You know when you don’t feel your best and you can barely make it out of your dressing gown during the day?  Showering and getting dressed is a huge achievement and being grumpy is your default mechanism.  Well, that’s how I was during Masters week and the fact I couldn’t keep my eyes open after 10 o’clock at night and had to record and watch the end of the day’s play the next morning didn’t help my mood either.

Before the tournament got underway I was bewilderingly wondering had my living room turned in to some kind of religious meeting place.  The reverential tone of the ads with references to iron-clad resolve, nobility, passion, perfection and traditions running deep had me feeling I should be kneeling at the altar of Augusta National – had I been physically able to do so.  The relentless sycophancy of the broadcast teams, too, is a little wearing to say the least – especially when there is absolutely nothing else going on in your life.

Patricia, my golf-watching partner-in-crime had caught Covid and was self-isolating at home and my better half came down with Covid on the Tuesday.  We spent the rest of the week circling each other at a distance, neither of us really well enough to prepare the comforting, nutritious food we both needed.

I only tell you the above so that you understand the background against which the following observations emerged.

Why do the Americans have cameramen who decide to stay on a player after a chip or putt instead of following the ball to its destination?  Not good and very, very annoying.

We must all be expected to have instant photographic memories if the amount of screen time given to a player’s scorecard is anything to go by.  I doubt it’s even longer than three seconds before, whoosh, the card disappears and you’re reaching for the remote to rewind and then pause the card when it comes up on the screen.  One unexpected bonus is the little bit of time this affords you to scoot on through the next lot of ads.

On Saturday everyone was complaining that the temperature was only in the 50s – shock, horror!  If you don’t play golf in this neck of the woods in those temperatures, you don’t play much golf at all.  Constant references to the wind chill factor, the difficulty of the course and the players wearing beanies and carrying hand warmers abounded.   Danny Willett, meanwhile, strolled around in shirt sleeves.  It was one of the few times I laughed during the week.

I would love to see a green jacket on a player with a hairstyle like Cam Smith’s.  Come to think of it, I’d love to see a green jacket on Cam Smith.

I still feel disgusted at seeing players spitting.  The usual suspect, DJ, was at it again but so, too, was Scottie Scheffler.

Why, oh why, was Sky’s “studio” a rectangle of decking with a lone screen and all open to the elements?  Not even a seat for Butch Harmon, that 78-year old doyen of commentators.  Remember how cold it was on Saturday?  And I do remember how quickly the temperature drops after sunset which was when all the analysis was being done at the end of each round.  Hope the team had Sky Sports-issue thermals.

I did manage (just about) to pull myself back from being relentlessly grumpy and critical and enjoyed certain aspects of the coverage.  Top of the list was the innovative drone coverage showing Augusta National and its topography as never before.  It gave those of us at home a glimpse of just how exacting the course is as a test of golf and just how demanding it must have been for Tiger simply to walk round it.  By the weekend I found it almost too painful to watch Tiger put himself through the physical agony of getting from the 1st tee and safely back to the clubhouse.

One question kept coming to mind:  “Why would anyone at this stage of their career put themselves through this?”  I have no sensible answer.

This has never professed to be an unbiased blog and in keeping with that proud tradition it would be remiss of me not to rejoice in the best-ever Irish showing at the Masters.  Third for Shane-O was a stout effort and the fact that he was so terribly disappointed with that speaks volumes.

And, finally, Rory, with a 64, equalling the lowest final round ever at the Masters and finishing runner-up.  If nothing else, he’s proved to himself he can do it round Augusta.  Get thee behind me all who say he can only do it when he can’t win – I’ll have none of that!

Ah, maybe it wasn’t such a bad week after all.

 

Tiger Woods beamed his way round nine holes at Augusta National on Monday, radiating the joy of a man who knows that he’s lucky to be alive, for whom every second is now a bonus.  He’s been astounding the golfing world since he first picked up a club and he shows no signs of stopping now, with a Masters masterclass on his return to major competitive action after the car crash that nearly killed him just over a year ago.

“I know how to play golf and I know how to play this golf course,” he said after a first round of 71, one under par, on a tricky day when he plotted his way round the course with the nous and assurance of a man who has won five green jackets already.

Good and all as Tiger’s game was at his peak, it was his mind and his indomitable will to win, a ruthless single-mindedness, that kept his rivals floundering in his wake.  That determination and dedication kept him going through his painful rehab (pain is nothing new to someone who has had numerous surgeries throughout his career), with never a day off as he set his sights on striding the lush green fairways in Georgia in April.

Can he keep it going?  He’ll be doing his damnedest.  And he’ll be cheered every painful step of the way.

Rory isn’t one of my picks this week – though I’d love him to win and he’s been on my mind a lot.  He’s an Irish all-time great whatever he does from now on but if he remains on four majors – won in 2011, 2012 and 2014 (two) – where does that put him in the greater scheme of things?

A nearly-great I think.  A could-have-been great.  Almost but not quite.  A  brilliant career but not the career it could have been.  He’s not going to match Jack Nicklaus’s 18 major titles (plus a staggering 19 second places) or Tiger’s 15 (so far).  But I’m hoping he’ll have another little run and pick up another clutch of titles and become the winningest (horrible word but it’s getting late and it’ll do the job) European.

To do that Rory has to reach 8, to finish ahead of Harry Vardon (six Opens and one US Open); Nick Faldo (three Opens and three Masters); James Braid (five Opens); James Henry Taylor (five Opens); Seve Ballesteros (three Opens, two Masters).

Of course, if Rory puts us out of our misery (not to mention himself out of his) and wins the Masters this week, he’ll elevate himself beyond mere numbers because he’ll become only the sixth player to win all four majors, joining Nicklaus, Woods, Ben Hogan, Gene Sarazen and Gary Player.  Hard to argue that that wouldn’t be greatness.

I have my own reasons for wanting him to get to 7 at least and I think it would a magnificent achievement to come back as a grizzled veteran (my God, he’ll be 33 next month) after setting the golfing world alight as a tousle-haired youngster full of bounce and bravura.  He must have thought this stuff was easy-peasy and then he found out that it wasn’t. Mostly anything but.

Rory admitted this week that it’s hard for him to rein in his extravagant side, to play what he can’t help feeling is “negative” golf; to play the percentages; to play away from the pins; to go for the sensible rather than the spectacular; and at all times TO LIMIT THE DAMAGE.

It’s NOT CHEATING, Rory.  Just ask Jack, Tiger, Tom Watson (8 majors and new honorary starter at The Masters).  Watch Tiger.  It’s skilful, it’s clever and it’s the way to win more majors.  You won’t win them all but you’ll stop beating yourself.

The trouble with Augusta is that every single shot demands your full concentration and attention, you daren’t switch off at all.  It’s mentally exhausting even if you’re striking the ball well and the top players are tested to limits that lie dormant a lot of the time.

I’d love Rory to come off the course every day and say, “I could not have SCORED any better.”  If that didn’t win him his green jacket, he wouldn’t be too far off.

I’ve done it only the once – if I haven’t bored you with this rare moment of triumph, you’ve been lucky – and I was cream-crackered, utterly shattered.  I also won a trophy and it’s one of my proudest possessions because the competition was at Pedrena, Seve’s club.  Viva Espana.

Talking of trophies, Jennifer Kupcho won the first major of the season, The Chevron Championship, at Mission Hills Country Club in Rancho Mirage, California, last Sunday.  It was the American’s first LPGA title and she became the last player to take the leap into Poppie’s Pond before the move to Texas next year.  The end of one era but perhaps the beginning of another.

Last Sunday we had our captains’ drive-in and the official opening of our new holes and course at WHGC.  Unfortunately I had to miss it because I tested positive for the ubiquitous covid and I’ve been lying low – and testing positive – ever since.  Fortunately, there were lots of people taking photographs, so many thanks to them – not sure who took which pic, sorry – and congrats to everyone involved.

Mo is still hors de combat but my covid, so far, fingers crossed, has been no worse than a bad cold.