Onward to Augusta
[Your Name Here]Reporting from Covington, Ga.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
This is the land of the Waffle House, to say nothing of grits, gravy slathered over everything, even at Chick-fil-A. It is where there's a church on every other corner -- there are even more of those that Waffle Houses -- but where you can, a year after the Atlanta Thrashers departed for sunny Winnipeg, you can still find a hockey game on the local cable sports network.
This is one more example of how the Deep South has always been a collection of contradictions.It is mentioned because Covington, the outpost of the moment, is a few exits, 120 miles worth by the map, down Interstate 20 from a certain invitational golf tournament that attracts international attention.
That explains why 78-room budget motels are filled to the brim in early April. It isn't because the azaleas are in bloom, because this year, the blooms have already come and gone. Spring came early in the Deep South as well. As someone said today, "We went right from fall to summer." Except for the occasional ice storm, winter is a rumor in Covington.
Masters Fever is not. Golf fans everywhere count the days to this week, and merchants, whether innkeepers or sous chefs, count the money anywhere win a couple of hours of the Augusta National Golf Club. The country may be just coming out of a recession, but in these parts, the money tree sung of in "Raintree County" about a half-century ago still blossoms, and, unlike the azaleas, on time, just as Clifford Roberts intended when he and Bob Jones created Augusta National and The Masters in the 1930s.
The annual renewal seems even more anticipated this year, what with the revival of Tiger Woods' ability to close the deal on Sunday afternoon. With Woods coming back to winning form, with Rory McIlroy returning to the scene of his collapse last year -- but with the knowledge that he can not only win a major, but dominate one -- and with a host of others, from overlooked Luke Donald to Phil Mickelson looking to get fitted for a new sports jacket come Sunday afternoon, there are those who are saying no Masters, and there have been 75 previous editions, has been more anticipated.
We like hyperbole as much as the next scribe, but that is a bit much. Do those panting prognosticators not remember 1997, Woods' first appearance at Augusta National as a professional? All the golfing world wondered how the kid would do.
After going out in 40, he did all right, coming back in 30, a stylish 6-under, on Thursday afternoon, and going on to make history, as if on cue.
What about any year from 1959, the first year after Arnold Palmer's first victory, through about 1984? That's how long it took for him, Gary Player and Jack Nicklaus all to be considered past their primes -- with Jack putting the lie to that with his incandescent back nine two years later. Wednesday, they'll probably play together in the Par 3 contest, and they'll all be on the first tee Thursday, when Player joins Arnie and Jack as an honorary starter.
The Masters always is looked forward to. It is a special tournament in a special place. Augusta National is the most natural looking artificial place in creation -- the Disney World of golf, massaged and perfected and tweaked once and again -- and it all works. You can go on and on about what Augusta's board may do wrong -- expect female members within a decade or so, allowing the distaff portion of the 1 percent to join their brothers -- but there is no better run tournament, from how players are treated to how spectators are welcomed, but from the practical and financial end.
Grandstands are ample, viewing mounds are many -- they were invented here, but at Sawgrass -- and, whereas everyone else in Augusta has their hand in your pocket like a Chicago alderman, at The Masters, a golf shirt is priced like a golf shirt from any club, and you can get change back after handing the cashier $5 for a chicken breast sandwich, chips and a Coke. (And, yes, so close to Atlanta, be assured it's a Coke, even though the spigots on the pop machine after covered over, lest overt sponsorship creep onto the grounds.)
There seems to be no chance of that, any more than CBS' announcers, working with a proverbial gun to their collective heads this week, will start blurting out the size of the purse. Years ago, club boss Hord Hardin was asked about the possibility of a title sponsor for The Masters. Said Hardin, "We're not going to become the Pizza Hut Masters."
Speaking of which, it's the dinner hour. The aroma of the Waffle House is singing its siren song. There must be a Pizza Hut in this town.
-- Tim Cronin