AMEN CORNER

Praise the Lord and pass the pimento cheese sandwiches. 

For almost a year now, we’ve suffered a catastrophic worldwide pandemic, and case numbers are still on the rise, halfway to the moon. We’ve witnessed a nasty and noisome Presidential campaign that we keened would end November 3, but hasn’t. 

We’ve watched schools shut their doors, restaurants open to a handful of customers, and local stores go kaput. Even worse, people across the country have lost family members and friends to the horrid COVID-19. Others haven’t hugged their treasured grandchildren in months. 

But for a few days now, there’s joy in the world and sunshine on the horizon. It’s Masters week! For golfers, this is nirvana, this is a steamed pound-and-a-halfer, this is Whispering Angel rose, this is sausage stuffing in the bird — to name a few of my favorites. 

Since 1934 this invitation-only golf tournament has been played on the same course, Augusta National, allowing enthralled visitors and devoted television viewers to become familiar with, and start gnashing their molars when, their favorite golfer approaches a certain slithering slippery slope or, OMG, Amen Corner. We feel right at home in those known spots.

There will be no blooming azaleas and dogwoods lining the lush green fairways this year. For the first time in history, the Masters was postponed from its normal April start-of-the-Grand-Slam-year to mid-November. The coronavirus has done more to change the Masters than bulked-up Bryson DeChambeau is attempting with his 350-yards-carry drives. 

No fans are allowed in, except wives and girlfriends of the players. Because it’s November and the Georgia sun sets around 5:30, play will end two hours earlier than in April. The normally lush greens and fairways today exhibit a tinge of autumnal brown. There are no grandstands.

But certain Masters traditions won’t change.  Mr. Wonderful and I will nibble on pimento cheese sandwiches until the last putt drops. We went to the Masters a decade ago and discovered pimento cheese or egg salad sandwiches are a staple there — costing under $4 each, too. 

My friend Patti will watch every nanosecond sitting in a small green canvas chair she bought at the Masters years ago.  Doc and Katie will bolt their front door and pull down the shades so they can watch grandson and PGA Tour player JT Poston (the Mailman) stride up the long fairway to the 18th in his quest for the green jacket. Pal Sandy B. will soon start texting her reactions (“Freddie birdied!”) as she catches updates on the Masters app downloaded to her iPhone.

It won’t erase what’s happening in the world around us. It won’t accelerate the vote count. It won’t make “distance learning” any easier. It won’t make an elbow bump greeting more fun. 

But for the next few days it’s the distraction we need at a place like no other.