James Etheridge

It is dark still. Soon the sun will be rising and breaking light over another glorious Georgia spring Sunday morning. But today is not just any Sunday morning. Today is Masters Sunday.

Masters Sunday is a springtime tradition. A rite of passage from the chill of March to the warmth and blooming of April. A testament to the beauty and natural splendor of Georgia in the new season. A time like no other. Masters Sunday is, in my humble opinion, a national holiday.

On Sunday, April 13, 1986, I finished up a little bit of yard work and went in to watch the back nine of the Masters. In those days, the telecast didn’t come on until 3pm and basically only followed the leaders and contenders. When I walked in the phone rang. It was my mother. “Jimmyyy!” she exclaimed. “Are y’ a-watchin’ Th’ Masters?”
“I’m just getting ready to sit down and watch.”
“Turn it on, sweetie! Jack Nicklaus is a-winnin!”
He wasn’t a-winnin’ yet, at least not when I flipped on the TV. As a matter of fact, he was just walking off the 12th green, which he had bogeyed. But then he began to charge. He birdied number thirteen, parred fourteen, eagled fifteen, almost aced the par-3 sixteenth, birdied seventeen and parred eighteen. Both Greg Norman and Tom Kite had putts on the eighteenth green to tie Nicklaus and force a playoff. Both missed and Jack had won a record sixth Masters.

A newspaper article had been published the week before in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, written by Tom McCollister, a great sportswriter who left us way too soon.  In it he stated that Nicklaus was “done, gone, didn’t have the game anymore”. He also pointed out that Jack was “forty-six years old, and nobody that old wins The Masters”. Jack cut the article out of the paper and taped it to the door of the refrigerator in the house he was renting for the week. Apparently the article kicked the old Golden Bear out of hibernation.

In the press conference afterwards, Jack sat down an the first thing he asked was, “Where’s Tom?” Tom was on deadline, but when he later walked into the room, Jack said, “Hey, Tom, thanks.” “Glad I could help,” replied McCollister.

A few years after that, Masters Sunday became a tradition in our family. We would gather at our house. My mother would bring pimento cheese and chicken salad. Later on I would cook steaks on the grill. It was at one of theses gatherings where I first brought Jackie to meet my family. We would all throw five dollars in a pot and draw names of the players from a Masters porkpie hat. Whoever had the name of the winner would win the pot. Side bets were encouraged. My stepfather would sit on the couch and run his mouth constantly, complaining that we always gave him players that, in his words, “ain’t no good.” I would explain that he drew the names himself and the players he drew were indeed good or they wouldn’t be playing in The Masters. It fell on deaf ears. “They ain’t no good,” he would reiterate.

Over time that tradition faded and eventually ceased. But Masters Sunday is still one of my favorite days of the year. Especially when the weather is perfect as it is this year. But, being Georgia in April, that is often not the case. It can be cold, rainy, windy or all three together. But it is still Masters Sunday, and the tournament has ended on Monday only twice due to a Sunday washout.

I love seeing the shadows on the green and fairways of the giant pines. For some reason, it reminds me of the small course where I first played the game in Gresham Park. I am fortunate enough to have been on the property several times for practice rounds. It is much hillier than you see on television. I do have to say that Augusta National is, by far, the most beautiful golf course I have ever seen in my life. Walking the course, the iconic theme song “Augusta” runs through your mind. You may listen for the birds but you won’t hear as many as you hear on TV. A few years back I found out that the birds’ singing is piped in.

So, again this year, Jackie and I will make pimento cheese and chicken salad and grill steaks after the tournament. These days it’s just she and I, but it’s a tradition just the same. It’s Masters Sunday. A tradition unlike any other.