The Masters

Not the movie with Phillip Seymour Hoffman.  No -- the golf tournament.  The one in Augusta.  The one my friend Earl and I snuck into in the mid-70s.  Twice.  One and a half might be a more accurate number -- we were caught the second time while still attempting to penetrate the perimeter.

Crocus-like, The Masters is a harbinger of Spring.  Like the Daytona 500, except everybody's got to be really quiet at certain points.  And it begins today.

Hooray!

Me?  My money's on Rory Mac.  Because I, unlike Jack Nicklaus, don't believe that Tiger Woods is going to win four more majors.  Or five.  Or ten.

And while I'm on the subject, I think it's time to stop talking about Phil Mickelson in the same breath with guys who actually have a chance of winning the tournament.  Mickelson's done, by my reckoning.  He's irrelevant.

Tip to that 14-year old Chinese kid:  Initiate the swing with the left side of your body.  At least, that's what my father always used to tell me.

For the record, I never cared for Augusta National's exclusionary policies.  No blacks.  No women.  In an earlier time I'm sure it was hard to get in if you just had a funny name.  Like O'Malley.  Although I suppose it's good that they've been dragged (kicking and screaming) into the 21st century.

And do you know who's worse than Hootie Johnson and those well-to-do rednecks?  The golfing establishment, which has clear rules about things like racial and sexual discrimination and which chose to do nothing while Augusta rubbed their nose in it.   'It' being poo.

Because it's all about the money, folks.

I leave you with this ...