The Green Jacket

The undulating green was fifty-two feet across.  The ridge made its break left to right, from where his tiny white ball sat.  The shade of the trees cast their dark, ominous shadows across the 440-yard fairway leading up to the green.  It was the next-to-last hole on the Masters.  He was about to putt.

Every eye in the golfing world was watching. CBS cameras were locked on him. Announcers in some far-away, unseen booth were whispering about the path the ball should take. They commented on the pressure that was mounting on the young rookie golfer as the veteran – a two-time winner of the green jacket– stood just off the putting surface and watched – his ball all ready having made it into the cup and retrieved.

They were even after sixteen. This putt would give him a one-stroke advantage going to the final hole.  One stroke. The difference between immortality and runner up.  One stroke. The difference between The Green Jacket and a trip to the cleaners to get ready for the next week.  One stroke. The power it would take to place the ball into the cup just twenty-two feet away.

He squatted, getting a line of sight behind his ball.  Eying the path he wanted the ball to travel to the cup. He took a deep breath and let it out.  He had done this a thousand times before, but never on this stage ­ never on such a huge world-wide stage. He stood and backed away.  He was ready.  He placed the putter into the hand, felt his grip tighten just so: comfortably relaxed, but firm.  He looked down at the ball and then to the hole and then back to the ball.

The crowd was hushed. The marshals held QUIET signs aloft. Press photographers waited. He looked back to the hole once more and then to his ball. He let his arms go back in a pendulum motion and tapped the ball ever so slightly. The round, dimpled ball started on its journey.

Funny this gravity thing. It pulls and tugs at all objects fairly consistently; yet that afternoon with fading light in Augusta, it seemed to grasp an ever tight grip on that ball as it skimmed the green blades of turf. The ball dove down the ridge and up the other side and came up on exactly the line the young rookie and visualized.  The ball headed straight for the hole.

The crowd rose as one.

Then gravity, that cruel mistress, reached up and slowed the progress of the projectile down ever so slightly. It was as if the ball had brakes on it and they had been applied at the last minute.  The ball approached the cup and a collected gasp was heard from the crowd ­(with the exception on one fool who yelled at the top of his lungs for his own satisfaction and recognition “In the Hole.”)

The ball changed course ever so slightly and came up to the hole a tad bit slower –infinitesimally slower – and rimmed the edge of the cup and teetered there, just resting. Waiting. Hanging on for dear life. And then the kinetic energy which had powered it to its place on Earth at that moment, rested – it returned to zero.

There was a moan from some members of the crowd and cheers for others.  Applause erupted for a great effort because that is how golf fans are.  They appreciate effort and skill coming together in front of them. The announcers were already busy setting up the next whole, the eighteenth and final whole.  It was April.  It was Georgia.  There was a Green Jacket on the line.

The rookie had chocked. He had had an opportunity and he had chocked.  The Masters will do that to you. The pressure, the limelight, the attention will bake your brains. It had his. As he reached over to get his ball from the cup after tapping in, he felt a slight dizziness. He could have put this away with a great putt.  Instead, he would have to once again mount a charge at eighteen.

The Masters is like that. It is drama. It is life. It is played out on a green field with bunkers, trees, creeks and Azalea bushes.

The rookie and his caddy walked toward the next tee-box and didn’t exchange a single word.  Ahead, the past champion was cutting up with his caddy and well-wishers along the way. One of them was going to win and one of them was going to lose. He closed his eyes for a brief second and cursed gravity. Then he said to himself. Long. Straight. Easy does it.

The Masters is never easy. Never.