Growing up, I never once thought about watching the grand game of golf. Palmer, Nicklaus, Trevino—those names were not enough to draw me into the den to sit and stare at grown men swinging clubs at such a tiny, dimpled ball. Instead, I was mesmerized by Roman Gabriel of the Los Angeles Rams, Jerry West of the Los Angeles Lakers, and Tommy John of the LA Dodgers. Augusta and St. Andrews were not destinations on my travel itinerary; I wanted to visit the Los Angeles Coliseum, the Fabulous Forum, and Dodger Stadium.
Years later while living in Chattanooga, Tennessee, a lackluster interest in golf evolved into an ever-increasing appreciation; my enthusiasm for the game grew as I covered a couple of PGA Tour events for a local television station. It was also during this time that I played my first nine holes with my father-in-law. A left-handed starter set from K-Mart, a gift from my wife, got my duffer juices flowing. While at the TV station, I even shot and produced a feature story on a 70-year old golf ball picker upper—a guy whose ankle had been broken while driving the retrieval tractor by an idiot on the driving range. Consider me hooked and sliced.
Decades after Chattanooga, I am in love with the sport of kings. There are several golfers whose every swing I follow: Phil, Rory, Bubba, Zach, and Webb, just to name a few. Tour and television schedules are perused weekly. Golf Channel is my BFF.
This observing obsession is not solely conducted at home while sitting on the couch in my living room. Now, thanks to technology, I can take in golf highlights whenever and practically wherever I want. Leaderboards are smartly snapped up via cell phone, tablet, and laptop.
If you were to ask me for a favorite tournament or course that I love more than the others, I would have to say Augusta. Amen Corner. The Masters.
Why? Because thanks to Jim Nantz, “It is a tradition unlike any other.”™ Cool, huh? The Masters tournament likes that phrase so much they recently put in their bid to trademark the lingo.
But to me, there is another tradition associated with this event, and it all comes down to family, grilling, and Sunday’s final round. For years now, my family and I have driven to my in-laws for Masters Sunday.
Glutton for punishment? Nope, not on your sweet swing.
During the week of The Masters, scores are checked, who’s hot and who’s not dissected, and Sunday’s menu discussed. In fact, sometimes the food has a higher priority than, say, Rory’s birdie on 8 or how many pros have drowned their Titletists in Rae’s Creek while attempting to place their drive close to the flag on 12. The funny thing is that Sunday’s feeding frenzy is practically the same every year: grilled brats, burgers, potato salad, baked beans, chips, and soft drinks. But the golf action is not as predictable.
This year, as in many other years, I manned the grill, but there was a twist to the menu just like there was a twist to the Masters every year. This year I grilled bacon-wrapped chicken. Ah, yeah. Typing those precious words makes my mouth water. Reading the sentence causes my eyes to widen in sweet remembrance.
Sitting around the dinner table eating and chatting with family is something I look forward to. At our advancing ages, we seem to repeat and laugh at the same stories. At our advancing ages, we seem to repeat and laugh at the same stories.
“Pass the potato salad, please.”
“Do you remember the time we stopped by the side of the road to pick up a hat someone lost?”
“Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.”
“I don’t want to hear about that again.”
And then the conversation usually turns serious.
“Do you think the guy at the top of the leaderboard has got enough of a lead to hold off those two shots behind?”
For me, this year’s Masters did not disappoint. 21-year old Jordan Spieth led wire to wire. Every time his playing partner, Justin Rose, closed the gap, Jordan would drain an important putt and extend his lead. And it was nice hearing about Jordan’s background—devotion to family and his respect for older players. Heh. Older players? Everyone is older when compared to young Spieth.
The television broadcast lasted a little more than five hours on that final round Sunday, and before I knew it, Spieth had drained his Green Jacket-winning putt, desert plates and glasses had been cleared, and it was time to say goodbye to my in-laws. The Masters golf tournament was officially over.
As a kid, I thought it was the greatest day of my life every time I went to the Los Angeles Coliseum and watched Gabriel, the Fabulous Forum and watched “Mr. Clutch” Jerry West, and also to Dodger Stadium and the sweet pitching artistry of Tommy John. But I’m a man now, and I won’t have the greatest day of my life until I make it to Augusta and The Masters. And by the way, my in-laws will be on their own with the bacon-wrapped chicken that day.
