The Masters tournament is green jackets, azaleas, the amen corner and plenty of prestige. But to me, The Masters has always been my dad. From the time I was a toddler, it was a spring ritual for my dad and I to watch The Masters together.
In those early days, it was on a small, black-and-white television that often seemed to require careful adjustment of the rabbit ears to ensure what seems now like very primitive viewing of the famed tournament. I learned all the names of the players and as my dad was a huge Arnold Palmer fan, I too became a member of “Arnie’s Army.”
I probably asked my dad questions like: “Why did that guy hit it over THERE?” or “How did he make the ball go in the hole from way over there?” My ever-patient dad always had an answer.
After watching The Masters with my dad, I was always eager to get outside and play golf myself. At first, we would go into the back yard and hit whiffle balls or practice putting on the living room carpet with some old-school gadget my dad got for Christmas one year. Although not a golfer, my mother did her best to feed my father’s golf addiction.
By the time we had graduated to a large, console color TV for Masters viewing, I had also graduated to the kid-friendly par-3 course near our house in Mount Clemens. If my dad and I weren’t watching golf, we were playing golf and again, he was ever so patient as we made our way around the course.
Golf was our father-daughter thing – be it playing or watching – and the credit goes to him for introducing me to the game and continuing to foster my interest throughout his life.
The very last Masters tournament I watched with my dad was Tiger Woods’ first victory at Augusta National in 1997. We had golfed in the morning, then come back to my house for Sunday dinner and The Masters. Tiger ran away with it. My favorite golfer at the time – Nick Faldo – had not made the cut. My dad’s guy Freddie Couples finished tied for seventh. But we got behind Tiger and cheered for the new golf Phenom together.
As this week’s Masters gets underway, I wonder who my dad would be rooting for if he were here to watch. He would certainly feel the pain of Ernie Els’ 6-putt and, I think, would be excited by all of the young competitors in the field. Ever the positive soul, he just wanted to see his favorite golfers play well.
There will never be another Arnie and there will never be another Robert J. Smiley either. But I know when I’m watching The Masters on Sunday, Dad will be with me in spirit.
