Azaleas are fragile creations.
Even in perfect conditions, azalea blooms last only about three weeks. But when the weather becomes less than ideal, their fortunes fade even quicker. If the temperature turns too cold, or if the wind blows too hard, azaleas fall in heaps at the base of their bush, withering and disappearing as quickly as they came. Next year, maybe they’ll be back — if the weather is right.
As it turns out, the golf tournament synonymous with azaleas — the Masters — is no less fragile. When COVID landed on America’s shores in March 2020, it ran roughshod over all the familiar rites of spring. For all the ugliness associated with its parent club, the Masters is always a warm, beautiful landmark in our trips around the sun — a welcome to another season of renewal, and a reward for having endured another winter to its completion.
Only in 2020, winter did not end when cold temperatures did: the Masters was scuttled, more than 556,000 Americans died, and countless more had their lives upended.
There is a danger to proclaiming a “return to normal” prematurely — a danger whose cost is measured in lives. But it is undeniable that after more than a year of suffering, the world has begun beating back the pandemic. Today, more than 63 million Americans have been fully vaccinated; the unemployment rate is in steep decline; the leaves on the trees are green again, and the Masters has returned to the spring. It’s not a return to normal — not yet. But it’s proof that normal is coming.
This return, more than any of the Masters’ other playings, comes with a reminder: that none of life’s annual landmarks is promised, nor is life itself. For more than a half-million Americans, the 2019 Masters was the last of their lives. For many more, the 2021 edition will be their last — whether by COVID or something else. Life, like an azalea bloom, is fragile and brief — even when the cold winds don’t blow.
And Augusta National — the golf course, not the club — is nothing if not a respite from those winds. It is the greatest sporting venue in the world, full stop: intoxicating and verdant, as if life itself is just pouring out of the place. For all the ugliness perpetrated by its parent club over the decades, the Masters and the ground on which it’s played are worthy of the place they hold in our hearts. It is folly to ignore that ugliness; but it would be no less unwise to turn a blind eye to the beauty of the place and the occasion. Life offers us only so many opportunities; an azalea bloom does not last forever.
This spring, perhaps more than any other, is a celebration: an eruption of life, overcoming the dark and cold of the past year-long winter. The Masters, at last, is again central to that celebration. I’ll watch with the joy that this beloved milestone always offers; with the hope that many more trips to this yearly milestone lie ahead; and with the devotion that comes from knowing that they don’t.
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