Masterful By Jamie Kirkpatrick

I admit it: I spent most of last weekend watching The Masters. I assume most everyone is familiar with The Masters—the first of the golfing world’s four annual “major” tournaments. It takes place at the Augusta National Golf Club, a storied property in Georgia, and it comes at a time when those of us who live “up north” are desperate for spring. The Masters more than delivers spring in all its color and glory. Each of the eighteen holes on the property are named for a tree or flowering shrub, and the lush green fairways are always a promise of better weather ahead. Add to that splendid vernal picture, the history of the game, our nostalgia for its past champions, and the soothing theme music written by Dave Loggins that seems to waft thought the tall Georgia pines that line the fairways, and you find yourself transported to another, more peaceful world, a place without tariffs or even a hint of malice. It doesn’t last forever, but it is a welcome respite from the din and constant chaos of the moment.

And this year, there was another compelling storyline to The Masters. Rory McIlroy, an Ulsterman and one of golf’s most popular superstars, was on a quest to complete the Career ‘Grand Slam,’ a victory in each of golf’s four major tournaments. The Career Grand Slam is the holy grail of professional golf; only five players had ever achieved the prize: Gene Sarazan, Ben Hogan, Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player, and Tiger Woods. By 2014, Rory had three of the four majors under his belt, but the fourth—The Masters—has eluded him for the past eleven years. He had come tantalizingly close, only to fail at the last. Would he ever finally reach the summit?

I don’t want to bore you with the details leading up to Sunday’s final showdown. Rory had played well, and at the start of the final day, he had a two-shot lead over Bryson DeChambeau. Other notables—Scottie Scheffler, Ludvig Åberg, Patrick Reed, and Justin Rose—were well within striking distance. Would this finally be Rory’s year, or would he stumble again? We would know soon enough.

When Rory doubled bogeyed the first hole on Sunday and his playing partner Bryson made par, there was suddenly a tie atop the leader board. And there was a feeling in my throat, a lump, that fear of failure that haunt us all. Some people may find golf boring or elitist or both, but the final round of this year’s Masters had all the toppings of a consummate Greek tragedy. The gods on Olympus were once again conspiring to thwart Rory’s dream, denying this mere mortal his dream of joining golf’s pantheon. And even worse: they would make Brash Bryson the cupbearer of defeat.

But that didn’t happen. DeChambeau crashed and burned, while Rory was all grit and resilience. He rose, he fell, and rose again. And on the final hole of regulation play, when only a putt of a few feet stood between him and victory, he fell again. He looked painfully drained, maybe even defeated.

And now Rory is in a sudden-death playoff with Justin Rose, a worthy opponent who had seen his own share of ups and downs over the previous three days. At the end of his round, Rose sunk a difficult twenty-foot putt to reach 11 under par. Twenty minutes later, when Rory missed his par putt on 18, there was another tie atop the leader board. A playoff, sudden-death; the gods could not have written a better script.

On the first playoff hole, both men hit commendable drives and then even better approach shots. Rose had about twelve feet for his birdie; Rory was inside him, only five feet away. Rose’s putt just missed; he tapped in for par. Now it was Rory and history, face to face. The nerves, the lifelong dream, all the hard work and disappointments along the way. But then, with a single sure stroke, Rory’s putt dropped in the hole and it was over. Rory won. He dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands. It all came pouring out and now there are six members of the Career Grand Slam Club.

Golf is a silly game. If you ever want a good laugh, watch Robin Williams’ monologue on the genesis of golf in Scotland. It’s profane, it’s ribald, it’s maniacal, but it will make you laugh until you cry. Just like the game itself.

Congratulations, Rory!

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.