SEC football is basically my favorite thing in the whole world. It’s right up there with red meat, my grandmother’s spaghetti sauce, ice cream, and waking up to the smell of bacon (all of these are food, yikes). But The Masters is in its own category. The pageantry, the tradition, the opening theme, the course itself. All of it fires me up. I love nothing more than laying on the couch on Sunday, eating my homemade pimento cheese (it’s pretty dang good, by the way), drinking some Arnold Palmer, and getting swept away by the voices of Jim Nantz and Sir Nick Faldo. The water, the flowers, the lore. All of it draws me in every year. I was watching an NFL playoff game in December and a commercial came on promoting The Masters. I literally fought back tears watching it. There is just something about it.
Maybe it’s because I have had the great fortune of attending two Saturday rounds in my life (2012 and 2016) that I have such a deep, emotional, almost spiritual attachment to this weekend. Walking on the hallowed grounds, smelling the cigar smoke, feeling the breeze meander through the Georgia pines. It almost lulls you to sleep until a massive roar of the crowd shakes you back awake. It gives me chills now just thinking of it.
The storylines are also so emotional. Ben Crenshaw’s last Masters, Arnold’s death, Bubba’s stunning victory in 2012, Phil’s put in 2004, Tiger’s chip in 2005 (Verne with the call of the century) … all of it causes me to get a lump in my throat. This year, yes, even without Billy Payne welcoming the patrons to the 2018 rendition of the great tournament, will be no different, I am sure.
So please, sit back, relax, grab yourself a tea, and get lost in the ritual that is The Masters.
Front Porch Football
