Too bad Woods was almost as long with his short irons as he was with his driver. He flew more greens than Delta. If somebody will just sneak into this kid's bag some night and uploft each of his irons three degrees, he'll be scary good here. Still, Woods's first two rounds at Augusta were respectable — matching even-par 72s, nine shots behind the midway leader, Jay Haas. And he earned honors as low amateur; indeed, he was the only one of the five amateurs even to sniff the cut.
Through it all — all the hype, the huge crowds, the massive press conferences — he chilled. He walked in the middle of the fairways with his hands in his pockets and his head down, as though he were on his way to Monday, nine o'clock, history. When he was asked if he was awed or thrilled or struck dumb by Augusta National, he shrugged and said, "It's just another tournament to me."
But, but, but what about Magnolia Lane? "It was just a short drive. I thought it would be longer," he said. But, but, but what about staying in the Crow's Nest? "I don't know. I came in late, threw my bag down and went right to sleep."
That had a few green jackets' jowls shaking, but how else could he be? Why should he genuflect at the clubhouse door when so many black golfers have been banned from walking through it? How could he pretend to cherish a place that went out of its way to keep Charlie Sifford out? Or have goose bumps in the company of men who only last week inducted the second black member ever into the club? In a town where his parents woke up on Friday morning to find a window of their rental car shattered? He's supposed to turn cartwheels on the veranda?
What no one knew was that at night Woods was sneaking around the clubhouse, opening doors and wandering into the champions' locker room. "To tell you the truth," he finally said on Sunday, "I had the time of my life."
Nicklaus has played in exactly 36 more Masters than Woods, but this year's had to be his weirdest. He knocked two middle irons into the same par-4 hole — the 5th — for two eagles, a feat never accomplished by anybody else in Masters history or anywhere else on earth, for that matter.
His first, a 180-yard five-iron, dived into the hole on the fly on Thursday to help him to a 67, only one shot behind the first-day leaders, Phil Mickelson, defending champ Jose Maria Olazabal and David Frost. The second came on Saturday, when Nicklaus "missed" a seven-iron, 12 feet right of where he had aimed, and the ball proceeded to run into the cotton-picking jar. For the week Nicklaus's shooting percentage from 540 feet away into a hole not much bigger than a tuna tin was exactly 50 percent, or almost as good as Shaq's from the free throw line.
By Saturday night Nicklaus was out of it (he finished 35th), but almost nothing else had been settled. The big scoreboard didn't have enough room for all the names that should have been up there. Davis Love III was at seven under, only three shots behind the leaders, Crenshaw and Brian Henninger. Was there a better story than Love's? The man who the previous week in New Orleans had made the last possible putt in the last possible tournament to win the last possible ticket to Augusta? The same Love for whom Penick had clapped twice only hours before his death, upon hearing that Love was making that ninth-inning, two-out, two-strike effort? Love, too, had wanted to go to the funeral, but a close friend told him that he should take the time to prepare, to get a little rest, that that's what Mr. Penick would have wanted. That friend was Crenshaw.
Would the winner be Henninger, a man so small and Webelo-faced that once, at the Western Open, he drove up to valet parking in his courtesy car, and Sue Price, Nick's wife, got in the front seat, thinking her driver had arrived?
Through it all — all the hype, the huge crowds, the massive press conferences — he chilled. He walked in the middle of the fairways with his hands in his pockets and his head down, as though he were on his way to Monday, nine o'clock, history. When he was asked if he was awed or thrilled or struck dumb by Augusta National, he shrugged and said, "It's just another tournament to me."
But, but, but what about Magnolia Lane? "It was just a short drive. I thought it would be longer," he said. But, but, but what about staying in the Crow's Nest? "I don't know. I came in late, threw my bag down and went right to sleep."
That had a few green jackets' jowls shaking, but how else could he be? Why should he genuflect at the clubhouse door when so many black golfers have been banned from walking through it? How could he pretend to cherish a place that went out of its way to keep Charlie Sifford out? Or have goose bumps in the company of men who only last week inducted the second black member ever into the club? In a town where his parents woke up on Friday morning to find a window of their rental car shattered? He's supposed to turn cartwheels on the veranda?
What no one knew was that at night Woods was sneaking around the clubhouse, opening doors and wandering into the champions' locker room. "To tell you the truth," he finally said on Sunday, "I had the time of my life."
Nicklaus has played in exactly 36 more Masters than Woods, but this year's had to be his weirdest. He knocked two middle irons into the same par-4 hole — the 5th — for two eagles, a feat never accomplished by anybody else in Masters history or anywhere else on earth, for that matter.
His first, a 180-yard five-iron, dived into the hole on the fly on Thursday to help him to a 67, only one shot behind the first-day leaders, Phil Mickelson, defending champ Jose Maria Olazabal and David Frost. The second came on Saturday, when Nicklaus "missed" a seven-iron, 12 feet right of where he had aimed, and the ball proceeded to run into the cotton-picking jar. For the week Nicklaus's shooting percentage from 540 feet away into a hole not much bigger than a tuna tin was exactly 50 percent, or almost as good as Shaq's from the free throw line.
By Saturday night Nicklaus was out of it (he finished 35th), but almost nothing else had been settled. The big scoreboard didn't have enough room for all the names that should have been up there. Davis Love III was at seven under, only three shots behind the leaders, Crenshaw and Brian Henninger. Was there a better story than Love's? The man who the previous week in New Orleans had made the last possible putt in the last possible tournament to win the last possible ticket to Augusta? The same Love for whom Penick had clapped twice only hours before his death, upon hearing that Love was making that ninth-inning, two-out, two-strike effort? Love, too, had wanted to go to the funeral, but a close friend told him that he should take the time to prepare, to get a little rest, that that's what Mr. Penick would have wanted. That friend was Crenshaw.
Would the winner be Henninger, a man so small and Webelo-faced that once, at the Western Open, he drove up to valet parking in his courtesy car, and Sue Price, Nick's wife, got in the front seat, thinking her driver had arrived?
