Billy Payne and the Masters Of Their Universe. I Am The Power!

Cornflakes. I’ve had them pretty much every morning of my life, but you know what, I still look forward to a bowl at brekkie time. It’s the ...

Cornflakes. I’ve had them pretty much every morning of my life, but you know what, I still look forward to a bowl at brekkie time. It’s the same with the Masters. We spend 51 weeks of the year criticizing how up their own asses they are at The Masters and the other enthralled by it. If golf were food then the host course Augusta National would be like the fine China, it spends the whole year safely behind presentation glass, but by golly when it comes out for its annual appearance the food upon it looks great.

Pic: Cabrera’s Green Jacket in the Champion’s Locker Room. Is it just me or has somebody mixed up the measurements with Charl Schwartzel??

To me, there’s something quite comforting about the quaintness of the Masters. To the non-golfer, it must just be plain weird. Here you have Augusta National which prides itself as being its own little socialist republic of golf, so to speak.

At first the Augusta National members of the 1940’s wore green jackets and had outstretched arms, to help direct the patrons around the course. Today they still wear green jackets and have outstretched arms, only now those arms are mostly used to clap each other on the back.

The boss is called a Chairman, as in Chairman Mao and the key qualifying criteria for this important role is having a descriptively entertaining name. Ex-chairman Hootie (and the Blowfish) Johnson has now been replaced by Billy Payne (in the ass). For one week of the year, Billy and the lads actually open the course and invite the world’s best to come and play; assuming of course they present the armed yellow hard hats at the gate with the correct credentials. Apparently it’s easier to get in to “Judean People’s Front” than the Masters but that’s what makes it all the more intriguing.

The lucky few who bought tickets in 1975, or badges as Billy calls them, get to be called ‘patrons’ and to watch the event. The chosen ones, i.e. who haven’t sold their badges to touts, get to look forward to a weekend of extreme hillwalking, being presented with “retail opportunities”, being herded around like sheep and generally not being allowed to touch anything.

At the end of the event, Chairman Mao, er Billy sits in an incredibly small room, called the Butler Cabin beside an American football commentator called Jim and after some heavily scripted ad libbing makes the exact same speech year after year. He then congratulates the new champion, fakes surprise and says “and I think I hear him coming now!”. That’s the cue for the champ to be pushed in from behind the camera to undergo the initiation ceremony of getting to wear his very own green jacket that’s three sizes too big and doesn’t match his golf shirt. Why don’t the third round leaders ever wear something that goes well with green, I always ask myself? Where was I? Ah yes, the Butler Cabin. Did you know if was named after the Irish carpenter who spent a half day building it?

For all its careful choreography and staleness, the Masters has moved with the times in the one area you would have expected never to change. The course. Augusta is constantly undergoing tweaks, whenever Aldila bring out a new shaft, Billy shoves the tees back five yards. And the greens there are faster than anywhere. They kind of start off like like Olazabal’s stubble. The staff cut them at some ungodly hour like 4am and then give them another “freaky” at 7am just before play. To the unitiated, a “freaky” is another, tighter, cut, like shaving in the wrong direction, which makes them ultra slick. So if they start like Ollie’s face, and end up like Mannassero’s!

So bring it on I say, I think I’ll watch it with a bowl of Cornflakes. In a china bowl, of course.

 

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