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As you might’ve heard by now, “normal” has fallen out of the lexicon at this autumnal Masters.
Yes, this is the first-ever Masters held in November, and yes, this Masters will be played without patrons. It will also be played under the orange and red hues of subtle fall foliage, with split tee times, a more restrictive cutline and an earlier Sunday start to accommodate the forthcoming slate of Sunday NFL games. All of that is to say nothing of the mask-wearing, socially distant variety of golf we’ve grown accustomed to over the last several months.
Yes, this Masters is different, and no, it’s not normal — as you’ll see in the exclusive photos above, from our photographer, Stephen Denton.
Yet it sure seems like Augusta National has just an ounce more intrigue than years past.
Maybe it’s pent-up excitement from a 19-plus month wait to see golf return to Augusta, or maybe the Masters is how it always is, but it’s just been longer since we’ve felt it. Maybe it’s the spectacle of a gaping, empty Augusta National; or an alternate glimpse into the club that so determinedly shows us the second week in April of each year, and not a second more.
A tradition unlike any other in the absence of any other tradition.
In an exceedingly odd year, could it be that the absence of some normalcy is a good thing?
Or is it that this November Masters — in all its oddity — gives us comfort because it still is the Masters?
The fairways are still manicured, the rough is in tufts, the greens are slick and undulating (albeit a slightly alternate shade). The caddies dress in white garments and the members in green. Rae’s Creek meanders lazily, and threatens ominously. Amen Corner elicits prayers. The golfers are harried by the weight of superstition, reputation and expectation. Alister MacKenzie’s masterpiece is once again the belle of the ball — simple, stunning and spotless.
We’ve waited a very long time to feel comforted by the familiar, to be unburdened by our amusement, to doze in a ritualistic lullaby.
And here we are, on the precipice of accomplishing such a thing. A thing that is both the same and different. That is highly, highly unusual yet unmistakeably familiar. A tradition unlike any other in the absence of any other tradition.
Isn’t that the beauty of it? It’s the Masters, and it isn’t normal.
It never has been.
