…and let’s make Jim Nantz watch from his perch by the 18th green as his precious azaleas char and disintegrate.
Let’s sneak onto the grounds of Augusta National Golf Club tonight with as much gasoline and whiskey as we can carry, and let’s pour it over everything. The entire course. And then let’s light a match and watch it burn.
Let’s char every inch of perfectly manicured fairway. Let’s leave the putting greens, which got Gary McCord banned from announcing the Masters when he claimed they seemed “bikini waxed,” blackened beyond recognition.
Let’s burn it all, this dinosaur symbol of racism, sexism and privilege. Let’s horrify the old white men who cherish the traditions here. Let’s destroy the legacy of Bobby Jones. Let’s ensure that fans are never again condescendingly called “patrons” at a sporting event.
Let’s burn all video of the 1986 tournament, so we never have to hear anyone wax poetic about Jack Nicklaus’s comeback again.
Let’s torch this bastion of exclusivity once and for all. Let’s ruin the year of every amateur and professional golfer who believes that golf is somehow special because idiots assign themselves two-stroke penalties when they address the ball incorrectly or whatever. Let’s bruise the souls of those who believe it’s “a gentleman’s game.” Let’s spoil the memories of every jerk who has written a book about golf’s healing qualities or its ability to connect fathers with sons.
Let’s stun the elitists who consider the Masters so much more special than the other majors. Who plan their years around Masters week. Who laud the course and the tournament for their “purity.” Who forget that Augusta National is just another fucking golf course.
Let’s bankrupt the corrupt members of the country club that runs this course. Let’s punish them for not allowing a black pro golfer to play the Masters until 1975, for not admitting a black member until 1990, and for not admitting a female member…well, we’re still waiting for that. For being the kind of place that inspired this quote from Dave Anderson: “For all the mystique of the Masters, the Augusta National Golf Club itself was America’s last plantation. In the sprawling white clubhouse of what a century ago actually was an indigo plantation, white millionaire members in green jackets were served by black waiters and black bartenders.”
Let’s show them what we think of people who consider their tournament so precious, so exclusive that they wouldn’t even allow the first nine holes to be seen live on television until the last decade. Who keep CBS on a year-to-year contract to exert maximum control over every detail of the broadcast.
When Jim Nantz says, “It’s going to be a special day, we hope you’re watching with someone special,” let’s enjoy the moment as burning tree limbs fall all around him.
Let’s be the Grinch on top of Mount Crumpit, cupping an ear to hear all the Whos down in Whoville sobbing when they realize there’s nothing left of their sacred ground but burned-out rubble.
Let’s burn Butler Cabin to ash, so Nantz and his cronies can never again pretend it’s anything more than a building. Let’s watch Rae’s Creek flow with flaming water, just like the polluted Cuyahoga way back when. Let’s make Nantz speak about Amen Corner in hushed, reverent tones one last time as we watch it ignite, wither and die. Let’s scorch Hogan Bridge, so it can never be crossed again. Let’s roast Magnolia Drive, so the thick, black smoke covers the course and chokes the last bits of life from it. Let’s incinerate every last tree, shrub and flower. Let’s raze the lovely, vibrant green hills. Let’s make like Sherman and start a trail through Georgia to the sea, and let’s start that trail at Augusta.