Once upon a time, every year at Augusta’s Mt. Olympus they contest, then anoint.

There’s always names: Freddy, Phil, Rory, Bubba, Dustin,  Ian, Vijay, Bernhard…

There’s some magic involved.  This year, when Tiger played and rolled in an eagle,

there was some yelling (“He’s baack!”)  When journeyman extraordinaire Charley

Hoffman made a very appropo, almost karmic ace, there was some screaming.

To his credit, there was some joyful jumping up and down too.

There was John Rahm not crying when his ball hit ground and rolled in water.

He just kept playing.  There was Jordan Spieth being his awesome self.  Then

there was The Man from Orange making his charge.  None of which fazed

the leader, Patrick Reed. He just sailed on thru.  He didn’t critterise, didn’t

dehumanize, didn’t demonize, just let his sticks do the talking.

In other words, won with class.

But that was then, this is now. It’s Monday morn, 10:18, do you know where

your clubs are?