SUFFERING from wind is rarely fun. However, watching others struggle with the old problem is often hilarious. Especially when the victims are a bunch of, mostly, overpaid, over-cosseted professional golfers such as we have here in Technicolour Dreamscape Land.
Augusta National in any weather is never easy but lob in a 25mph wind scheduled to arrive in these here parts just as the leaders tee off and merry mayhem is surely guaranteed. This is when I love to watch this wonderfully perverse game. The Masters, Sunday, back nine and wind sign me up quick.
Everything that has happened so far is relevant only in that it has established a leaderboard that contains the correct elements for what promises to be a sensational climax to this Masters. The stern-faced men who run this major are now relaxing a bit so that the back nine pin positions are set to be, shall we say, accessible. Sit back, relax and enjoy. Grenades of happy noise on top of roars of birdie and eagle approval are about to revisit this part of Georgia for the first time in three years.
It has been, as ever, a long and delightful week. Like everyone else here in the Media Centre, a building modelled on the UN Debating Chamber, I am now Officially Tired But Quite Happy. Last night, after a long day trying to work out why this is the first major for two years that I havent punted Trevor Immelman, I found myself in downtown Augusta and specifically Broad Street.
This was not a random choice. I took my two (much) younger GM colleagues down to see what the real Augusta looks like which is, as it happens, is extremely pleasant. I briefly took them down to the river walk that runs alongside, altogether now, the Savannah River, otherwise known, of course, as Moon River.
Johnny Mercer used to live just outside Augusta on the bank of the river and it was while sitting on his verandah one night sipping something cool that his wife noticed how the water was reflecting a full moon. Honey, said Mrs Mercer. Look there, Moon River. Five minutes later Johnny was already halfway through the song that was to embroider the film Breakfast At Tiffanys.
The bar we ended up on last night was just off to the side of James Brown Boulevard, the old Soul King having been born in Augusta. It was while thinking about these things that a waitress told me that her favourite uncle, Henry Jones, was the fifth Top as in The Four Tops. Sadly, Uncle Henry decided to quit the group just before they enjoyed their first hit and then a stellar career.
Henry Jones, the Pete Best of America. I did, of course, buy her a drink. Felt it was the least I could do by way of consolation. Go Tiger