The Masters And My Dad

  

Its Masters week. Holy Week for golfers. And I am completely smitten by the whole thing.  From the legendary golf course, to the azaleas, to the pimento cheese sandwiches - I love it all.  When they have the Masters Jacket Ceremony on Sunday, I will have tears in my eyes.  For those of you who aren’t familiar with this iconic sports ritual, I’ll explain. Right after a winner has been decided, everyone heads to the famous Butler Cabin where last year’s winner presents the new champion a green jacket.  Kind of a coronation with golf spikes.  And it gets to me.  It’s not just the tinkly piano music, or the air of casual reverence, or the players who get choked up about winning golf’s greatest tournament.  That certainly contributes.  But I always get emotional because some of the best memories of my Dad involve watching the Masters with him. 

I’ve joked for years that my Father preferred Masters Sunday to Thanksgiving and Christmas.  There is some truth to that.  He  could be a pain in the butt during the holidays.  I think it was because we typically had the family celebrations at our house.  The combination of noise, confusion, and relatives he didn’t care for could turn him into the Hulk in a nanosecond.   Believe me, it wasn’t always a Rockwell painting.  

But on Masters Sunday, he was a different person.  Maybe it was because I was the only one there.  Maybe it was because golf was such a strong bond between us. He introduced me to the game and I loved it from the beginning. 

Whatever the reason, Masters Sunday became a great time for a father and son to share one of the passions of their lives.  It would never fail: he would call me on Saturday to make sure I was coming over to watch the final round.   Once I arrived on Sunday, we would settle in for several hours of our favorite golf tournament.  My Mom, also an avid golfer,  joined in.  

The memories flood back every year.  I remember when Nicklaus won in 1986 - all of us yelled in unison when he made the clincher putt on 17.   We watched in horror in 1996 as Greg Norman lost the tournament when he blew a six shot lead in the final round.   Dad summarized  it perfectly when he said, “It was like watching someone slowly bleed to death.”   And we were truly awestruck when Tiger won his first Masters by 12 shots in 1997. 

 We never failed to analyze a player’s strategy, praising or criticizing his choices and shot selection.  Jim Nance  couldn’t do it any better. After all, we were very good golfers too.  But unlike the Masters broadcasters,  if we didn’t like the golfer, we would openly pull against them. Heckles and catcalls during their backswings were common.  Bobby Jones would have surely frowned at our antics. 

I never left their house until the winner got his green jacket.  Then I departed, always a little melancholy because the tournament was over, but excited  knowing that the golf season had officially begun. 

Time passed, and Dad’s health declined. Sadly, eventually he reached a point when he couldn't play golf any more.  But we still kept our Masters tradition alive.  In the end, he would lose a leg, then his life.  Now all I have are the wonderful memories of those Sunday afternoons together with my Father. 

I still watch the final round at Augusta National.  It will always be a rite of spring for me. However, it’s a ghost of what it was before.  Normally I’m alone.  Sometimes my youngest son will watch with me, but it’s not same.  My Dad  and I shared an intense passion for golf and for this tournament.  And as I always remind myself, Masters Sunday is as much about the remembrance of my Father as it is about the tournament. 

To paraphrase Jim Nance, it was a memory unlike any other.  

Happy Masters week Dad. 

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