I haven’t golfed in several years and don’t even own clubs anymore. The itch to get out on the greens after a long, hard winter is no longer there. Despite this, The Masters remains my true first rite of spring.
Every April, when The Masters comes on, I become emotionally invested. I’m not really concerned about who wins or what the storylines are anymore, but for one glorious weekend, I live on a golf course through my television.
Sure, I always hope a Canadian does well at the tournament. But for a golf tournament, it isn’t about the golf!
There’s just something about The Masters that makes even non-golfers, like myself, get sucked into the vortex of perfectly cut grass, soothing commentary, and dramatic slow-mo shots of golf balls landing softly on velvet-like greens. Augusta National isn’t just a golf course — it’s a fantasy land of grass, trees, and flowers.
Every year I tell myself, “You don’t care about this.” Yet every year. there I am in front of the television marvelling at how green everything is, how pretty the azaleas are, pretending to know what holes make up Amen Corner.
The Masters is just so… polite. Everyone whispers, and the fans—sorry, patrons—calmly clap. The grass is so green and lush, it looks photoshopped. It’s like sports ASMR—little screaming, no Gatorade baths, just tasteful polos and the occasional fist pump. It’s refreshing and civilized.
And it is my first rite of spring.
Of course, there are many other things that are sure signs of spring. The first daffodils are a good sign. And who can forget about the birds returning. Just the other night, I stepped out to BBQ, it was just getting dark, and a lone bird was singing away. I actually forgot what I was out there for. It was truly beautiful. Eventually the bird went quiet, and I got to eat dinner.
But for me, the true sign spring is here, is The Masters. And now that is has come and gone for 2025, I can safely say, SPRING HAS SPRUNG
