Just last week, it seemed as though spring had in fact sprung. Now, not so much. But anyway, its time for that hallmark of spring, that tradition unlike any other, that rich white southern male's Valhalla, the Masters Tournament from Augusta National.
I'm psyched. A quick disclaimer, because I'm sure that most of you couldn't care less about the Masters: I am obsessed with golf.
I practice my shoulder turn in the shower with a towel and my wrist cocks in class with a pencil.
Sometimes when I'm talking to people, I tune them out and start imagining that I'm hitting 300 yard drives.
I know when spring is around the corner because I wake up tangled in my sheets and sweaty and it wasn't a wet dream; it was a chipping dream.
Of course, this doesn't mean that I'm actually good at golf. My game is far more "Happy Gilmore" and far less PGA Tour highlight reel. But if you don't want to hear me drone on about yardages, duck hooks, trampoline effects and stimpmeters, I would quit reading now.
The Masters has recently been dogged by controversy. Membership to Augusta National Golf Club is by invite only, and there are no female members. This controversy all came to a head in 2003 and 2004, when women's advocate Martha Burk began a very public protest against the club and so many sponsors refused to back the Masters that it was shown commercial free on television.
Of course, when Ms. Burk realized that these Good Ol' Boys were changing (Augusta member Boone Knox's classic quote, in response to Ms. Burk's protests: "We have nothing against women. I love them all. I've got some myself.") and that no one in the nation cared, Martha moved on and people got back to worrying about real golf controversies: Are there enough trees on the golf course? Is it long enough?
The big controversy at this year's Masters is the continued "Tiger-proofing" of the course. This, of course refers to Tiger Woods, the golf-playing, Swede-marrying android who has dominated since his first Masters victory in 1997 by winning four of the last nine tournaments.
Tiger is not only an amazing golfer, but a boundary-breaking one. He is the first minority to win a Masters Tournament, thus providing the missing evolutionary link between Hootie Johnson and Hootie and the Blowfish.
To be so amazing, however, some things must fall by the wayside. In Tiger's case, it's interpersonal skills. The man sounds like a Phi Tau at Milque and Cookies.
Lest you doubt me, an excerpt from a recent "60 Minutes" interview between Ed Bradley and Woods at the Tiger Woods Learning Center:
Small Child: Whassup, Tiger?
Woods: Ha ha. What is up?
Bradley: Whassup sure has entered the vernacular, huh Tiger?
Woods: Yeah, it's like "What's up, dude?" Ha ha.
Bradley: Ha ha.
[Woods and Bradley complete awkward multi-part handshake]
But back to the course. Since Tiger's 1997 rout of the field, the Augusta National course officials have lengthened the course by 522 yards and a number of trees have been added, significantly narrowing the fairways. So much for "a tradition unlike any other." These additions, meant to nullify Tiger's competitive advantage, have ironically pretty much removed most golfers from competition.
If they really want to take Tiger out of the competition, all they need is someone to remind him that he's married to a smoking hot Swedish supermodel and that maybe it's time to lighten up and experience the joys of family life. Or maybe start secretly removing clubs from his bag every morning.
Honestly though, nobody watches to see Jose Maria Olathabal hit 230-yard lollipops and win the tournament through good putting and smart lay-up shots. Even I, with my borderline dangerous golf obsession, would rather see Tiger or Vijay hit a 330-yard bomb, which borders on a sexual experience for me.
I'll leave you with this columnist's bold predictions: Phil Mickleson, two years removed from a Masters victory and wearing all-black golf clothes, will sweat through a record number of man-ssieres.
Spectators standing too close to Tiger Woods will hear the whirring and clicking of his mechanical innards and see the red glow from his LED eyes.
And in a shocking finish, a Cinderella story, an unknown former greens-keeper named Carl Spackler will walk away with the trophy when he holes out off the tee of the 465-yard 18th with a two iron. "It's in the hole!" becomes a national catchphrase.
