‘Crass and cringe-worthy’: The dark side of the US Masters
Adam Scott is on his way to the 88th US Masters in Augusta, Georgia, and talks to The Australian. But John Daly? A sign says he’s around the corner in a seedier part of town.
Favourite US Masters moments? Adam Scott has three. One of which is sliding into his green jacket. Captured in an ageless photograph. Worthy of being framed and hung on his wall at home. Picture-perfect … and the perfect picture.
“I think Jack Nicklaus winning in 1986 is a big one,” Scott says. “Tiger Woods winning his first Masters title in 1997 was incredible. I don’t know if it changed the direction of the sport but that win certainly accelerated the direction of the sport. It was a huge, huge moment. There’s so many amazing moments. Tiger’s chip on the 16th hole in 2005 was one of the greatest shots ever. And I’ll give myself one. I think I have the greatest winner’s photo. The one with my arms raised in the rain with the silhouette from behind.”
Hear, hear. Scott’s in his green jacket in the gloaming. Weather’s closing in. It’s getting dark because it’s taken a while to shake off Angel Cabrera in the 2013 playoff. Australia’s first Masters win. A moon-landing of a triumph. Scott’s been pumping his fist, yelling c’mon Aussie. Then he’s received his jacket and spread his arms wide because it all seems too good to be true and a photographer from behind has perfectly captured the moment.
I can’t imagine a more iconic moment than @TigerWoods at The Masters in 2019, but for this photo alone, it’s Adam Scott @TheMasters in 2013. pic.twitter.com/XQCOYhacML
— Katie Gates (@ksgates__) January 22, 2022
“When you think about the Masters, you think about springtime, flowers in bloom, blue skies and birds chirping,” Scott says. “But it was certainly not the case that year. It was raining and there was a very low ceiling of clouds in the sky. The golf fans stayed to watch great golf, and everything fell into place on that second playoff hole. When you watch replays of it, you can see how overcome with emotion I was because it is a truly surreal feeling when a putt catches the left side of the hole and goes in. It could have just as easily slipped by.”
Scott says: “Everything fell into place at that moment. The Masters has its own special traditions and ways about it that, certainly in Australia, means that it transcends the game. To have the accomplishment of being the first Australian to win the Masters has certainly been a big thing in my life and in Australia.”
Scott arrives at Augusta National Golf Club on Tuesday (AEST). The joint has a breathless, timeless quality. You trot down the path near the leaderboard next to the first tee and the fairways opens up in front of you like a dream. For as far as the eye can see there’s flowers in full bloom, immaculate turf resembling carpet or astroturf, dollops of water and sand. You’re standing in a painting. Enough hills and dales for a big dipper. The Big Oak Tree is in front of the clubhouse. Exudes a magnetic warmth. If you’re meeting someone, you set a time to be under The Big Oak Tree. From dawn till dusk, folks are under it, chatting away.
Amen Corner makes you gasp. Weather’s perfect. Blue skies and not a skerrick of wind. Birdsong. A chirpy, welcome to the National! I’ve never written poetry, I feel like writing poetry. It’s just absolutely divine. A gentle kiss on the cheek. I’d pitch a tent and live in the woods behind the 12th green. Phones are banned and it makes a difference. No-one’s taking photos, posting inane messages, humblebragging about where they are. Wonderful.
Afterwards, I go for a wander around the neighbourhood. Crikey. The TV footage we see of Augusta, with the tinkling ivories in the background and spectacular footage of the course, is a world away from what’s on the other side of the fence. This part of town is a lowdown, dirt-brown, struggling, completely unremarkable slice of Americana.
There’s a dead flat, soulless, lifeless vista of burger joints and drug stores and whatnot. Signs plead for your business. Rockin’ Crab. Seafood and Bar For You! Great Clips. Haircuts on Sale! A Mexican food joint. A Chinese. Marcell’s Fine Cigars. World of Beer. Truth Roofing. You Can’t Handle the Roof! A couple of churches. A pastor reckons there’s more churches than liquor stores in Augusta. “Well, there used to be,” he says. His sign out the front says, God Bless America!
A couple of blocks from the National is Hooters. Crass and cringe-worthy. Outside is the saddest sign in town. Wings. Shrimp. Burgers. Meet John Daly Here All Week. He was a rock star of a golfer. A blazing talent. The USPGA champ. British Open champ. Troubled soul and fascinating human. The 57-year-old isn’t within cooee of playing the Masters yet in the vicinity. Whare’s John Daly now? Hooters.
I stick my head in. To see if he’s there right now. He ain’t. Perhaps it’s all harmless but it seems a tragic sort of joint. Blokes ogling women with big boobs. My waitress says it’s the last place she wants to work at but she needs the money. “Don’t have much going for me, darlin’,” she says. “Except these. May’s well be putting ‘em to use.”
I get that long John popping in to Hooters through Masters week is kinda funny and perhaps entertaining and proof that he’s not fussed with the airs and graces up the road. But I just find it a bit tragic that he’s joining the desperados gorging on wings, shrimp, burgers, cups of beer and the waitresses. I don’t get the attraction. I cannot depart quickly enough. To picture an incredible golfer like Daly in here. Maybe I’m a mirthless, sanctimonious prude. But I just don’t see the glory in it.
Back to the gasp. Two things are evident when young Englishwoman Lottie Woad wins the Women’s Amateur. Wandering around with her mid-afternoon group, whistling Dixie, a walk unable to be spoiled, the soundtrack from the crowd is all roars and whispers. Woad finishes bird-birdie to win. The hooting and hollering must have drifted all the way down to Hooters. When she was carding par after par earlier in the day, it was speechlessly quiet. Roars and whispers. It’s nice.
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