The Masters

A minor surgical procedure early today left me with some residual mental spaciness. So, what better fit for a slightly dulled brain than daytime TV? Channel surfing, I found the live broadcast of the Masters Tournament from Augusta and have been watching it for the past 90 or so minutes.

Golf was a big presence in my growing-up life. My father was an accomplished amateur golfer who won many tournaments and, until his stroke at age 51, played whenever he got the chance. Neither I nor my sister took to the game (a deep disappointment for him, I know), but we learned a lot just by proximity, and names like Sam Snead, Ben Hogan, and Babe Zaharias were as familiar to me as the characters in my favorite books.

I don't follow golf much any more (I prefer baseball, another of my father's favorite sports and one I could participate in with him, as we were both spectators), but watching the Masters was a treat. The course, itself, is beautiful—lush, green, azaleas blooming, so, well, Southern—but it is diabolically wicked. Seeing the way the greens break, the position of the bunkers, the needle-thin fairways on some holes reminded me of nothing so much as some miniature golf courses I've hacked around; the ball never, ever goes where you want it to or where you think it should.

Despite that, a couple dozen or so players are under par following today's second round of play, about three times as many as were in that spot in 2007. The big surprise seems to be Tiger Woods' poor showing; he was even par until the 18th, when, executing a difficult shot out of the trees onto the green, he then sank his putt for a birdie. Brent Snedeker, on the other hand, is the current leader at 7 under par. But anything can happen; winds up to 25 mph are forecast for Sunday's final round.