up, and carry on. I realise writing this that I have never re-watched that one, but I don’t need to - it was such magnetic entertainment that I could talk you through the ups (all Faldo’s) and downs (all Norman’s) even now.
So by now you get the feeling that this event meant a lot to me as a kid, and though I drifted away from watching it (and playing golf, really) as time went by, it still holds a place in my heart, though I’ve never been, and am unlikely to qualify to play at this point. Maybe this year I will tune into the broadcast again, my enthusiasm for golf coming back with every course I play, and no doubt the nostalgic vibe will arrive at the first sight of those flashed white bunkers and ludicrous sloped greens. There aren’t many events which carry such a wealth of stories and cliches, but the constant venue - this dream of Robert Tyre Jones Jr and The Good Doctor - plays a pivotal role in that continuity and fable. Augusta in Masters Week is like Wimbledon fortnight on steroids; stories all around.
In amongst the endless Masters preview podcasts that keep dropping into my phone, a couple of interviews with Susan Cain arrive. Cain is the author of Quiet, a bestseller about introversion, and her new book, Bittersweet, explores the territory around sadness and longing. As I wash up, one bit catches my attention like a thunderbolt, and I listen to it over and over. The word pothos is introduced, an ancient Greek term that “is a way of expressing a longing for something that you dearly love and value but which is unattainable”, and for some reason as I hear and digest this, I think of these sportsmen, with more money than anyone could reasonably spend but without a Green Jacket - Greg, Tom Kite, Lanny Wadkins. And Rory, though I’ve a good feeling for him this year…
Cain continues, though, explaining that while this theme sounds depressing, like something that would leave us stuck, it can also be a huge motivator; an impetus that builds and feeds momentum. And as I drift off again into thinking about The Masters as the soap suds dance in front of me, I reflect on the emotion and energy that must go into any worthwhile creative act - be it creating a masterpiece of a golf course in a quiet corner of Georgia, or winning a World Cup, or, for Cain, writing a book that will affect and help thousands of people deal with the complexities of modern life. All of these things, plus the music of Mozart and the art of Rothko and even the kindness of the person in the queue at the shop - they take courage, and commitment, and the ability to dream; to recognise a longing and move towards it.
Of course, nothing about The Masters really matters in the grand scheme of things, given the various conflicts and issues in the world around us. But at the same time, it is important to take a break from the heavy stuff now and then, and permit ourselves to enjoy life. That might mean tuning into the golf, or it might be a walk in the park with the blackbirds. I’ll be doing both, but as the tournament starts in earnest down that famous back nine on Sunday, someone’s dream will come true and in the process a dozen more will be shattered. But for everyone in that chasing pack, some form of this notion (or potion) of pothos has propelled them towards doing the thing they always meant to do; being the person they always meant to be. And there is something of profound value in that energy for everyone.
Who knows, one day I might get to feel the electricity in that bubble of Augusta National in person. Now that’s a longing…
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