We Need to Protect the Masters At All Costs

We Need to Protect the Masters At All Costs Andrew Redington - Getty Images The road to Amen Corner is less than holy. I was at the Masters this past weekend, dodging firs, pines, graying ushers, and bros with wobbling towers of beer cups, when— splunk! —a golf ball soared past the thirteenth-hole fairway and wobbled toward my feet.

When such miracles happen at Augusta National, the masses are never too far away. In the middle of a baking Saturday afternoon on the back nine of heaven, the congregation wanted to know who purveyed this wonder. They huddled around the ball, peered over, and read the inscription on the ball: RORS .

If this were an event like the Super Bowl or NBA Finals, the simple joy of learning just whose ball landed at my grass-streaked shoes would be gone—because I might be halfway through Googling what the hell RORS stands for. By the time I would remember it was defending Masters champion Rory McIlroy, a conclave of iPhone cameras would’ve blocked my view of the Irishman. But Augusta National doesn’t allow phones, or any electronic devices for that matter, on the grounds.

So, as he approached, he nodded toward his faithful followers and inspected the damage. The longer you stay in Augusta, the more you notice how it changes people. Flesh-and-blood humans walk up to you, ask if you’ve seen the analog leaderboard (which, along with Fenway’s wooden scoreboard, is a gift from the past), and maybe even partake in an even more outdated tradition: small talk.