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2019 Masters

markstanco

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Sgt Hulk

Sgt Hulk 13839

Posted
Posted (edited)
1 hour ago, ChiTownDoc said:

Graduated HS a month after watching him win in 1997.  Feels like a lifetime ago.  Pretty emotional thinking of my old man and I watching...

 

Here here. Welcome 40 year old dude   Same. My father and I watching. My father also passed in 06

Edited by Sgt Hulk
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Post Oak
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Fred Willard
Fred Willard

Some poor bastard is settling into his recliner for Masters Sunday. 

T’Boo Ted Marshall
T’Boo Ted Marshall

Ex wife gonna ex wife.

housious

housious 468

Posted
Posted
12 minutes ago, Revolution512 said:

I thought he was better than ok off the tee this week. It was a strength imo.

He also had some wild ones. Today at 10 and 11 it looked like he was losing it. Those weren’t even close. He did clean up his tee shots from there though.

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Trey3216

Trey3216 15356

Posted
Posted (edited)
6 minutes ago, Rip76 said:

Absolutely hate.

should be watching real time right now.

This.  Had to drive back from Fredericksburg today with a powerful hangover, normally to get home to the couch and watch a large portion of the final round.   Had to wake up and watch what I could and then get the ESPN notification that he won.   Had Cooper’s for lunch though.   

Edited by Trey3216
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AUinHsv

AUinHsv 579

Posted
Posted
2 hours ago, Hate said:

Is he also the first to win with 3 different caddies?

Guessing no. Before around 1980 they had to use Augusta caddies. Nicklaus won six and his son was on the bag for the last. I think Jack used the same caddy in the 70's but am guessing he probably won at least one in the 60's with a different caddy

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PittsburghTiger

PittsburghTiger 6196

Posted
Posted

I was driving home from Carolina so I listened to it on the satellite radio. Rolex commercials with Jim Nantz suck! But that’s another issue.

just going off of what I listened to it seems to me that the shot of the tourney was when Woods hit out from under the trees and from the sound of it, a gully.

when he made that shot, and saved a par, perhaps the Italian guy panicked a bit in his mind which then led to him putting it in the creek. If Woods loses a couple strokes there maybe he goes safe at the par 3 and then Woods has to gamble.

But the script was flipped.

 I’m not a guy who ever rooted for Woods, or against him, but that has to be one of the greatest victories in golf, like when Bobby Jones won at St. Andrews.

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Aqua Buddha

Aqua Buddha 14609

Posted
Posted

The Masters is one of the 1 or 2 sports events I stop down to watch every year no matter what.  This is my favorite one so far.  (Previous was the one where Phil won with his wife recovering from cancer.)

It's just such a great story and I love the crowd.  No on hates him anymore.  Literally everyone including other players were chanting his name because of what he means to the game and he's still the only star they have and they know it.  Got goose bumps with the fans chanting his name as he walked up the clubhouse and was greeted by the other players.  Also like how the fans stayed and just cheered long after he left the 18th green.

 

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Dewey

Dewey 3292

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Posted

Cagey vet now, he saw 4 guys drop it in the water on 12 and went Jack's route to the safe middle, made or saved par, depending on how you see it. He knew he could get strokes on 15 and 16 (and 12) and he did. His talent has dropped some, but his wisdom, especially at Augusta showed today/this week.

He's one of the greatest to play

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taybo20

taybo20 2878

Posted
Posted
1 hour ago, Incredulity said:

Happy for Tiger.

Would have liked to seen Koepka birdie 17, or 18 for some increased drama.

Kind of amazing that the story of Tiger winning also involved beating the twoguys that beat him in the last 2 majors...and coming from behind to do it for the first time

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ChiTownDoc

ChiTownDoc 21154

Posted
Posted
1 minute ago, taybo20 said:

Kind of amazing that the story of Tiger winning also involved beating the twoguys that beat him in the last 2 majors...and coming from behind to do it for the first time

And of all the majors it was the Masters...and the first time his kids had ever been to Augusta.  We could go on and on...it was special to say the least. 

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Surly Bevo

Surly Bevo 25150

Posted
Posted

I have three kids. My oldest was 1 the last time Tiger won the Masters. My twins were one last time he won a major.

What was cool today is my 12 year old son sitting there on the couch watching. Now he’s really in to sports but for most of the round he was doing 12 year old boy things. Laying on the couch, looking at his phone playing a game AirPods in occasionally looking up and making a comment.

When Tiger made that shot on 16 all of that stopped. He sat up, put all that stuff down and locked in for the rest of the round. Even at 12 with no living recollection of any time when Tiger was truly great he had some sense of what it all meant.

That right there is when you know you are watching something legendary.

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Aqua Buddha

Aqua Buddha 14609

Posted
Posted
44 minutes ago, Dewey said:

Cagey vet now, he saw 4 guys drop it in the water on 12 and went Jack's route to the safe middle, made or saved par, depending on how you see it. He knew he could get strokes on 15 and 16 (and 12) and he did. His talent has dropped some, but his wisdom, especially at Augusta showed today/this week.

He's one of the greatest to play

Exactly.  He knew the pin placement on 12 is a sucker.  He knew to play it safe and there were shots to be had later.  That's one thing I like about the Masters.  I watch it every year so I know the course pretty well and I was talking my wife through the same strategy you posted.  15 is an easy birdie and 16 is if you hit the tee shot right.  17 and 18 are hard to bird but not impossible.

The back nine at August the greatest risk/reward in all of golf and that's what made today great.  Tiger knows it as well as anyone.

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TexEx15

TexEx15 17568

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35 minutes ago, Surly Bevo said:

I have three kids. My oldest was 1 the last time Tiger won the Masters. My twins were one last time he won a major.

What was cool today is my 12 year old son sitting there on the couch watching. Now he’s really in to sports but for most of the round he was doing 12 year old boy things. Laying on the couch, looking at his phone playing a game AirPods in occasionally looking up and making a comment.

When Tiger made that shot on 16 all of that stopped. He sat up, put all that stuff down and locked in for the rest of the round. Even at 12 with no living recollection of any time when Tiger was truly great he had some sense of what it all meant.

That right there is when you know you are watching something legendary.

I have 3 daughters.  None of them were alive the last time he won a major.

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taybo20

taybo20 2878

Posted
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1 hour ago, ChiTownDoc said:

And of all the majors it was the Masters...and the first time his kids had ever been to Augusta.  We could go on and on...it was special to say the least. 

Your tone sounds very “blah blah blah” but I hope that it isn’t 

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Napoleon

Napoleon 8700

Posted
Posted
9 hours ago, cabowabo said:

I think this win hits home because a lot of us see ourselves in Tiger.  Almost middle age dude with kids losing his hair with a fat face and a very average looking significant other. He’s one of us now except for a slightly larger bank account. 

 

7 hours ago, UTGrad98 said:

 

 

 

6 hours ago, hundredTT said:

What this means to the sport is immeasurable. Hell, makes me want to dust off the clubs and play. 

 

6 hours ago, Rip76 said:

Taylor Made going up.

 

I was just thinking about how much this win will mean to Tiger's bank account. 

According to the Interwebz, he has a net worth of $800 Million.

Is this win worth $25M? $50M? $75M? More...?

 

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usmc0331horn

usmc0331horn 965

Posted
Posted (edited)

This is a really terrific column all from the 12th hole's perspective.

 

https://joeposnanski.com/tiger-and-time/?fbclid=IwAR17-_Kx84aYGWxto0bf4znbLBDrwExRfmCd2XP7dh6JJSmR_v0_5hjcSj4

 

People still look past me. It baffles me that still happens after all these years. Yes, I know I am petite and pretty and, if you will allow a modicum of immodestly, I ooze with Southern charm. If I was in Hollywood, I am sure I would be Doris Day. I apologize if that’s an old reference. I am old. I fear that I have not kept up with the times.

People sense my friendliness. That is good. I am friendly. I welcome everyone. My bridge is always open. I optimistically set the table for 2 every time.

But I am not to be underestimated.

My name is Golden Bell. I am the 12th hole at Augusta National.

I am 155 yards long, and I am surrounded by azaleas and sand and water and trees. I am less a golf hole and more a vacation spot. My likeness hangs in offices and living rooms around the world. I look as innocuous and dreamy as a postcard from Hawaii.

But I am to be taken seriously. The winds swirl unpredictably around me. They say I was built on an Indian burial ground. I do not talk about my past. But I can tell you that I have broken many hearts.

I broke Arnold Palmer’s heart. That was in ’59, I guess. I revered Arnie, and over time he came to revere me, but he was still young then, full of spirit and too much certainty. He led when he arrived at my door. He then hit his ball into the water and made triple bogey and lost the tournament. I felt heartsick for him. But I am not easy.

Time after time in the years since then, they have come to me with a sparkle of glory and a touch of arrogance reflecting in their eyes, and they have looked beyond me, to opportunities that await, to a dream they have had had since they were children, to a jacket that they long to wear. And they have left my green broken. I have crushed so many hopes. Seve Ballesteros. Gary Player. Greg Norman. Jordan Spieth. I cannot remember them all.

It happens every year.

On this Sunday, the hopers and dreamers began arriving much earlier in the day than I expected. They don’t usually show up until late afternoon, as the sun falls behind the Magnolia and Juniper trees, but on this Sunday they started marching up in groups of three in the morning. I believe the weather brought them out early.

The names change. The faces don’t. In the early afternoon, a powerful man named Brooks Koepka showed up. There is no doubt in my mind that Brooks has the strength to hit a golf ball miles over me. But I watched instead as he hit the ball without assurance. I could tell instantly that his shot would land short and roll back into the water. I tried to stop it. I always try to stop it. But there is not much I can do … once, I recall, I was able to stop the golf ball for a friendly sort named Fred Couples. But ever since then the groundskeepers have kept my grass shorter.

There was nothing I could do to save Brooks Koepka’s ball.

The same was true for Ian Poulter’s golf ball. Poulter is English, from what I can tell, and he also hit a high, equivocal shot that bounced well short and rolled back into Rae’s Creek. Later, the same thing happened to a tall fellow named Tony Finau. Each time the ball dropped into Rae’s Creek, I heard those familiar groans that have always tormented me.

I am haunted by waters.

Then the next group, the last group, came up. A man with a beautiful name, Francesco Molinari, walked to the tee. What a name. I have grown to love beautiful names — Ian Baker-Finch and Seve Ballesteros and Gary Player and Jose Maria Olazabal and Jimmy Demaret

And standing next to him, there was an older golfer wearing red, he had a familiar face, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

* * *

There are only a few who have ever turned this place inside out. Arnie was one of those; he was so captivating and fetching and affable. The fans at Augusta loved him so dearly, so fervently, that they called themselves “Arnie’s Army.” I often thought of myself as a member of Arnie’s Army.

Then there was Jack Nicklaus. I will not lie, he was my favorite. I don’t know if the fans loved Jack with quite the same zeal and warmth that they loved Arnie, but I know they admired him. He was so admirable. He kept his head. He never beat himself. He played the right shot again and again.

And Jack always made me feel seen. I’ve heard that he called me the toughest little hole in the world. That is the most meaningful thing anyone has ever said about me. I have been called beautiful so often that it has lost its meaning. But tough! Yes! It’s true. Jack used to say that he always aimed for the same spot — to that safe space of land between my front and back bunkers — even if it meant aiming away from the flag.

I loved him for that. Jack respected me.

There were others too who inspired ear-shattering roars, Sam and Tom and Seve and Phil and so on.

But Tiger Woods is different from all of them.

I remember when he first came to Augusta. He was only an amateur then, a teenager, but full of unimaginable promise and talent and skill (I heard Jack predicted Tiger would win as many green jackets and he and Arnie had won combined). I’m told that when they asked Tiger what he hoped to accomplish his first time around at the hallowed Masters he said, without hesitation: “Win.”

It was a brazen and presumptuous thing for a young man to say — the correct answer apparently being something to the effect of “I’m just happy to be here” — and I am sure some of the older men harrumphed and grumbled. But modesty didn’t fit Tiger or his talents. He came to conquier and when he was 21, he did. He thundered through this golf course like no one ever had before. When he was done, records were shattered, imaginations detonated, and I overheard people say that they would need to change Augusta National just to accommodate Tiger’s prodigious abilities.

They did change Augusta National considerably, lengthening some holes, adding contours and rises in various places, reworking various parts of the course. But they did not change me — if you will allow me to speak immodestly again, I am timeless — and they did not prevent Tiger Woods from winning again and again. He had won four times before he turned 30.

And the roars for him were unlike those even for Arnie and Jack. I think that’s because Tiger wasn’t adored like Arnie, and he wasn’t lionized like Jack. No there was something else about him, something more aspirational. I am not sure I can describe it — I am no poet, I am the subject of poetry — but as I understand it, Tiger offered to take the crowd to a place where golf had never gone. He was an astronaut. He hit shots no one had ever hit. He saw possibilities where others saw tree branches and double bogeys. He brought order to a disorderly game.

Anyway, that’s how I have heard it described.

Then, one day, something with Tiger Woods changed. One hears things, but I am not one to partake in rumors. But I could see that Tiger no longer commanded the game the way he had. The crowds still shouted for him, but their cheers were less confident and more nervous. He grew older. He seemed to have a different swing every time I saw him. And then, some years, he did not show up at all.

I did not expect to see Tiger Woods compete again.

The cycle doesn’t often go in that direction.

* * *

When the last group of Sunday approached, I glanced at the little walking leaderboard and saw that the Italian with the beautiful name, Francesco Molinari, had 13 red. And Tiger Woods had 11 red. The Masters was in the balance.

And I waited with hope.

Molinari hit first. He reached back with his club, and I offered a silent prayer for him, like I do for every golfer. But as soon as he hit the ball, I could see that he had made the mistake that has wrecked so many. He aimed toward the flag. And he had lacked conviction. The ball fluttered in the wind, and landed short, rolled back into the creek and those agonizing groans came. I saw the crestfallen look on Molinari’s face. I have seen that look so many times. I never get used to it.

Then Tiger Woods stepped to the tee.

I looked at him closely. Was this really Tiger Woods, the bold and impertinent kid who believed that nothing was beyond his powers? I could not tell. I began to say my silent prayer for him … but then I stopped because I noticed something. He was not that Tiger Woods. He moved more gingerly. His face was wider. His weather-worn face suggested that he had seen things.

And as he began his swing, I caught something in Woods’ glance, something unusual, something I had not seen in, well, in a long time.

Deference.

He aimed his shot away from the flag.

He hit it to that space between my front and back bunker. The ball landed and settled 40 feet from the hole but dry and safe. It was the shot that young golfers feel too proud and too strong to hit. It was Jack Nicklaus’ shot. And now, it was Tiger Woods’ shot.

And I knew right then that Tiger would go on to win the Masters.

I could tell from the roars that he did go on to win. I settled in and just listened for those roars like I do ever Masters Sunday. And they were louder than any I have heard in more than 30 years. I have since heard that as he walked off the last hole, Tiger was seen hugging his children, who were not born when he won here the first time. And I heard he took a look up to the sky to think about his father, Earl, who passed away a dozen years ago.

I am not capable of tears. Or at least I didn’t think I was capable for tears.

If there’s one thing I have learned as a most famous golf hole, it is that time, like Rae’s Creek, rushes in one direction. You cannot expect it to stop for anything or anyone. And yet, I’ve been around Augusta long enough to know that every now and again, on special days, time does stop, or at least it pauses. On Sunday, it stopped for Tiger. I think that means time stopped for all of us too.

Edited by usmc0331horn
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ChiTownDoc

ChiTownDoc 21154

Posted
Posted
1 hour ago, Napoleon said:

 

 

 

 

I was just thinking about how much this win will mean to Tiger's bank account. 

According to the Interwebz, he has a net worth of $800 Million.

Is this win worth $25M? $50M? $75M? More...?

 

He actually doesn’t have a lot of endorsement deals compared to pre-scandal.  I’m not sure he’s super motivated to do it but if he wanted it’s 200M+ in contracts.  That’s conservative when you extrapolate over a decade or 3.  

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Post Oak

Post Oak 20272

Posted
Posted
7 hours ago, usmc0331horn said:

This is a really terrific column all from the 12th hole's perspective.

 

https://joeposnanski.com/tiger-and-time/?fbclid=IwAR17-_Kx84aYGWxto0bf4znbLBDrwExRfmCd2XP7dh6JJSmR_v0_5hjcSj4

 

People still look past me. It baffles me that still happens after all these years. Yes, I know I am petite and pretty and, if you will allow a modicum of immodestly, I ooze with Southern charm. If I was in Hollywood, I am sure I would be Doris Day. I apologize if that’s an old reference. I am old. I fear that I have not kept up with the times.

People sense my friendliness. That is good. I am friendly. I welcome everyone. My bridge is always open. I optimistically set the table for 2 every time.

But I am not to be underestimated.

My name is Golden Bell. I am the 12th hole at Augusta National.

I am 155 yards long, and I am surrounded by azaleas and sand and water and trees. I am less a golf hole and more a vacation spot. My likeness hangs in offices and living rooms around the world. I look as innocuous and dreamy as a postcard from Hawaii.

But I am to be taken seriously. The winds swirl unpredictably around me. They say I was built on an Indian burial ground. I do not talk about my past. But I can tell you that I have broken many hearts.

I broke Arnold Palmer’s heart. That was in ’59, I guess. I revered Arnie, and over time he came to revere me, but he was still young then, full of spirit and too much certainty. He led when he arrived at my door. He then hit his ball into the water and made triple bogey and lost the tournament. I felt heartsick for him. But I am not easy.

Time after time in the years since then, they have come to me with a sparkle of glory and a touch of arrogance reflecting in their eyes, and they have looked beyond me, to opportunities that await, to a dream they have had had since they were children, to a jacket that they long to wear. And they have left my green broken. I have crushed so many hopes. Seve Ballesteros. Gary Player. Greg Norman. Jordan Spieth. I cannot remember them all.

It happens every year.

On this Sunday, the hopers and dreamers began arriving much earlier in the day than I expected. They don’t usually show up until late afternoon, as the sun falls behind the Magnolia and Juniper trees, but on this Sunday they started marching up in groups of three in the morning. I believe the weather brought them out early.

The names change. The faces don’t. In the early afternoon, a powerful man named Brooks Koepka showed up. There is no doubt in my mind that Brooks has the strength to hit a golf ball miles over me. But I watched instead as he hit the ball without assurance. I could tell instantly that his shot would land short and roll back into the water. I tried to stop it. I always try to stop it. But there is not much I can do … once, I recall, I was able to stop the golf ball for a friendly sort named Fred Couples. But ever since then the groundskeepers have kept my grass shorter.

There was nothing I could do to save Brooks Koepka’s ball.

The same was true for Ian Poulter’s golf ball. Poulter is English, from what I can tell, and he also hit a high, equivocal shot that bounced well short and rolled back into Rae’s Creek. Later, the same thing happened to a tall fellow named Tony Finau. Each time the ball dropped into Rae’s Creek, I heard those familiar groans that have always tormented me.

I am haunted by waters.

Then the next group, the last group, came up. A man with a beautiful name, Francesco Molinari, walked to the tee. What a name. I have grown to love beautiful names — Ian Baker-Finch and Seve Ballesteros and Gary Player and Jose Maria Olazabal and Jimmy Demaret

And standing next to him, there was an older golfer wearing red, he had a familiar face, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

* * *

There are only a few who have ever turned this place inside out. Arnie was one of those; he was so captivating and fetching and affable. The fans at Augusta loved him so dearly, so fervently, that they called themselves “Arnie’s Army.” I often thought of myself as a member of Arnie’s Army.

Then there was Jack Nicklaus. I will not lie, he was my favorite. I don’t know if the fans loved Jack with quite the same zeal and warmth that they loved Arnie, but I know they admired him. He was so admirable. He kept his head. He never beat himself. He played the right shot again and again.

And Jack always made me feel seen. I’ve heard that he called me the toughest little hole in the world. That is the most meaningful thing anyone has ever said about me. I have been called beautiful so often that it has lost its meaning. But tough! Yes! It’s true. Jack used to say that he always aimed for the same spot — to that safe space of land between my front and back bunkers — even if it meant aiming away from the flag.

I loved him for that. Jack respected me.

There were others too who inspired ear-shattering roars, Sam and Tom and Seve and Phil and so on.

But Tiger Woods is different from all of them.

I remember when he first came to Augusta. He was only an amateur then, a teenager, but full of unimaginable promise and talent and skill (I heard Jack predicted Tiger would win as many green jackets and he and Arnie had won combined). I’m told that when they asked Tiger what he hoped to accomplish his first time around at the hallowed Masters he said, without hesitation: “Win.”

It was a brazen and presumptuous thing for a young man to say — the correct answer apparently being something to the effect of “I’m just happy to be here” — and I am sure some of the older men harrumphed and grumbled. But modesty didn’t fit Tiger or his talents. He came to conquier and when he was 21, he did. He thundered through this golf course like no one ever had before. When he was done, records were shattered, imaginations detonated, and I overheard people say that they would need to change Augusta National just to accommodate Tiger’s prodigious abilities.

They did change Augusta National considerably, lengthening some holes, adding contours and rises in various places, reworking various parts of the course. But they did not change me — if you will allow me to speak immodestly again, I am timeless — and they did not prevent Tiger Woods from winning again and again. He had won four times before he turned 30.

And the roars for him were unlike those even for Arnie and Jack. I think that’s because Tiger wasn’t adored like Arnie, and he wasn’t lionized like Jack. No there was something else about him, something more aspirational. I am not sure I can describe it — I am no poet, I am the subject of poetry — but as I understand it, Tiger offered to take the crowd to a place where golf had never gone. He was an astronaut. He hit shots no one had ever hit. He saw possibilities where others saw tree branches and double bogeys. He brought order to a disorderly game.

Anyway, that’s how I have heard it described.

Then, one day, something with Tiger Woods changed. One hears things, but I am not one to partake in rumors. But I could see that Tiger no longer commanded the game the way he had. The crowds still shouted for him, but their cheers were less confident and more nervous. He grew older. He seemed to have a different swing every time I saw him. And then, some years, he did not show up at all.

I did not expect to see Tiger Woods compete again.

The cycle doesn’t often go in that direction.

* * *

When the last group of Sunday approached, I glanced at the little walking leaderboard and saw that the Italian with the beautiful name, Francesco Molinari, had 13 red. And Tiger Woods had 11 red. The Masters was in the balance.

And I waited with hope.

Molinari hit first. He reached back with his club, and I offered a silent prayer for him, like I do for every golfer. But as soon as he hit the ball, I could see that he had made the mistake that has wrecked so many. He aimed toward the flag. And he had lacked conviction. The ball fluttered in the wind, and landed short, rolled back into the creek and those agonizing groans came. I saw the crestfallen look on Molinari’s face. I have seen that look so many times. I never get used to it.

Then Tiger Woods stepped to the tee.

I looked at him closely. Was this really Tiger Woods, the bold and impertinent kid who believed that nothing was beyond his powers? I could not tell. I began to say my silent prayer for him … but then I stopped because I noticed something. He was not that Tiger Woods. He moved more gingerly. His face was wider. His weather-worn face suggested that he had seen things.

And as he began his swing, I caught something in Woods’ glance, something unusual, something I had not seen in, well, in a long time.

Deference.

He aimed his shot away from the flag.

He hit it to that space between my front and back bunker. The ball landed and settled 40 feet from the hole but dry and safe. It was the shot that young golfers feel too proud and too strong to hit. It was Jack Nicklaus’ shot. And now, it was Tiger Woods’ shot.

And I knew right then that Tiger would go on to win the Masters.

I could tell from the roars that he did go on to win. I settled in and just listened for those roars like I do ever Masters Sunday. And they were louder than any I have heard in more than 30 years. I have since heard that as he walked off the last hole, Tiger was seen hugging his children, who were not born when he won here the first time. And I heard he took a look up to the sky to think about his father, Earl, who passed away a dozen years ago.

I am not capable of tears. Or at least I didn’t think I was capable for tears.

If there’s one thing I have learned as a most famous golf hole, it is that time, like Rae’s Creek, rushes in one direction. You cannot expect it to stop for anything or anyone. And yet, I’ve been around Augusta long enough to know that every now and again, on special days, time does stop, or at least it pauses. On Sunday, it stopped for Tiger. I think that means time stopped for all of us too.

My kingdom to be able to write like that

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Pom

Pom 14

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Posted

I applied for practice round tickets for the 1998 tournament, four of us went. Was then invited by the club to apply for a spot on the waiting list that was opening for the first time since 1978. I’ve had my badges since 2000. 

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