From Arnie to Jack to Tiger, a Reporter Looks Back on a Lifetime of Covering the Masters
AUGUSTA, Ga. — This week marks my 40th Masters Tournament.
You’ve got to do two things to make 40 Masters.
One, get old. Even if you land a media gig covering golf (a job that no longer exists) when you finish college, you’ll be in Medicare territory before you pull into Augusta National for the 40th time. I needed 43 years to hit 40 Masters because I didn’t have perfect attendance (like I did I in high school).
Two, get lucky. I jumped from multiple ships that ultimately sank or almost have—a newspaper, The Milwaukee Journal (since merged) and a weekly magazine, Golf World (now defunct). Now I’m writing on the Internet, where all media, whether veritable yachts, kayaks or garbage bags, float tenuously in the same gigantic, cluttered, polluted ocean.
You have questions, obviously. What do I remember about 40 Masters? And, am I gonna finish that pickle?
In response to the second question: Yes. As for the first one, dagnabbit, I should’ve taken notes. Hey, wait a minute, I think I did …
Forever and ever, Amen
I don’t remember exact details of my first Masters but every year I arrive, I recall the image of Ed Sneed from a Milwaukee Journal story in 1984 (or thereabouts) of players remembering their first visits to Augusta National. Sneed had just played in Hilton Head, was on his way to play in Greensboro but detoured to Augusta:
Sneed: “It was late Monday afternoon. I stopped to ask if I could look at the course. I was going to play it the next day. It was almost dark. I remember running down the 10th fairway, I ran almost all the way to the 11th green because I wanted to see 11, 12 and 13 before it got dark. Like a lot of people, I’ve gotten caught up in the history of the tournament. That’s part of what makes it fun.”
There’s a spark of excitement and something special in Sneed’s story. Each year when I first wander onto the course, I think of it. I get the same urge but during Masters week, of course, there’s No Running, please, on the grounds.
Not the right time to get Snoopy
Also from that same piece:
The press building is an old hangar-shaped building. The first time I saw it, I wondered what I’d find inside: My writing desk or a Sopwith Camel.
I sat in Row J, Seat 3. The tables were wood, painted Masters green. A Royal typewriter was left at each seat for the convenience of writers but if you had a new-fangled computer of some kind, as I did, pressroom aides gladly removed it to give you space to work. I miss typewriters, said no one, ever.
A leaderboard hung on the far end wall of this Quonset hut. In a side room was an elongated lounge with a few small tables and chairs and a long bench, covered in cushions, beneath a few windows. Soft drinks, water and coffee were available there. Smoking was allowed, naturally. This also served as the interview room for the week. When a big name came in, especially early in the week, like Nicklaus or Arnold Palmer or Tom Watson, writers squeezed onto the cushions against the wall or grabbed the coveted seats with tables so they could take notes. I usually ended up sitting on the carpeted floor, cross-legged. That was when I could do that and still get up afterwards. Those were the days …
You don’t know Jack
It was either the late ‘80s or early ‘90s, but I walked the right side of the par-5 8th hole and happened onto the group with Jack Nicklaus. He was in the fairway, in the go-zone, and he pulled out 3-wood, made his classic hip turn and swing and … cold-topped it 100 yards. He briskly turned and walked after it, head down as if he’d just been subpoenaed. It was a reminder that great players, even the greatest, are human. I took no joy from the moment but I felt as if I’d just seen something more rare than a hole-in-one.
You still don’t know Jack
It was 1998 (I think) and Nicklaus was shockingly in the thick of contention through 54 holes at age 58. Looking for extra background, I went to the range Sunday morning to watch him warm up. He got a big ovation from the fans in the grandstands there and gave them his little wave. When he finally got down to business with a wedge, he flared one out there at a flagstick maybe 100 yards away and the ball vanished, apparently having gone in the hole. (Of course Augusta National would cut cups into target greens on its range.) The crowd reacted with a cheer. Nicklaus ignored them and took another swing. This time his ball clanged off the bottom of the flagstick. More cheers. Another swing, this ball landed inches from the hole. The atmosphere was electric, if that’s possible on a range. Within another shot or two, Jack hit a ball that creased the flag. The cheers and the buzz in the crowd was incredible. It was no surprise, then, that he went out and shot a front-nine 33 en route to 68 and tied for sixth, four strokes behind winner Mark O’Meara.
Better make that 9-1-1
You may not remember Nolan Henke, a Tour player from the 1990s. He won three tournaments and had four top 10s in majors, including a sixth in the ’92 Masters. He made it to only four Masters in his career. Asked before the tournament if he could picture himself on Sunday with a chance to win the Masters, he said, “No, I picture myself on Friday needing to finish 1-1-1 to make the cut.”
This Bud’s for them
John Daly after he and Ian Woosnam played together all four rounds of the 1994 Masters: “Woosie and I were talking marriage. It’s the longest relationship I’ve ever had.”
The real Magic Kingdom
In 2013, the big story we couldn’t get was Berckmans Place—insiders call it BP, I heard—a luxury facility for high-rolling corporate types that went up in what was woods behind the 5th hole. The building was 90,000 square feet. A badge for BP was $6,000, were available only through corporate members. I found a tournament volunteer at the Heritage Classic the next week who’d been inside. He told me how he was greeted by Hall of Famer Lynn Swann (I told him how much I hated the Pittsburgh Steelers) and former Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice; how the men’s room had nine attendants, floor-to-ceiling urinals and as soon as you stepped away, a guy with a towel on a pole came over to wipe it down; and how he normally loved to walk the course but after getting there at 8:30, he stayed until after lunch because it was so amazing.
“There were three or maybe four thousand people there Friday and half of them never left,” he said. “I’ve talked to some guys and I believe the club must’ve spent $100 million to build this. They didn’t spend just $50 million, I guarantee you. It was way more. Everything is immaculate. It’s like they even cut the grass with scissors.”
Bernhard Langer, clothes horse
(from Golf World, April 26, 1993)
AUGUSTA, Ga.—This time, Bernhard Langer came dressed to kill.
Light yellow shirt. Dark green slacks Casual yet classy. Something he could wear to a formal ceremony. Something that would look good with almost anything. Like, say, a green jacket.
“Since I looked like a Christmas tree the last time,” Langer said with the smile of a winner, “I thought I’d try to do better.”
When he pulled off that come-from-behind Masters victory in 1985, he was dressed worse than a Division II football coach—garish red slacks, a nearly matching red shirt and a straight-from-your-local-bowling-league white belt.
Eight years later … Langer brought a four-shot lead into the find round, not to mention a double-extra-large does of confidence. He expected to win. He was supposed to win. And quite frankly, he deserved to win.
How do they do that?
“I remember the first time I went to the range at Augusta National and took a divot. I looked down and the dirt was green. I couldn’t believe it.”—Kenny Knox.
Must’ve been a golden bear-triever
During Masters week in 1992, Jack Nicklaus told this joke on himself:
“A guy went into a bar. He had his dog with him. All of a sudden, the golf tournament came on TV. I was playing golf and I made a birdie and the dog did a flip on the bar. I went to the next hole, hit a big drive and the dog ran up and down the bar. I holed another birdie putt and the dog did another flip.
“The bartender said, ‘This dog must really be a big Nicklaus fan.’ The dog’s owner said, ‘Yeah, he really is.’
“The bartender asked, ‘What does he do when Nicklaus wins a tournament?’
“The guy answered, ‘I don’t know, I’ve only had him six years.’”
The Pen & Knife Award
The Golf Writers Association of America hosts an annual banquet Wednesday night that features writing awards for the media and assorted awards for players, most of whom show up at the dinner. A few memorable lines:
Nick Faldo, the 1991 Player of the Year Award winner, thanked the American media for his award: “It’s a lot easier to win the British media one. You’ve just got to lean up against the bar a couple of evenings and you’re in.”
Tom Watson, accepted the William Richardson Award for contributions to golf and said to Lee Trevino, there to collect his senior tour Player of the Year honor, “Lee, this is probably the only award you’ll ever win in Augusta, baby.” Trevino totally cracked up.
Going back for seconds
I wrote a number of columns with/for Johnny Miller, an all-time great interview. It was easy. One or two questions and Johnny filled a notebook with insightful thoughts and detailed memories. All I had to do was slap a lead sentence in there and arrange his comments. This is from a Masters preview in Golf World, April 1, 1994, first person in Johnny’s voice:
No, I never won a green jacket. But after finishing second three times at the Masters, I feel like I’ve earned a green vest. I don’t regret not winning. None of those second-place finishes haunted me. Not then, not now.
I still remember the award ceremony in 1971. It was my first Masters as a professional. I could have won—maybe I should have won—but I tied Jack Nicklaus for second. We were on the victory stand and when they said something about the silver medal for the runners-up, Nicklaus leaned over to me and said, “Big deal, huh?” I was only 23. It was a big deal for me. But Jack played only to win and it really showed.
Mama, don’t let your babies grow up to be rookies
Billy Andrade was an amateur from Wake Forest in his first Masters in 1987, and got a first-round pairing with Arnold Palmer. He also made a rookie mistake while staying in the clubhouse Crow’s Nest that week, from my story in The Milwaukee Journal:
“When you go downstairs, you go to your right to get out,” Andrade says. “Well, it was my first time, I didn’t know that. I went downstairs and turned left, apparently into the champions locker room. Some old man started giving me s--- that I wasn’t supposed to be there. He really got on me. I got a little perturbed so I finally said, ‘Fine, I’m not supposed to be here. It’ll never happen again!’
“I asked the guard by the main door, Who was that guy, anyway?’ The guard says, ‘You don’t know? That’s Gene Sarazen.’ I said, Ohhhh.”
The Thursday legends
The Masters tradition of honorary starters used to be better than the ceremonial tee shot they do now. In the ‘80s, Sam Snead and Gene Sarazen used to play all 18 holes. By 1990, they were down to nine because Sarazen had a bad shoulder. They rode in carts then and at the 8th hole, I saw Sarazen roll in a 60-foot putt for his only par. He was 88 and joked that was probably his score, too. The man who invented the sand wedge needed three swings to get out of a greenside bunker at the 7th.
“I’m just thankful to be alive,” said Sarazen. “I feel as though I’m part of this place. As long as I’m alive, I’ll come up here.”
In 1992, Sarazen was in a good mood after the ceremony and talked about his famed 1935 double eagle.
“How many people do you think saw it?” Sarazen asked with a grin. “Twenty-three. Jones was sitting at the green and Hagen was there yelling, ‘Get going, will you. I’ve got a date tonight!’ I took the 4-wood and when it went in, Jones just shook his head.”
Sarazen said he gave away the 4-wood in 1937 and it was a mystery what happened to it but he’d recently gotten a call from a man who claimed to have it. “Send it and I’ll verify it,” Sarazen said he told the man. “He never sent it. Then someone from Wilson said the same guy called them and wanted $200,000 for it.”
The Best Tuesday ever
Paul Goydos got into his first Masters in 1996, by virtue of having won at Bay Hill. He was a thoughtful, amusing guy. I convinced him to let me write his diary for Sports Illustrated that week. Here’s an excerpt about a practice round in which he and Arnold Palmer lost a money match with two other players:
We lost the match but Arnie invited us up to the Champions Locker Room for a beer. Can you believe anyone having a day like this?
Upstairs, Arnie introduced me to Sam Snead. He said, “Sam, this is Paul Goydos. He won my tournament at Bay Hill.” Snead looked at me dubiously and said, “You did?”
We watched Arnie try on his green jacket, the one he was going to wear to the champions dinner. He wanted to make sure it still fit. He mentioned that he has four other ones in storage that don’t fit. I said I’d be glad to take one off his hands. He just laughed.
The symbolism of watching him put on a green jacket was pretty overwhelming. I thought how fortunate I was. How many people get to visit the Champions Room at Augusta National, have a beer with Palmer and Snead and watch Arnold Palmer pull on his green jacket?
Today was like a day at DisneyWorld. It was one of the greatest days of golf in my whole life.
One round he could have Skipped
The Masters folks let a few select media, drawn by lottery, play the course on Monday after the tournament. I’ve written at least two stories about us hapless ink-stained wretches who got the call. I’m not sure I used this story from Skip Bayless in 2005. He was nationally known as a columnist and just starting his TV career by appearing on ESPN’s Cold Pizza morning show. He reluctantly told me this story:
“It was easily the most humiliating day of my athletic life. I played high school baseball, I was a decent athlete in college. In 1978, I was a 9 handicap golfer. I came apart like I’ve never come apart on a golf course. It started on the first tee. I was hitting everything right. I tried to fix it and started shanking shots. I couldn’t get rid of it. By the 10th hole, my caddie would not even talk to me. He wouldn’t club me, he wouldn’t coach me because I was so bad. I was writing about it for the Dallas Morning News so I counted every shot and every putt. I shot 99, that’s the god’s-honest truth. It’s a miserable memory for me because I had such awe for that golf course. It was a good walk spoiled.”
Another one bites the dust perfect green turf
If I’m going to let Skip Bayless be humiliated by Augusta National, I have to plead guilty to the same charge.
I wrote a story about playing the course on Monday after the tournament in 1981 for The Milwaukee Journal. The highlights: I watched a gent playing in the group ahead dribble his shot off the first tee and I swear it went between his legs. Three kids picking up litter near the putting green laughed. The man scurried over to pick up his ball, hustled back and re-teed, hitting a grounder up the middle … I had a white-haired black gentleman as my caddie, named Jimmy (he didn’t offer a last name) who said he’d worked several Masters for Gene Littler. He was a great caddie and a delightfully pleasant man. In the first fairway—yes, I somehow hit it, thanks to a semi-popup!—he handed me a 4-wood for my second shot before I could ask the yardage. What, I’m going to argue with Gene Littler’s caddie? I hit it pin-high, off the green, chipped like a clown and made bogey … At 10, I holed a 15-foot putt and the guys loudly dismantling the CBS booth behind the green clapped. I didn’t tell them it was for bogey … I chipped horribly all day—it was still winter in Milwaukee, so it was my first round of the year—and shot 92. Like Bayless said, a “miserable memory.”… I made Jimmy’s day by tipping him $50, a serious tip in 1981. He smiled and said he hoped I’d come back the next day. Hah. As if …
Here's the start of my story from The Milwaukee Journal:
The wind was barely exhaling on a sunny, microwave hot Monday. I wasn’t doing much better.
Think it’s easy to breathe when you’re standing on the first tee at Augusta National Golf Club with a small crowd and the ghost of Bobby Jones watching? ... Standing on that tee just might be the world’s greatest natural laxative.
Misery, The Sequel
I played the course a second time in 2001 on a media Monday. My caddie wasn’t from Augusta National, he was brought in from New Jersey or somewhere for the day, which I didn’t find out until the 7th tee. By then, he’d cost me five shots with misread putts and a wrong yardage on a pitching wedge shot at the 3rd hole that turned an easy par into a triple. It was a beautiful day, though, so I decided to reset my score to even par on the 7th tee and enjoy the day. I shot 80 the hard way—45 on the front, 35 on the back with a bogey-bogey finish. I was a low-handicap player then, so 80 wasn’t a big thrill. I did have an eagle putt at 15 but it was downhill and so fast, I lagged it. What a chicken.
He was still CinderPhilla then
Something I wrote from 2004 for SI.com:
Well, Phil Mickelson, you’re tied for the lead in the Masters Tournament going into Sunday, you’re trying to finally get that monkey off your back and win your first major championship. How does it feel to have the formerly omnipresent Tiger Woods nowhere in sight?
Mickelson, answering this question at a Saturday evening press conference at Augusta National Golf Club, could not stifle a grin. He paused briefly for dramatic effect. “Well,” he said, “it doesn’t suck.”
The room broke up with laughter. If ever a Masters looked like it belonged to Phil Mickelson (and to be honest, it never has, even though he has finished third four times), it’s this one.
The greatest media scrum shot that never was
The late Joe Gordon of the Boston Herald was apparently a decent player, which I never suspected. Playing Augusta National on Media Monday in 1994, he went for the 15th green in two, got it over the water and chipped in for eagle from the fringe. “I’m prancing all over, really putting on the act,” Gordon told me. “I said, ‘nobody but Gene Sarazen has ever beaten me on this hole.’ It was quite a display.”
He teed off at 16, the par 3, airmailed the green and was irked that he was about to mess up his scorecard. Just then, shouts arose from the 15th fairway. He listened, astonished. Some media hack had holed out for a double eagle 2.
Gordon was going to quit his round and go interview the guy but then, still upset about his shot, changed his mind. “I thought, am I a golfer or a journalist?” Gordon told me. “Today, I decided, I’m a golfer. This guy just topped my 3 with a 2, so screw him. I left and never got his name.”
There is no record of that 2. Who wouldn’t report a 2 at 15 to someone at the club? I heard a whisper that the golfer who made it might have been someone who wasn’t supposed to be playing. I don’t recall the whisperer but I wish I’d interrogated the crap out of him. Years and dozens of phone calls and emails later, I’ve never gotten so much as a hint of who might have made the deuce. It’s almost 30 years ago now. I hereby bequeath this story to any writer who can track it down.
A dogged victim of inexorable fate
I was lucky enough to befriend Dan Jenkins over the years at major championships. He was more than a legend, he invented/perfected modern sportswriting with his irreverence, humor and behind-the-scenes reporting. We bonded over college football. It was one of his obsessions and mine, too, especially the game in the 1960s. He wrote a great book, “Saturday’s America,” an expanded collection of his magazine pieces. I persuaded him to get into a stupid NFL pool that I run and he annoyingly dominated it for large parts of the next 15 years. This is from Golf.com in 2007:
AUGUSTA, Ga.—When legendary sportswriter Dan Jenkins was among a group of senior golf writers honored earlier in the week for having covered 40 or more Masters Tournaments, he joked about remembering the Masters won by Hogan, Snead, Nicklaus, Palmer and the greats but many of the rest, he said, were just blanks.
“You’ll be like that someday, too,” he warned the younger writers in the room. “All you’ll remember are the 15 or 16 Masters that Tiger Woods won.”
He drew a big laugh. Maybe, however, it’s not so funny. Tiger Woods is poised to win Green Jacket Number 5.
I was wrong about the poising. Trevor Immelman outlasted Tiger. Jenkins was right about the memories, though. How did Immelman win, exactly? I’d have to look that up. I’m kind of drawing a blank.
Hmm, it really is easier to remember Tiger’s wins
From cnnsi.com, 2001:
The 16th hole at the Augusta National Golf Club, a scenic yet treacherous par 3 you’d give your left one to play every day the rest of your life, didn’t decide the 65th Masters champion. It defined him. More to the point, it defined who wouldn’t slip into something more comfortable, like a green jacket and a slice of history. That would be Team Heartbreak, Phil Mickelson and David Duval.
With apologies to Colin Montgomerie and his eight consecutive European tour money titles, Mickelson and Duval look like the best major-less players in golf, perhaps in the game’s history. You’d wager your entire fortune (or what’s left of it after the NASDAQ meltdown) that these two will win multiple major titles ... if only they weren’t teeing it up in the man-eating midst of the Tiger Woods Era. Actually, you’d still bet everything, it’s just that you’d be starting to get nervous.
Mickelson, who has 18 tour victories, is oh-for-31 as a pro in majors while Duval, who has 12 wins, is oh-for-25.
Tigermania 5.0
Seriously, I’m going to write a 40-year Masters memoir without getting heavier into Tiger Woods?
This was from 2019 at MorningRead.com:
Thursday:
AUGUSTA, Ga.—Tiger Woods looked good, really good, in the opening round of the Masters Tournament.
That could be reason to celebrate for Tiger’s friends and fans. It could also be reason for concern.
What if … Woods played the way he used to when he dominated golf, what if he played good, really good, again in the majors and it wasn’t good enough?
Stupid question? Not yet. Woods had an excellent day, shooting 2-under-par 70. Sure, he missed a couple of putts inside six feet that would’ve edged him nicely into the 60s. He seemed to be a lock to be the day’s top story. As the sun began to set behind the pines, though, five scores of 68 or better were posted and it felt a lot more like the sun setting on Tiger Woods.
Saturday:
AUGUSTA, Ga.—What happens if Tiger Woods wins the Masters on Sunday?
Have you thought about it? And once you do, are you able to quit thinking about it?
This will not be your father’s nappy Sunday afternoon at the Masters.
And for the record, Internet trolls, I said “if” Woods wins Sunday, not “when.” Please note this before your next baby-has-a-full-diaper rant. But I’ll be honest, I was thinking “when” not “if.”
Sunday:
AUGUSTA, Ga.—The old Tiger Woods made a habit of rewriting record books. Sunday, the older Tiger Woods rewrote our memories at the Masters Tournament.
Golf’s greatest comeback story isn’t Ben Hogan anymore. Now it’s Tiger after he stunningly won his fifth Masters. Woods himself believed he was done and said as much two years ago at the Masters champions dinner. Yet there he was last evening, wearing the familiar champion’s green jacket over his equally familiar throwback red mock turtleneck. Do those colors go together? On Tiger, Yes.
The greatest Masters Tournament of our lifetimes isn’t Jack Nicklaus in 1986, not for this generation. Now it’s Tiger Woods in 2019. This is their Nicklaus moment. Sorry, Jack, but the kids today don’t know Jack … Sunday was the kind of day you will tell you kids about, the kind of day you will remember exactly where you were when it happened.
“I remember where I was,” Woods joked. See? What did I just tell you?
The essence of Arnie
From The Milwaukee Journal, 1984:
It was cloudy all day here Thursday. Or was that just Arnold Palmer’s shadow?
Arnold Palmer? He’s supposed to be out autographing oil cans or playing with old tractors or something. He’s not supposed to shoot 68 in the Masters’ first round and steal the thunder from an actual thunderstorm and a pack of other players who made mighty Augusta National Golf Club look about as tough as Mr. Mike’s Mini Golf just down the street.
Somebody asked Palmer, 53, if he still believed he could win. He hesitated, pursed his lips and said, “Damn right.”
The steely look in Palmer’s eyes when he delivered that line? That’s what I’ll remember from 40 Masters. That, and everything.