Most golf watchers share a characteristic that has nothing to do with whether they play off scratch or 24; whether they live in Iceland or Ireland; or whether they are male or female. If they play golf it is likely they will have watched the Masters on television, maybe many times.
Some of these enthusiasts, far from being addled with golf, know their azaleas from their rhododendrons, their White Dogwood hole (the 11th) from their Yellow Jasmine (the eighth), They know that putts tend to run towards Rae’s Creek and that the greens will be firm and sometimes unnervingly fast. Year after year they have sat in front of a television set to watch and hear another Masters unfold. For them, tuning in to a sporting rite of spring is, er, a rite of spring.
The one thing they haven’t been able to do is attend the Masters. The chance of getting tickets for one of sport’s most popular events is as remote as winning the lottery. What do they do? They turn to their televisions.
I know someone who is in a rather different position.
He has never ...
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