So now comes the Masters, a Tradition Like No Other Because It Says So, Rae's Creek and azaleas and Magnolia Lane and sunlight slanting through the pines, and the gooiest musical score this side of "Love Story."
As you can probably guess, the Blob is a mystique-free zone where the Masters is concerned. It's a great golf tournament in a beautiful setting, but ... well, it's still just a golf tournament. In the end.
I am a confirmed contrarian on this point, and, while we're on the subject of being contrary, I'd further add this: I'd rather have white-hot needles jammed into my eyeballs than see Tiger Woods win this weekend.
Yes, I know he is Golf As We Know It, even now. Yes, the mere fact he's actually shown signs of life lately has helped spike the value of Masters badges to absurd heights. And, yes, I know that if he somehow misses the cut (a circumstance devoutly to be wished, at least here in Blobville), the TV audience for the weekend will plummet from last-episode-of-M*A*S*H levels to reruns-of-Yes, Dear levels.
I get all that. I also get that Tiger is the pre-eminent golfer of his generation, and maybe of any generation.
I don't care. I'm rooting for Rory McIlroy instead. Or Bubba Watson again. Or Ricky Fowler or Padraig Harrington or any number of other logo warriors out there.
I'll do this because none of them, as far as I know, is going to wind up picking up random pancake house waitresses this weekend. Tiger, on the other hand, might. Two or three, even.
The skinny is, while I appreciate Tiger's skill, I abhor everything else he stands for. I think he's colder than January in Nome. And I don't think he's changed an iota from the serial horndog who bedded everything that moved while carrying on his public farce as loving husband and father.
Guy's a big phony, in my book. And you know what they say: Phonies look lousy in green.