Green Sleeves & Designated Drivers

The Masters is the only sporting event where men view an article of clothing as a prize. For many years, the golf course has been the only place where men have displayed a flair, by which I mean audacity of taste, for fashion, by which I mean high dollar clothes that don’t match. When I think of what plaid has had to suffer for their enjoyment, I want to run down to Wal-Mart and buy up all the material scraps from the clearance table before they strike again.

Over the years, the talk on the course lately has not been, strictly speaking, about haute couture. At least once the hot topic of discussion was “uniform balls” by which, if they mean what I think they mean, I’m completely embarrassed for their wives and mothers. What they say it means, according to a random sampling of an article in the newspaper delivered fresh to my pine tree each morning, is that they all use the same ball. Not the very same one, but little golf ball clones of the original. That way nobody is using, let’s say, a ball so juiced that the words “Fresh Squeezed” should be stamped into the dimples. Golfers tend to go all white around the spikes when uniform balls are mentioned, but they agree that if such a thing were to happen, it could only happen at the Masters.

Apparently, the laws of space and time bend according to the Masters' whim. Where else could you get 365 acres of flowers to bloom at the same time without having some neighbor kid pick them all?

The Masters even has its own vocabulary. Fans at the Master’s are called patrons. Of course, when the price for a ticket surpasses that of a high-end Rolex, fans can be called Grand Putting Poobahs if they like.

Speaking of calling people names, the Masters is the place to look for unusual ones. Names, not people, but of course there could be room for discussion there. There is a past Masters Chairman named Hootie Johnson. There is nothing special to say about Hootie except that there is a grown man named Hootie who does not, that we know of, perform in a rock band. There is also a golfer named Jesper Parnevik, who is to fashion what Simon Cowell is to the warm fuzzies.

Which brings us to the last matter. Women aren’t allowed to play. It’s probably a good thing for the guys, though, since there’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t walk off with the top prize. It’s a blazer and purse to match—and they’re both green.