Every man who possibly can should force himself to a holiday of a full month in a year, whether he feels like taking it or not.
– William James
How do you explain Masters Week to someone from out of town?
I tell them it’s like a holiday, several holidays actually.
Masters Week is like Groundhog Day.
Weather is always an underlying theme. Will we get the sun and heat of early June?
The frost of February? Rain? A tornado?
All of the above? (Most likely.)
It also has Groundhog Day’s prediction aspect. Who will stick his head up from a green coat on Sunday? (The experts almost never get this one right.)
Masters Week is like Memorial Day.
Its past heroes are remembered and revered.
Ben Hogan and Sam Snead? Gene Sarazen and Byron Nelson?
This week their names will once again be invoked, and we all will have a chance to remember what they did and how they did it. And they will not be forgotten.
Masters Week is like the Fourth of July.
Our school kids celebrate freedom from class. Thousands of others will be eating outside in the sun. There might not be outdoor fireworks at night, but there will be parties and gatherings.
Masters Week is like Halloween.
People dress up in costumes.
Think of golf wear. Think of golf outfits. Think of cloth in a dozen shades of green … and all of it on one pair of plaid pants.
Consider the hats.
Nobody dresses like this the rest of the year. (Intentionally.)
Masters Week is like Thanksgiving.
It brings families together. Sometimes they are together someplace else for the week, but that’s OK. Chances are they will be eating well, too.
Masters Week is like Christmas.
This holiday has the most in common with Masters Week.
Both involve travel, guests, parties, social events, rituals, traditions, surprises and the expenditure of money.
Lots of money.
The airports are crowded. The stores are busy. Many of the young people have temporary jobs.
Both holidays have themes and subplots. And both often bring requests from relatives.
They both have a long buildup.
Both are highly anticipated and subtly dreaded.
And both will end with relief and fatigue and memories and the vague hope that next year it will be even better.
Such it is with Augusta’s holiday … the one that happens every spring.