Snowy days in Iowa even though it is mid April. Time for my annual ritual of curling up in front of the television to watch the beauty and majesty of Augusta National. The incredible golf. The fresh bitten nails. The rattling knees of the players. The sappy commentary from Jim Nance. The prodigious prediction of Tiger Woods winning the Masters on his way to the Grand Slam. No one else can win it. It is Tiger's tournament to win or award to some other person who apparently is in need of a great gift from the magnanimous Mr. Woods.
This year's tuna-mint was boring. No charges were ever mounted. In fact anyone who raised his head to challenge the hallowed ground was summarily smacked down about the head and neck and fell from the leaderboard. The continuous apology by the talking heads for Mr. Woods apparent mere mortal abilities went long in the tooth. His huffing and puffing was refreshing to see. Perhaps the golfing gods decided to send him a dose of humility.
In the end, Trevor played the best. Caught the most good breaks. Had the fewest bad breaks. He simply survived.
I am full of sorrow it is over. At the same time I struggled to watch. The back off of almost every shot whenever the wind gusted was ridiculous after hour 4.
Worse for me, Augusta is always the beginning of my golf season. It starts to get warm in Iowa. The new driver screams my name. But alas, I have a broken arm for another 6 weeks. Spring is missing some of it's delights.
