Scottie Scheffler of the United States speaks to the crowd during the Green Jacket Ceremony after winning the Masters Tournament at Augusta National Golf Club on April 14, in Augusta, Georgia.Warren Little/Getty Images
As he won his second Masters in three years on Sunday, Scottie Scheffler didn’t weep or scream or fall on the ground. People have started doing that sort of thing recently, but Scheffler isn’t a huge celebrator, and it wasn’t that kind of weekend.
The world No. 1 started well, he continued that way and then waited for everyone else to fade.
Scheffler could have moonwalked through the back nine. He won by four strokes. Still, it didn’t feel like the usual coronation. Nobody had been good enough for anyone to be passing crowns around.
If this Masters had a theme, it was missed opportunities.
How about Ludvig Aberg having a long, caught-by-the-mics conversation with his caddy at the 11th? Aberg picked his spot. The caddy asked him if he was sure about that. Aberg said he was. The caddy enthusiastically agreed. Aberg put the ball in the water. The caddy shook his head sadly. That was it for the rookie Swede.
It’s good to know that golf is like every other job – we succeed together, but you fail alone.
Before Aberg fell off, so did Collin Morikawa. That left Max Homa – possibly the only top golfer with an actual personality – in with a chance.
At one point, Homa could be heard pleading with a shot that was still in flight: “Do the right thing, ball.”
But ball had its own ideas. Homa fell victim to an unruly bush on the 12th.
Midafternoon, four golfers were tied for the lead. As afternoon became evening, Scheffler was alone on top and cruising. There was still an hour left before it ended.
Scheffler hadn’t done anything spectacular. He just hadn’t done anything spectacularly wrong. When you think about it, that is the essence of golf, and maybe of life.
This won’t be remembered as a great Masters. Even now, right after it’s ended, it’s hard to pick out a highlight. Maybe the rough weather over the first two days. Or Bryson DeChambeau tearing a massive signpost out of the ground because it was in his way and carrying it off like a man headed to Calvary.
In the end, the take-away memory was probably the last ride of CBS play-by-play-man Verne Lundquist. In a landscape filled with semi-hysterical screamers, Lundquist was 25-year-old Scotch. A delivery that smooth went down just as easy on a Sunday afternoon as it did on a Friday night. It will be badly missed.
If anything recommended this Masters, it was its averageness.
The LIV-PGA war was not a story, because everyone’s bored by it now. The old guard didn’t come in on a tear, so only a few thousand column inches were wasted wondering, ‘Is this Rory’s moment?’ (Ed. note: It was not.)
There was no pandemic storyline or political flashpoint or big personality emerging. The only thing left to talk about was the Masters itself.
Over the course of a year, it is possible to forget how soothing this tournament can be. Hearing the first few bars of that piano soundtrack creates in one a powerful need to cancel all plans and find a couch to embed yourself in.
“It’s warm. It’s sunny. It’s the Masters,” CBS emcee Jim Nantz said at some point, but I missed the second half because I had drifted off.
The Masters isn’t a golf tournament. For those watching, it’s a reminder that, though the future is uncertain, the present is okay, thanks. At least for right now. We are all together, in our happy place.
This effect is never greater than when nothing jarring happens from Thursday to Sunday. Just some guys playing a game while people whisper around them.
Scheffler is the perfect person for that job. A beige, expressionless man in a peach shirt playing mistake-free golf. Scheffler doesn’t make it look easy, but he does make it look like you could do it, too (though you couldn’t).
“I can’t put it into words what it’s like to win this tournament again,” Scheffler said afterward.
So he didn’t.
He’s 27, has won two Masters, and I genuinely wonder if his heart rate has ever hit triple digits.
That was victory. Occasionally, when we are lucky, we also get to consider defeat. That was the real drama.
Tiger Woods went into this Masters having played only one professional round this year. Somehow, he managed to look fitter – bigger through the shoulders than he has ever been – and yet worse. Almost from the beginning, he emanated exhaustion.
Because of an early weather delay, he had to play a round-and-a-half on Friday. He did make the cut. It was a big story.
On Saturday, Woods paid for that headline with the worst Masters round of his career. It was grim viewing from that point on. Woods was sweating bullets, windmilling his shots, trudging up shallow hills like a mountain climber in need of oxygen.
For once, you did not need to be told over and over again by the broadcast crew how hard it is to play Augusta. You were watching the course bring the greatest golfer in history to his literal knees in real time.
By the end, Woods was ashen. He finished dead last.
The rule at the Masters is that past champions are invited back until they leave of their own accord. Those who won’t give in voluntarily are gently nudged in that direction. And then not so gently.
Woods won this tournament five years ago. You’d have thought then he’d be at this for a decades. Now he looks as though he might not make it another five. It’s harrowing to see how time works.
Afterward, Woods aimed for positivity.
“It was a good week,” he said. “It was a good week all around.”
Despite what the leaderboard says, he’s absolutely right. Any week at the Masters – whether good, bad or somewhere in between – is a pretty perfect week. Even for those of us who are just watching.