The Masters is a microcosm of everything that’s wrong with this country: a contrived event, inaccessible to most except on television, operated by a tight clique that wants to stop time about 1959, and yet hyped to the stars as the be-all and end-all of sports. Oooh how pretty, ooooh look azaleas, ooooh the beers are only $3, oooooh a tradition unlike any other. Please. If Grantland Rice hadn’t had to fill column inches on the way back from Spring Training, nobody would know where the hell Augusta is. The rest is just the 84 Lumber Classic with better landscaping and the soporific kiss-ass stylings of Jim Nantz.
Anything that you can do while smoking and while somebody else carries your S isn’t a sport. If golf is a sport, so is waiting in line at the airport.