The coverage is cloying, deferential and reverential to an amazingly offensive level. I am so sick of the ass kissing tone everybody has adopted, even on satellite radio. If I hear the word "patron" on the post golf coverage tonight, I'm going straight to the Patron.
Me too.
Jim Nantz, on a Sunday, with a Nicklaus or Tiger win is one thing. But Jimmy Roberts' ponderous voice-over pronouncements about *everything* are just way too much.
There are champions -- and then there are *Masters* champions.
Their names ring-out like wind-chimes across this grand cathedral of golf -- Sarazen, Hogan, Palmer, Nicklaus, and Woods.
But as great as these names are, they're *more* than just names -- they are, to put it briefly, our *memories*:
Memories of spring-times long ago, and of our youths, and of roars echoing through the Georgia Pines.
And like the azaleas that bloom here, these Masters champions *return* to Augusta, every spring -- to honour, and to celebrate, and to remember.
Here, the *Masters* champions gather in a tradition like no other -- for a dinner, with the only other men in the world who can truly *understand*.
And what they understand is this: that *their* accomplishments on this most sacred ground also serve as *our* most hallowed memories.
As so, as they come in pilgrimage for the annual Champions Dinner, I would like to say this, to each one: to Nicklaus and Woods and, yes, to Arnold Palmer -- "Thanks...ever so much...for the memories".
Yes...There are champions -- and then...there are *Masters* champions.