It’s April once again; which means Masters time again.  

Heralding the official beginning of Spring (at least in my world) and start of the Golf Season for those of us in northern climes, the Masters brings with it an anticipation of great things. While I missed the first Masters ever televised, we didn’t get a television set until a year later in 1957 (three channels, black and white, and the remote consisted of my father’s voice telling one of us kids to get up and turn the channel),  I have watched most of them over the past 50 years.

For years the course never changed, as regular as the return of Robin red breast and the sounds of cardinals at daybreak.  The only major played over  the same 18 holes every year, Augusta National, whose reverential place in history increased with each passing year. It was instilled in me that one genuflected upon entering those hallowed grounds.  All the greats returned every year to chase that green jacket, which seemed a bizarre color for a piece of serious clothing.  Yet none of the principals minded the color, at least not out loud. I’ve always wondered how you match your socks to that coat.  Time changed the names of those golfers whose greatness unfolded over four days in early April.  Yet the golf course, it’s founder, and the tournament remained constant.  The litany of stars changed over the years, but the mystique evolved and expanded.

In the beginning, television covered only the closing 4 holes, providing the common man a glimpse of the shrine.  The remaining holes were left to the imagination, constructed, or rather conjured upon the written page, by the eloquence of men such as Herbert Warren Wind, yet still shielded from view.  We learned the difficulty of Amen Corner.  The 14th hole occupied space as a bridge to get from that prayer filled difficult 3 hole stretch to the drama intense closing holes.  It was years before the veil was lifted and the entire back nine came to life.  The idea that those on the grounds were to be called "patrons" and got to see the entire course left me to become one of the unwashed masses huddled around illuminated vacuum tubes catching glimpses of royalty.  Funny now that I think about it, but that image is probably truer today than it was in those days what with the financial status of todays even average tour player.  

Eventually the grand poobahs of green jacketdom, allowed us to see all 18 holes.  To think the front nine is actually rather memorable and important in determining the eventual wearer of the green came as a surprise.  I had always heard that the Masters doesn’t begin until the back nine on Sunday.  I took it to mean the only important holes were the ones I could watch on TV.  Sigh, another childhood fantasy crushed like a grape by the huge shoe of reality. Turns out this is a literal truth, the entire back nine provides a familiar canvas upon which historic achievement is depicted.  How often I have sat rivited, unable even to munch a snack, as tension filled shot follows tension filled shot.  As often as not creating not only a hero, but also a remarkably tragic character. Shakespeare, were he physically present would appreciate the stage as much as the drama which unfolds.

I do remember not having to listen to the schmaltzy music and reverential tones of Jim Nance welcoming us to the Shrine of Jones and Roberts.  I never had the urge to purge my most recent meal in those days. It was some time before I realized, that while I was getting on in years my digestive tract was more sensitive to auditory stimuli and not what I was eating each April.  Canned sanctity is truly annoying, a cheapening detraction from the honest allure.

And so we are back: April, the Masters, spring, a man’s fancy turns to golf ( the preferred method of public self abuse).  I will buck up and brace myself to ignore the media pablum and once again enter the grounds of Augusta National prepared to suffer the trials and tribulations of my favorite players.  I shall also enjoy the inevitable underdog who elevates his game to challenge the legend and mystique of history.  Perhaps, like Larry Mize and Bob Goalby, he will become a champion.  Or perhaps, like Roberto De Vincenzo and Greg Norman, he shall become legendarily tragic in defeat.  That is after all, part of the magic of the house that Jones built.