Golf, Home, and Politics

I am not a golfer but I appreciate the complexity of the game. I worked for three years at one of Augusta, Georgia’s premiere courses and learned quickly that 1.) Hitting a golf ball is infinitely more difficult than it seems; 2.) Many golfers (primarily those born of privilege) are absolute pricks; 3.) Many golfers (including those born of privilege) are exceptional people; 4.) taking a sharp turn in a golf cart at a high rate of speed will result in the golf cart flipping over and hurting you and; 5.) driving a tractor into the wall of a cart barn will cause that wall to fall down. O’ the lessons of youth.

The Masters Tournament (or the “Toonament” as it is known locally), provides me with a welcome reminder of home each April. It is Augusta’s primary claim to fame (James Brown not withstanding) and elevates the city to the top of the sporting world once a year. If memory serves, the city is never quite as prepared to handle the infusion of fans (or “patrons” we like to say) as you would hope; but aside from the occasional pedestrian failing to make it safely across Washington Road, things go along well enough.

I’ve known members of the National and I’ll leave it to say simply that we are not of the same ilk—typically. And that is fine. Theirs is not a station to which I aspire and vice versa. I certainly would not turn down the financial rewards that come with being them—I think wealth is an outstanding thing, I do. But the cherished pedigree makes me smirk and people who thrive on being taken seriously make me smirk more. We tend not to be the best cocktail.

And now that I’ve flirted with the hypocritically and unappealing elitist attitude that often shapes so many of the have-nots or the downtrodden, I clamor to move on, for I am not of that ilk either. I’m forever a middle-of-the-road guy, genuinely pleased for those who’ve succeeded, occasionally envious of those with the finer things, content in the knowledge of what I need to do to better my own lot, and friend to those with less than nothing. Like Augusta, I’m rarely prepared, but tend to get along well-enough.

My refusal to engage in the politics of the Masters in general and of the National in particular is understood by most who know me. Martha Burke, Jesse Jackson, and Hootie Johnson bore me to tears and so to avoid the inevitable traps that come with discussing them or their cause of the day, I do not consider them at all. And yet I am still able to sleep at night. See, I like sports. The crack of a bat. A perfectly thrown spiral. A three-pointer with no time left. An aggressive running 35 yard putt. Those are the things that get my blood moving, that make me stand and yell while alone in my living room, that make the hair stand up on my arms. I can get weepy watching SportsCenter. I can be overcome with emotion when I walk into Fenway Park. I am not, however, moved by the politics of anything. Owners versus players? Fix it and let’s move on. Salary squabbles, off-season misbehavior? Fix it and let’s move on. “I wanna be a member and they won’t let me…”? Leave me out of it, and let’s move on.

See, as I say, I really like sports. I like the rush, the ceremony, and the tradition of a thing done well. The Masters Golf Tournament coincides with the beginning of my beloved baseball each year. Both of these things bring a little bit of home to wherever I am. A refuge in which to hang the proverbial hat. And that’s a nice thing.

I like things that are put naturally into perspective. Like a 30-foot chip shot on sixteen that whispers to the cup, sits on the lip like a lover for two full seconds, and drops forever into Masters lore. That is the reason I love sports. That is the reason why a non-golfer like me can love golf, miss home, and dismiss politics. It’s a simple thing, really.