As the first major of the year, while the northern hemisphere is just shedding the dank gloomy greyness of another cold winter off its back, the Masters bursts out of a large ugly black and white box (no flat plasma Sony’s in 1975) telling its story at the same time as it happens, from 3000 miles away. What a wonderful object is this large box that projects the color and beauty of a great golf course in a faraway land. Green emerald fairways, blossoming flowers dotted everywhere, white bunkers, all perfect, clean and efficient.
As the magical box does its tricks the elements howl in anger outside, trying to enter the small room. The storm huffed and puffed and the rain clatters against the glass pane, inside sits a dreamy young man, cozy, warm and comfortable in his armchair, imagining himself walking side by side with the golden bear, in competition for the famous green jacket, names on the massive leaderboard, striped shirt and white golf shoes, straight backs and aloof walks.
The people watch, admire. The crowds are passionate, an important part of the whole, only noisy when success occurs, quiet if a gladiator drops his shield, respectful of those few combatants battling their skills, against elements and other fellow battlers.
The sound of the applauding masses can be heard in the distance, cheering, roaring, applauding acts of greatness- moments of history.
The cameras swing, change their scene, focus on a figure from another angle, looking down, playing out into a large green funnel with a bright blue horizon at the end, a tree lined alleyway. The player winds up and through in a short intensive concentrated flurry of movement.
A loud crack sends out, like a leather belt being whiplashed in the air, amplified three times by its surroundings- the crowd whoops, shouts, rejoice. The player, in his colorful garb strides away in the direction of the blue sky, purposeful, focused, looking straight ahead, arms hanging, relaxed by his sides. The great athlete is alone, in a world the crowds cannot enter.
"Back at the starting point Bobby Jones held the same characteristic balanced finish which would define his swing forever, right shoulder pointing to his target, club shaft resting on the back of his neck.
Solid footwork, tidy and balanced. His attire is smart and comfortable, plus fours and loose fitting pullover. Who else could it be?"