Dear Tiger, Not This Year; Nothing Special About the Eve of the Masters

Augusta National is not special.  

Special is reserved for the super market discount on Swiss cheese.  Special is for that cereal that has strawberries that somehow comes alive when the milk hits them. Special might be used by lost souls to describe the Masters, but it misses the mark like a .38 Special that sends a bullet into the Augusta night with no intended target.  Special is a term that should be relegated to a municipal course in Kansas City that offers a deal for juniors after three o'clock.  

When Bobby Jones asked Horton Smith to come play this new course in Northwest Georgia in the early 1930's, special evaporated like the dew on the 18th fairway as the sun rises above the Crow's Nest and sends heat-rays like lasers into the monochromatic green.  

Why do golfers, fans, announcers and even Billy Payne call anything at Augusta National Special?  Special should be left at home.  Special is a word that should be stepped on like the home plate after a Cecil Field grand slam.  Special is tee time at Augusta last week.  And, this week there is brooding expectation that the golfing wits are going to challenge the yellow pin flags like a 16-year-old girl charging the stage at a Taylor Swift concert.

Words to describe Augusta started with Jones and Herbert Warren Wind.  And then, a Georgia chap named Furman Bisher discussed the aura of the azaleas as if it were a tapestry painted by Michelangelo.  They never ever used the word "special".  Special was left spinning in a ball washer somewhere near the Chattahoochee.  

On the eve of the 2012 Masters, there is the usual chatter about who can revel in the environment.  Tiger, having four green jackets could be ripe for a Sunday prowl.  But, when it comes to Sunday's at Augusta, special usually gives way to mystical.  And, it somehow does not see appropriate for the inner sanctum of golfdom to reward hubris.

Okay I said it, somewhere between Isleworth, Jupiter and Augusta, Tiger's accelerator went passed humbleness like only Ernie Harwell could muster "a house by the side of the road."   This year's winner is going to come from the following foursome, because it just fits, like a 42 regular.  Kyle Stanley, a hardworking comeback kid, Phil Mickelson, number four (43 long); Rory Mcllroy, a lad with an attitude or Luke Donald, the stoic one - will win the Masters.  No Masters hubris in the group.

And, on Monday, as all the golf patrons head home, there will still be a sign above the concession stand at the entrance to Augusta National.  It was read: Pimento Cheese Sandwich, $1.50.  Now, that's special.