Augusta National. Sunday at the Masters. Golf’s high holy day. We admit it; we are “Masters Maniacs.” From the par 3 contest on Wednesday to the two days leading to the cut to “moving day” Saturday, we are glued to our HD, 4G Ready TV that we bought when we saw how much better it picked up every magical moment of golf’s own heaven, Augusta.
This year six of us gathered at our home on Sunday as we do every year. Our group, almost homogeneous with five women and one man, sat on the edge of our seats watching the drama unfold while munching on the requisite pimiento sandwiches, a tradition at the Masters. How peaceful it is to watch a tournament where you do not hear “You the man” or “Baba-loo-ie” or “In the hole” shouted out after every shot! You are watching a tournament so well run that even the galleries must obey certain rules.
As the tension mounted as much in our living room as on the golf course, we suddenly became aware of a puzzling yet intriguing phenomenon: all of the women in the room were rooting for Sergio Garcia, and our lone male companion definitely had very different feelings. He had never forgiven Sergio for spitting in a hole after missing a putt and for slowing his pre-shot routine down to interminable. We women admired his new maturity and his perseverance. Why had all of us women gotten over Sergio’s early, immature behavior in order to cheer him on to his first Masters win (and his first major) and our lone male had not?
His opinion did not dampen our Sergio enthusiasm. Our disagreement was much more congenial and light-hearted than a discussion about current politics. The Masters allowed us to escape from all that. We returned to the Sergio/Justin Rose showdown and found ourselves happily mesmerized by the superb exhibition of skill and sportsmanship they gifted to us at another magical Masters.
You Golf Girl 