I’ve heard it all. Golf is too boring. It’s not fit for the younger generation. Many of the players lack engaging personalities. There aren’t nearly enough fistfights.
Golf certainly faces many critiques, especially from its younger viewers, and in many cases I don’t necessarily disagree. But to all its critics, golf presents one consistent, undeniable defense: Sunday at the Masters.
It’s a truly unique sports day, unlike anything offered by America’s more traditional sports. I say this because there’s no two-hour game for all the marbles. It’s not a short, abbreviated showcase of athleticism. This tournament is mentally grueling. It’s more like a slow burn, a tension-filled episode that tests the mettle of the fans as well as the participants. Many golfers will inevitably crack under the weight of the moment (Exhibit A: Greg Norman). Others will make their best bid, just to see their chances wither away in the face of superior competition. And then, there are those who will embrace the pressure; they will channel it into shots that will be remembered and treasured forever. Those are the champions.
All this for the opportunity to don a green jacket. The jacket is another quality that sets the Masters apart from other tournaments. It’s not a blasé trophy, destined to be stashed on a mantle and overcome by dust. The green jacket means more. For a golfer, the jacket represents the pay-off of countless hours of hard work. It’s the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It’s the favored wardrobe of legends. Once you become a Masters champion, you’re a Masters champion forever. The green jacket is something that no one can ever take away.
I know, it’s hard to justify all that build-up. But this year’s final day lived up to the hype. We had the young leader, Rory McIlroy, crumbling under a mountain of pressure, inexperience and errant shots. We had the grizzled veteran, Tiger Woods, trying desperately to shake the critics and regain the throne. We had a group of young up-and-comers, Adam Scott and Jason Day, vying to win Australia’s first-ever green jacket. And, from relative anonymity, we had the unknown commodity, Charl Schwartzel, sneaking up the leader board and shocking the world with each and every putt. It was a veritable overload of intriguing plotlines.
In the end, Schwartzel, the consummate dark horse, swooped in and grabbed the jacket. The 26-year-old South African made four straight birdies to close out his round, an unheard-of performance from a relatively unheard-of performer. In the face of enormous pressure, an unforgiving course and several proven contenders hot on his heels, Schwartzel calmly stepped back, took a deep breath and shut the door. He had the tiger blood that Tiger lacked. This type of story could only unfold at the Masters.
And so, the greatest weekend in the golf season has come and gone. There is no shortage of tournaments in the near future, but then again, none of them have quite the same overwhelming drama or tradition. Some things cannot be explained, even by Jim Nantz and Sir Nick Faldo’s hushed mutterings from the 18th hole. The Masters just has that “it.” If you don’t believe me, ask Charl Schwartzel.