Jack Nicklaus during the ceremonial first tee at Augusta.Credit:AP
Of course,these traditions are as authentic as the classical columns of Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello or Walt Disney’s Enchanted Tiki Room. They are American traditions,microwaved from the Wolfgang Puck cookbook of instant invention. The Masters encapsulates the American genius for manufacturing and packaging instant “tradition”.
The Masters is the least of golf’s four majors (the “major tournament” and the “grand slam” are themselves a work of the American imagination). The British Open is open to entry to literally every golfer in the world,the US Open to everyone in America and most of the world,and the PGA Championship to every professional. By contrast,the Masters is a peculiar invitational event with house rules that enable people like Mize,Fuzzy Zoeller and Mike Weir to play forever while shutting out anyone outside the world top 50 who,on their week,would have a genuine chance of winning. The Masters has the smallest field and the biggest pomp and circumstance. It’s the kind of creation that a Donald Trump would aspire to,insular and elitist and ever so classy,right down to its setting in the American south,not a blade of grass out of place in a setting surrounded by a forest of Arby’s and Wendy’s and tyre shops and tract housing.