Sunday Red

As I slaved away in front of my computer last week, searching desperately for a waiver wire pickup to replace my newly injured Carlos Delfino, a familiar piano tune caught my ear from the TV. I turn to look and realize it’s a commercial for the Masters and an indescribable wave of relief and joy washes over me.  I stand up to go outside for a smoke, and as I light my Marlboro it hits me - this is the first Masters I will be able to watch in three years. The Marine Corps has taken a lot of things from me during my short time in service, but for some reason this one stings a little more than the rest.

Growing up just north of Atlanta, about a 3 iron shot from Hwy 285, I idolized the Masters even before I began religiously watching sports like I do now.  As I look back I cannot honestly say why that tournament was so appealing to me. I grew up in a good sized country club with a father who taught me, not only how to play golf, but how to respect the sport and in time, what the sport could give back to the player.

My relationship with my father revolved around our one constant common interest – sports.  It was always sports, and through sports we formed a bond that I honestly don’t think we could have shared if I had made the choice not to participate in both team and individual sports.
 
My house sat on a long dog leg left with an elevated fairway that overlooked a small creek and heavily- guarded green.  I particularly remember one night around dusk, after Tiger had just hit his iconic chip-in on 16 in 2005 and eventually beat David Duvall, my father and I walked through my back yard and onto the golf course.  We were literally basking in the magic of the Masters as we hit about 200 chip shots.   We played until we couldn't even see the hole anymore, and then my Dad walked to our garage and brought down a lantern.  We kept playing until about 11:30 that night doing our best to relive the chip and sink those humbling long putts.

That night is a perfect example of what the Masters gives back to its spectators, a subtle beauty and elegance that can’t be rivaled in sports. For me it remains a man’s game, played on a man’s course that continues to inspire me simply because it was founded on character, honor and the determination necessary to compete as diligently against one’s self as against any other opponent.  I think I speak for everyone when I say it’s gonna be so sweet seeing that Sunday Red fist pumping again  – inspiring us all to want to go out and play until it’s too dark to see.

-Patton-