It’s Masters week. It is a place in time when all the golf world turns its gaze to what once upon a time was a nursery (think plants and flowers) just off the interstate in the second most populous city in Georgia, Augusta.

It is a place, and a tournament, where each April, a symphony of golf is played under the direction of the most autonomous group of people in golf. The flowers bloom on que; the patrons (think fans) are mindful of their every behavior; the television commentators are careful with their every adjective, simile and metaphor (google Gary McCord) The traditions are enough to make Tevye the Dairyman swoon.


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