The Masters

When it comes to your job, most things you do because you have to. A few you do because you want to. A precious few are so memorable, you look forward to them all year. For me, that'd be covering the Masters.

Everything about the Masters slays me. I'm a sucker for tradition, sentiment and golf. I've got a fair amount of Southerner in me -- I had great-great-greats who fought against each other at Gettysburg --so all that bad poetry (some of it written by me) about the cathedral in the pines and the ghost of Bobby Jones makes perfect sense.

There is something about covering Jones' toon-a-mint that frees me from my normal cynicism. I can't explain it. Those of you who have been to the Masters will know what I'm talking about. It's the only event I'm ever sad to leave.

I've been fortunate to have covered 20 Masters. My first was in 1983, the second win of Seve Ballesteros. I saw Nicklaus win in '86, still the greatest sporting event I've witnessed in 30 years of doing this. I walked with Earl and Tida Woods in '95, Tiger's 1st year at Augusta, when he was an amateur. Nine holes, just me and his folks. Two years later, he went 18-under par, and golf would never be the same.

I've spent hours talking with Augusta's caddies, African-American gentlemen who know the course better than anyone, and whose stories could fill a vault the size of Amen Corner. I've heard the Roars, and over the years, come to interpret their sounds, each unique. There was a Nicklaus Roar in '86 and again a decade later, when he somehow challenged for the lead on Sunday afternoon. And there is a Tiger Roar, equal parts bemused fascination at how good he is and unabashed enthusiasm for his talents. The Roars roll up the hills from 11-12-13, Amen Corner, all the way to the clubhouse. You can almost cover the tournament by listening to it.

The Masters is an event where integrity matters, where tradition isn't bartered for cash and where a very good player almost always wins. For me, it's the perfect blend of drama, sportsmanship and romance. Nothing compares.

The paper isn't sending me this year. As strange as it sounds, I don't think I'll watch on TV. Too difficult. Tiger will win, of course. The course is soft, unlike last year, so the shorter hitters are in trouble. At Augusta, it's all about putting your tee ball in position to attack a very specific area on the green, to give yourself reasonable birdie tries. Tiger's length off the tee allows him to play a wedge or a 9-iron into most of the par-4s. Shorter hitters are trying to stick a 5- or 6-iron approach into an area of the green that might be only 8 or 10 feet square.

But strategy was never what the Masters was about for me. Strategy doesn't describe the way the sunlight looks and feels shafting through a loblolly pine at noon, or what the utter quiet of sunset sounds like, when you walk the course after the play is done for the day.

It's a magical place. I'll get back there again. Maybe next year...