By Guy Green
“One can survive everything nowadays, except death, and live down anything except a good reputation.”
- Oscar Wilde
I am writing this on Saturday night of the 77th Masters. Sunday will have to produce many wonders on the sporting side of the ropes if the budding calamity on the administrative side is to be overcome.
Even that may not be sufficient to save the game.
Awakening this morning to the controversy surrounding Tiger Woods’ little encounter with cosmic justice at the 15th hole on Friday, I found myself drifting back to 1968, and the worst birthday present Roberto De Vicenzo ever received.
In that event, you will recall, the Greencoats, after a panicky forty-five minutes or so of international exposure with their trousers down, managed to do the right thing. They never really owned-up to the fact that the best tournament in the world had many conspicuous bugs in the prim and proper procedures for determining the winner, but they certainly realized that they couldn’t rewrite the Ten Commandments to cover-up the inevitability of human folly. It wasn’t pretty, and there were some real embarrassments; even some spinning and fibbing. It was like seeing John Wayne’s toupee fall off. The world learned the hard lesson that, even at The Masters, human feet are comprised of clay. The beauty of this splendid old event has always been its ability to mold that clay into a well-turned ankle.
I fear by Monday, given the unfolding of a worst case scenario, or even without one, a world-class chiropodist couldn’t chisel this three-toed sloth into a slipper.
The behind the scenes decades of diligence the club has mustered to atone for the De Vicenzo disaster has been truly wonderful. It was accomplished by dedication to excellence, placing old-fashioned values above sheer profit, and stressing that tradition is every bit as precious as progress. Today, we are finding out that the so-called real world has infected the Bobby Jones Museum of Civilization. That same false reality has pretty much overwhelmed other sports, and even has the game of golf running a bit of a fever. But I have always held faith that The Masters possessed the antibodies to live on. And, if The Masters lived on, golf “as it should be” would live on as well. When the super germ called “willful self-delusion” hits the bloodstream, however, only full repentance can win the day. It will take only a short time for the sheer sophistry and treacherous tinkering that is transpiring at Augusta today to stand out like the wart on a witch’s nose. The longer this infection goes without treatment, the deadlier it will become.
Here is what we know happened:
1). The golf gods threw the Book of Job at Tiger Woods on the 15th hole on Friday. It lacked the finality of what had hit poor Roberto in 1968, but not the gusto. Being flogged by a flagstick, and having a near-perfect shot diabolically drenched, just as you are about to seize the lead, is a fate I wouldn’t wish on Macbeth. To his great credit, Woods composed himself enough to make one of the heroic bogeys of all time. The only problem was, he broke the rules to do it. Nobody in a position of responsibility noticed at the time, including, I’m certain, Woods and his caddy. Not the TV announcers, nor the rules officials at the hole. Not even his fellow competitor. I sure didn’t notice, and I got my rules degree from Purvis James Boatwright.
2). Someone watching on TV did notice the infraction, and called the club about it. This prompted Fred Ridley and the Rules Committee to review the video of the incident. They claimed not to have seen what the caller saw. Of course, to my knowledge, they never really told us what the caller said he, or she, saw. But Mr. Ridley told the assembled press this morning that his initial assessment was that Tiger had proceeded properly. Heck, Mr. Ridley and crew never even felt the need to bother Tiger with any questions about the matter. Only after Tiger told an ESPN reporter that he had, for strategic purposes, dropped a few feet behind the original spot, rather than “as near as possible to the spot of the original shot,” did it dawn on Mr. Ridley that he, and Tiger, and the whole world of golf, had a little problem. I’m quite certain that Mr. Boatwright, from his grave, had already figured that out.
3). Mr. Ridley then called Tiger’s agent and arranged a meeting at Augusta early the next morning. At that meeting, Mr. Ridley magically transformed into Ron “the President’s previous statement is inoperative” Ziegler. The Rules Committee followed precedent into a revolving door and came out ahead of it. They invoked a new rule so swamped in subjectivity as to prove Mark Twain’s old adage that “rules are for when you run out of brains.” Even with its profound vagueness, this rule required stretching to the point of molecular thinness to cover this Keystone Kops plot. Tiger played dumb and innocent, the crowd yelled “give us Barabbas,” the working press praised the Emperor’s wardrobe, and - voilà! – instant tumor on the integrity of the people involved, the game they supposedly guard, and the future of truth as we know it.
All of this nonsense transpired, I’m afraid, because of fear of doing the right thing. After all, it would just be so darned unpleasant. Or, worse, it was done in fear of litigation, or of hurting TV ratings. Or, worst of all, they simply were incapable of admitting that the lessons of 1968 have worn off. It truly appears that this new progressive bunch has no clue that forty-five minutes of public embarrassment is far preferable to a lifetime of trying to sell willful self-delusion, no matter how sophisticated its packaging or naive the market. Do they really think no poor, unsuspecting waif is going to stumble over the body they are hiding under the rug? These are the same people who, while willing to swallow Tiger’s insistence that his dog ate the water hazard rule, were willing to risk blowing up the unbelievably noble story of a fourteen-year old Chinese kid making the cut by singling him out of a field of almost 100 players – some of whom were shooting their body temperatures while the kid was carving out a 73 – for slow play! Does anyone in their right mind want a drink out of that glass?
Nick Faldo said it best in his initial reaction, which was later sublimated to accommodate the Chamberlain-like peace that settled over the arena by day’s end. He simply and quite accurately stated, that in dealing with the 14-year old amateur from China, the committee had “taken a gray rule and made it black and white.” But, when dealing with the tarnished American meal ticket, “they took a black and white rule, and made it gray.” The most depressing thing about the whole affair is, by the time the third round was over, the uproar was almost completely dissipated.
That won’t be the case if Eldrick happens to slap together a little 64 on Sunday and adds an asterisk to Masters history. Look for Pete Rose to be inducted into The Hall of Fame shortly thereafter.
Oh, by the way, happy 90th birthday on Sunday, Mr. De Vicenzo! You’re looking better, braver, and less of “a stupid” with each passing day.