Melancholy Masters

Everything changes, no escaping that. Except the Masters. At least until the last few years. I've loved lots of things about this event. Many of them have nothing to do with golf: The first sight, every year, of the course from the second-floor veranda of the clubhouse, sprawling down the hill to Amen Corner, a perfect portrait of the endless possibilities of spring. The flowers, seemingly by the millions, crowding my gaze. The frat-house ambience of the house I shared for years, until this year, with fellow writers I like very much. Masters Week is Spring Break for Adults. You can never fully appreciate that unless you spend a week here. I've spent 20 weeks here. It never gets old.

I love the tradition. More, I love the respect for tradition. I love that traditional doesnt have to mean staid. I love the love people here have for this place and this event. When you pass through the gates here, your demeanor changes. You're suddenly more gracious, more polite. It's the only sporting event I've attended where I feel less on edge than when I arrived.

It's the practiced charm, the easy gentility, the grace of the place. Attribute it to Bobby Jones, a gentleman's gentleman who insisted his legacy be as much about that as about golf. I know I get sappy talking about this place, but anyone who loves golf and has been here knows exactly what I'm talking about.

I wrote for tomorrow a slam-job of the way the course has started to play in the Tiger Age. Much of the go-for-it sex appeal of the Masters has come from the back-9 on sundays, and it has come because the course always welcomed players willing to take a risk to gain an advantage. That's not true anymore. Augusta has started to play like a U.S. Open. I like the Open, but we don't need another.

Regardless, this was my 20th Masters. It is the only event I'll miss covering when I stop doing this. It's the only event I'm a little sad to leave, every year. I'm seriously grateful I made it again this year. (Thanks very much, B. Wetterich). I hope I'm back for 21. Thanks for indulging this sappy nonsense. Live big, B. Jones