The Masters

There's something to be said for boycotting The Masters. This morning I was reminded by NBC's The Today Show that Augusta National, host of perhaps the most prestigious golf tournament in the world, allows only men (of any color, now) to belong to its club. But setting aside my mini-rant, I admit: To walk the rolling greens of Augusta National as the best golfers in the world compete, produces a thrill that defies explanation. Lush grass, stately pinetrees and intensely bright azaleas vibrant enough to set my eyes to aching, team up to tempt me to frolick and roll like an uninhibited young filly. That explains why I'm not at the Masters, and Birdie and Big Guy are. To attend the Masters requires enough self-restraint to avoid breaking out in a chorus of "The Hills Are Alive...," as Tiger Woods tees off. Spectators also need to park their cell phones in the car and leave the azalea blossoms where they belong. To break the rules means losing Masters tickets forever. And forever would be very long time in a family that shares a set of tickets. The four-day Masters Tournament concludes as the winning golfer dons the ugliest, most sought after, green jacket to grace Georgia. At no point in the event do I think it's fair or right that Augusta National excludes women. But the unattractiveness of the jacket makes me feel a tad better. I wouldn't want to wear that shade of green anyway, even if I were invited.