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A Daughter's Memories of the Masters

Dogfish Head

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TEA is my HERO
Apr 8, 2012
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Huntsville, AL
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By Elizabeth Short


GROWING UP IN THE SAGEBIEL HOUSEHOLD, if it was a Sunday, dad reserved the TV exclusively for golf.

I remember spending a lot of afternoons stretched out on the couch in front of the TV (not a flatscreen like all the other families had, by the way) half-heartedly watching Ernie Els or Bubba Watson or whoever it was putt their way toward victory. Sometimes I took our family's favorite threadbare knit blanket and watched the screen through its holes to make things more interesting.

Now, if it was a majors weekend, the TV reservation may extend to Saturday. On the one hand this was unfortunate for me as an adolescent girl who was more interested in the Disney Channel. But on the other hand, the gravity of such an event wasn't lost on me. I paid more attention and even became invested in the outcome of the tournament.

This was especially true of the Masters. When I started reflecting on the Masters, I did a Google search to make sure it was the one that's "a tradition unlike any other."

But it was a tradition unlike any other.

If the Masters was on, we had to get home from church early instead of the lingering for what felt like an eternity while my parents caught up with other families.

If dinnertime rolled around and the tournament was still going, we got to leave it on while we ate.

Dad became completely absorbed, which was a rarity. If you know him, then you know he's not the type to become engrossed in TV.

These mini traditions happened around me like clockwork every year, and as a result when Masters weekend rolled around it made me sit up a little straighter on the edge of my seat to see who would pull out a win.

In my mind's eye I can still see Tiger Woods, dressed in what looks like a salmon-colored shirt (but I know it's Sunday red, I'm not that clueless about golf), placing the coveted Green Jacket on Phil Mickelson's shoulders in 2006.​

I remember dad telling me Mickelson was always struggling to win majors. A quick look at some stats tells me he did not continue having that problem, unless winning five majors is considered bad. But it introduced me to one of my favorite well-established traditions of sports in general: rooting for the underdog.

Whether or not I will tune in to the Masters this year remains to be seen. "The tradition unlike any other" doesn't have anything to do with the tournament itself as far as I'm concerned. For me, it's the simple act of watching TV on a Sunday afternoon with my dad.

Elizabeth Short is a writer who lives in Woodstock, Georgia.


Source: A Daughter's Memories of the Masters
 

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