But the Masters stays with you for reasons other than the loot.
The Masters is a throwback, although not entirely in the ways I anticipated. Yes, there are the manual scoreboards, the absence of commercial signage and the 20th-century food prices ($1.50 for a pimento cheese sandwich; $1 for coffee). Yes, there is still a severe shortage of female members, even if women sans the members’ green jackets are a constant presence during the week.
Still, for all the rules (items like backpacks, flags and selfie sticks are banned), there is still a whiff of old-time freedoms in the air.
There is smoke, actual smoke, as patrons and some of the protagonists light up and puff cigars as if this were a black-and-white movie.
There is also — and this is where the Masters gets it just right — the freedom to strike up not just a match but a bona fide conversation with the person standing next to you outside the ropes who is for once not too preoccupied with more-pressing modern matters like taking a photograph that can be shared immediately with his or her buddies to emphasize what a great time he or she is having right there, right now, in…