“If it weren’t for the Masters, Augusta wouldn’t be here.”

Well tell us, oh civic booster, where would it be?

Among certain members of the Augusta National’s security force, Tiger Woods is not referred to as Tiger or Mr. Woods but “the man”. Now there’s a sense of significance.

It didn’t take a prophet to tell me that the wise man would wait before venturing out to the National. Dark skies before the first tee time and an ugly smear of color across weather radar made it obvious that those brave (or fool-hardy, depending on perspective) enough to venture out early would find themselves damp in the not too distant future.

Around noon, the skies opened.

After a couple hours, it felt safe to venture back to the clubhouse. The scene I found there was quite different from the one I had left the day before. The damp chill seemed to have not only chased the well-heeled patrons back indoors, but away completely. Crowds on the course had thinned considerably and the picnic tables and clubhouse were all but empty. The landscapes surrounding many of the still lush fairways and greens had become decidedly muddy and trampled.

Although keeping the famously tip-top clubhouse, course and grounds pristine seemed, on the surface, a losing proposition, the club, probably the moment the deluge stopped, activated a modest army of National employees who hit the club and not only cleared both rain and debris, but remained vigilant. A carpet sweeper scraped continuously across the back entrance of the clubhouse. The steady whisper of a broom provided a steady tempo on the veranda, ensuring that the windblown debris enjoyed on the shortest of stays.

Even the outdoor seating and tables were kept  dry and safe for tired back-sides.

Much is made of the Augusta National’s nearly obsessive attention to detail. In fact, the club is sometimes derided as the institutional equivalent of the guy who must carefully wash and fold trash before throwing it away. But the truth is this — even after torrential downpour and the damage inflicted by scores of tramping feet, the National remains one of the most impressively and beautiful landscapes ever devised by the hand of man.

A Vaughn Taylor fan speaks:  

“This really is a beautiful day. We’re out in the sun, we’re following the VT…”

Clearly, the TW wasn’t getting any love.

I’ve now walked the course. After an idle hour at the range, I decided to escape the gravitational pull of the clubhouse and see what the action was like on the fairways and greens. So, with one of the National’s signature cocktails, the Azalea (grenadine, lemonade and vodka) in hand, I started following
Augusta’s hometown hero Vaughn Taylor. Now, hindsight now tells us that although I get points for supporting the homer, I clearly was on the trail of a competitor who was, to quote the Bard, suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Our boy Vaughn did not have a great day. I discovered however that sometimes following a competitor struggling with his swing can be just as rewarding, in a very different kind of way, as gathering with a gallery on the tail of a player that’s hot. Each shot seems to magnify the crowd’s sense of empathy and sympathy. My theory is that, as golf fans and, more often than not, golfers themselves, they can identify with the player that discovers the wheels have fallen off his little red wagon.

Mr. Vaughn ended the day a disappointing seven over par. But I’m pretty sure in the process of eliminating himself from competition, he earned a few fans. All things being equal, I’m certain he would rather be playing today, but that’s an awfully nice conciliation prize.