TEENAGE TIGER The still-amateur Woods on No.1 in 1995
At that first Masters, in 1994, I was laying in the sun on the velvety, grassy hill below the 6th tee, a downhill par-3, feeling blissed-out like every other fan on their first trip to Augusta National. Suddenly a huge roar announced Jack Nicklaus’ presence on the tee. He stiffed his shot and the place went nuts. Just then Arnold Palmer materialized on the nearby 16th green. He rolled in a mid-range birdie putt, and pandemonium reigned. As Jack walked down the hill toward the 6th green, he clapped lustily his for old friend and rival, and “The King” acknowledged him with a triumphant thumbs-up. The whole scene lasted only a couple of minutes, but it still lives with me. Two years later I experienced a different gamut of emotion, as I watched Greg Norman’s epic collapse during the final round. I had picked him up on the 3rd hole, and by the time he reached Amen Corner, there was a sickening feeling among the dogwoods. Masters Sunday is usually defined by giddy excitement. No course is more symphonic, and when the birdies are flying, there is a sense of being enveloped with cheers. But as Greg frittered away his six-stroke lead, a glum silence prevailed. His playing partner and eventual champ Nick Faldo was putting together one of the great final rounds in Masters history, but no one quite knew how to take it. Every time Nick made a birdie, the fans would look at each other in confusion: Was it bad manners to clap, given what was transpiring with Greg Norman?
Whenever I get to the bend in the 13th fairway, I think of Greg and Nick. “The Shark” had driven onto the pine needles, and I eavesdropped as his caddie, Tony Navarro, beseeched him to lay up. Greg Norman is one of the most hyper-aggressive players of all time, and when he wedged it out, it felt like an admission of defeat. The crowd murmured its disbelief. Displaying an almost inhuman ruthlessness, Nick Faldo then smoked his second shot to the heart of the green. The crisp contact on that perfectly executed shot was one of the purest sounds I have ever heard. The next year I took my mom, Barbara, with me to Augusta, which seemed like a good idea at the time. She had wanted to be there when I picked up an award from the Golf Writers Association of America at its annual dinner—basically the Oscars for middle-aged white guys in pleated pants. Mom was so cute with her palpable pride, I couldn’t say no when she asked to go antiquing on the morning of the first round. A onehour side trip turned into half the day, when all I wanted to do was see a ballyhooed rookie, Tiger Woods, play in person for the first time. By the time we made it to the course, Tiger was on the 14th freaking hole. I stormed down the hill to find him. I would later learn he had clipped a tree with his drive. All I knew at the time was that he was way back in the fairway with a long-iron in his hand. As I pressed against the ropes—my mom, panting, was
there too—Tiger lashed at the ball. I was startled by the barely controlled violence of his swing. The sound of the strike filled Augusta National, and his ball painted the sky. I have seen Tiger hit thousands of shots in person since, but that first, majestic one remains the most indelible for me. He went on to birdie the 14th hole, and Mom and I raced down the right side of the 15th fairway to stake out a spot on the ropes. After a monster drive, Tiger had only a wedge left in to this par-5. We were a few feet away when he hit it, setting up the eagle that keyed his first round and ultimately propelled him to a defining victory. In a desk drawer, I have a goofy picture my mom furtively snapped of me pointing at Tiger’s divot. I’m about the same age as Tiger and his career-long foil, Phil Mickelson, so the first decade of my career was spent chronicling the failures of “Phil the Thrill” in the major championships. But I had a funny feeling at the 2004 Masters, watching Phil’s controlled play during the first round. I found his wife, Amy, in the gallery and told her, “Just so you know, your hubby is going to win this tournament, and I’m going to write a cover story about it.” It all came down to one last putt after Phil’s Palmeresque charge on the back nine on Sunday. Like all reporters, I don’t root for individual players, but I do root for my story. Phil finally winning the big one was a blockbuster, and after following him for four days, I had a ton of good material in my notebook. Next to the 18th green, there is an elevated grandstand reserved for reporters, and as I sat there, my heart was pounding so hard I could barely breathe. I can’t imagine how Phil felt. When his ball hit the hole and tumbled in, there was a splitsecond of silence, as the 25,000 fans ringing the green processed what they had just witnessed. Then came the loudest roar I have ever heard on a golf course— before or since. In the me ?VRgFW'v&B??vfR?R?Vr?B6?B?676???( ?6?( ?Bv?BF?&VB??W"6?fW"7F?'??( ?F?&?WBFVF??R&W77W&R???&R?ff?&?FRVwW7F???V?G2?V?VB&V???B6??6VBF??'2???#r??6?????6??f???6?VB??2f???&?V?Bv?F?F?R?VB?'WBF?vW"v??G27F????B6??6RF?6F6?????2?Rv2Gv?7G&??W2&6?v?F?Gv????W2F?????vV?BF?f??B?6???F?R&?vR?BF?V?F?RWGF??rw&VV??'WBF?W&Rv2??6?v??b?????v?VB??F?F?R??6?W"&?????BF?W&R?Rv2?F???r6VBB6???F&?R?F?R&???v2FW6W'FVB'WBf?"F?R6?W'F?6?V&??W6RGFV?F?G2??"?bF?W&??V?B?ff?6??2?BvV?BB?V?v?&?&??rF&?Rv??v2GW&?VB?WB??GvVVB?6?WB?Bw&VV??7FW'2?BF?B6?V?F?( ?BV?FR6??F????2V?'V?&???B??6?2?4???D???u3?D?R?5DU%0??????????3?&?&'????W2?B6?ff?&B&?&W'G2W&6?6VBF?R&?W'G?F?Bv?V?B&V6??RVwW7F?F????v??b6?V"f?"CR?66??BCc???'FvvR?F?Rv??b6?W'6Rv2'V??Bf?"CR?? ?f?'GV??????R6?V?B?fR&VV??V?&W"??F?RV&?F?2f?"F?R&??6V?7V??bC3S?F?R6?V"??VBF??fRÃ?V?&W'2f?"F?Rf?'7B?7FW'2???3B??BfV??6??'B'?????s#B?"0???U5B4???R???r???U"?T$%??2t???rD?t??D??2D?U$??T?B??B?( ??t???rD?u$?DR4?dU"5D?%?$?UB?B?( ??* ????C2?B( ?CB?F?R6?V"v26??6VB?BGW&?VB??F?f&?F?7W?'BF?Rv"Vff?'B?v?F???&RF???CGW&?W?2?B#?VB?b6GF?R?f?'G??Gv?vW&???w2v??vW&R&V??r??W6VB???V&'?f?'Bv?&F???V?VBWBF?R6?W'6R&6?F?vWF?W"?F?W??B&VV?'B?b?V?v??VW&??r7&Wr??F?R??W"F?f?6???v?F?&???V?????'F?W&?g&?6?6?'V??F??r'&?FvW2?fW"&^( ?27&VV?v2?V6R?b6?R? ?F?Rf?'7Bf?fRF?W&??V?G2vW&R6??VBF?RVwW7F?F??????f?FF???F?W&??V?B??Bv6?( ?BV?F???3?F?B&?&'????W2w'VFv??v?6??vVBF?R??RF?F?R?7FW'2?v??6??RfV?Bv2FBw&?F??6R?@?`??P???w&VV?6?VWW'26''?66?76?'2F?G&??F?Rw&72&?V?BF?RVFvR?bF?R'V??W'2????F?R??&???r?bF?Rf???&?V?B?F??W6?G2?bf?27F?B????Rf?"F?RvFW2F??V?B?????BF?V?7VVB?v?F?F?R?F?w&VV?F?WB?WBF?V?"6??'2?F?W???&V???V??67W?VBf?"??W'2?'WB????Rv???F?V6?F?R6??'2?v??6?v???F?V?&RW6VBv?V?F?Rf???w&?W272F?&?Vv?? ?F?Rf??B&?6W2&R'7W&F?&V6??&?S?6?Gv?6?W2f?"C2?"?W72?6?Ff?"C?S?6?ffVRf?"C? ?F?R???6?W'6R&W7G&???2&Rv?&vV?W2?v?F?W??6VB&V?2?6?FRv??2?B6???v?G2?r????????6V?????W2&R???vVB??F?Rw&?V?G2?'WB???V?6?&?W"F?W&R&R&???b???W2F?Bf?26?W6RF???R???r?F?7F?6R6??2g&VR?b6?&vR? ???66?&F??rF?F?V??Rv?F???vFW#?F?R?&FW7CF??7V?V?F?fR7FG2????RF?R6?W'6R?2F?R"?@??3????????5$??r#0??5$??r#2???????3????