It moves in like the spring and like the spring it lifts our hearts.
It’s the Masters at Augusta National where passion, joy, despair and elation will play out amongst the purple, pink, white, brown and green tapestry.
At the start of the year, it’s the first week you circle off in the calendar (unfortunately this year falls on a 60th birthday so please everyone at Augusta National, keep the shenanigans to a minimum on Friday evening), and unlike Hinge, the Masters app is the app made to be deleted, but downloaded straight away on day one of Masters week.
The Rory odyssey. Will he? Won’t he? Can he? Will he ever? It’s the tournament you rush home from work for just to watch Live at the Range on a Tuesday afternoon.
What of Scottie Scheffler? Can he turn his newfound dominance into more major championship wins? Is he the next man to go on a major assault across golf’s big four events? Head and shoulders above the rest, the world number one is the man to beat in every sense. He’s the man to beat.
Who can lead the LIV charge? Will a disgruntled looking Jon Rahm be able to raise his game after an underwhelming start to life with 54 holes? Can Brooks Koepka go one better than last year or will Joaquin Niemann deliver on his potential?
What’s the story with the Europeans? Just 18 make up the 89-player field this week, will anyone make it four winners fro the continent in eight years or will USA’s dominance continue?
What of Rory McIlroy? Is this week finally his time to step into golfing immortality and end ten years of hurt? Or will Shane Lowry step up to the plate and become the first Irishman to walk away from Augusta National dressed in green?
The Masters is the tournament you build your day around. Evening activities should be strictly forbidden and any daily tasks must be completed before the sun sets.
It really is a tradition like no other. It’s the tournament you stay up late for, although admittedly I was sent to bed during McIlroy’s back nine disaster in 2011 but since then I’ve seen it all.
Bubba’s hook around the trees in 2012, Scott’s ‘come on an Aussie’ in the rain, Willett’s smash and grab, Sergio’s Utopia moment to Rahm’s Seve legacy.
My earliest golfing memory is getting up at 7am in the summer to watch The Open on BBC. Rushing in from the Champions League final on the green area to watch Harrington win but almost f**k it up at Carnoustie.
I miss the BBC’s weekend coverage at the Masters but it still the tournament you cannot miss.
It’s been a harsh and horrible winter. Too many nonsensical PGA Tour events, diluted more than a weak MiWadi have done little to capture the imagination from a viewing perspective.
Our hearts have sank that bit further by the abuse our golf courses have suffered. The Masters doesn’t only signal the beginning of the professional golf season, but it’s also the time the sun should begin to shine, the flowers grow, the birds chirp and winter rules abolished.
This time last year I would almost have a fit over a splash of mud on my golf ball, now I’m digging deep in the earth to retrieve my plugged ball. My hands are dirty and my back is sore, but a week in front of the television watching the Masters is just the ticket.
The Masters is what you putt for on your local putting green. Whether it’s the greatest sporting event in the world is arguable.
It has the greatest app in the world.
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