Storm Makes for a Trying Day in Georgia for Cashmere Crowd

While those sissy Dodgers and not particularly brave Braves were too afraid of getting their bats and balls wet to crawl out of their dugouts 150 miles away at Atlanta, these rough, rugged, Rambo-esque, putts-take-guts golfers showed us what they were made of Saturday at the Masters, boy. Real men don’t need rainouts.

Their cashmere sweaters sure did end up smelling like old goats, but when a wicked Dixie thunderstorm turned Augusta National into the Golf of Mexico, the rain men took a short recess, stepped into shelters to slip on some head covers, then stormed right back out there to complete much of the tournament’s third round. Bravo, you ironmen, you woodmen. Let a smile be your umbrella.

Think of poor old Lee Trevino, struck by lightning at the 1975 Western Open, vibrating like an electric razor, gazing up at the sky Saturday and seeing something right out of a Frankenstein movie, then being asked to go back out there with a stainless-steel stick in his hand. Trevino was not exactly eager to go zzzzzzzz .

Or, think of poor young Ken Green, out there golfing in those Coke-bottle lenses of his, in desperate need of windshield wipers, probably counting on his caddy to point him in the proper direction so his next shot didn’t end up in some porta-john. Talk about a water hazard. Green could barely see the green.

And then there was Severiano (no, it isn’t Spanish for “severe rain”) Ballesteros, who bogeyed the 11th hole, the 12th, the 13th, and might have bogeyed on down into a quicksand trap had they forced him to continue. Seve was hooking them into the flower beds by the time play was suspended, and put his putter back in its holster at the 14th green. His game from Spain went mainly down the drain.

Only Ben Crenshaw--or, as these Georgia boys know him, Bin Crinshaw--came away unmussed from this Masters natural disaster. Not a single bogey did he get, in the 13 holes he got in. Someday, Crenshaw will be able to tell his grandchildren about the day he shot a 49 at Augusta.

Since these wetheads were ordered back to resume play at 9 a.m. local time today, we can only hope that West Coast golf lovers set their alarm clocks for Breakfast at Augusta. It may still be dark in California when the contenders re-tee, but fair is fair. It was dark here Saturday when the golfers were playing, if you can call this playing.

They should have worn little lamps on their visors, like coal miners. Nick Faldo said he couldn’t even follow the ball, and this guy is from England, where the rainy season begins in April and concludes the following March.

Faldo crumbled like a crumpet, dropping four shots to Crenshaw from the sixth hole, where they were tied. Although he professed to be unsure as to whether they had “gone too far,” Faldo undoubtedly understood why the Augusta people (and TV people) were reluctant to call off the day’s play. Rainy days and Mondays always get them down.

Trevino, well, he bolted off the course like lightning, once play finally was halted. He was last seen zooming down Magnolia Lane in his van, which was probably the only time all afternoon he was seen driving in a straight line. With seven bogeys over a dozen holes, all Trevino wanted to do was run for cover. He would rather be called a chicken than get fried.

They say a little rain never hurt anybody, but Trevino knows different. His back never did feel the same after that spine-tingling Western Open experience, and he doubts this to be a coincidence. That theory about about lightning never striking twice, Trevino wasn’t about to test it. One more bolt might turn him into guacamole.

Having played some of his best golf in years over the last couple of days, Trevino must have felt like looking up to the Great Greenskeeper in the Sky and saying, “Not now, not now.”

For some reason, the adverse conditions affected him on the greens more than anyplace else. As he stepped into his van, about to make his getaway, Trevino was asked for a parting comment by one of those typical sportswriters who did not have enough sense to come in out of the rain.

Trevino called out over his shoulder, “I didn’t putt worth a damn all day,” and sped off. Maybe he meant dam. Things got that bad. Rae’s Creek nearly turned into Rio Rae. Bobby Jones’ cabin nearly turned into Davy Jones’ locker. Don Pooley nearly turned into Jodie Mudd. If the golfers had stayed out there any longer, George Archer would have been standing in water up to his chin, and nothing of Ian Woosnam would have been visible except his visor.

But at least they went out there and tried, like Real Athletes, like football players, like marathon runners, like jockeys. The only mistake they made was not doing anything about it. All they had to do was have Jack Nicklaus make a personal phone call to God, who has been known to grant him favors here.