Adjusting the Volume

By Jaime Diaz
Photo by Stephen Szurlej April 2009

There are many who believe Augusta National--and, by extension, the Masters--have been ruined by the radical course changes of the last seven years. I'm not one of them. The truth is, whatever excesses have been perpetrated could be largely alleviated by subtly altering just two holes.

The redesigns under the direction of former chairman Hootie Johnson were bold and in principle a necessary attempt for a major championship to deal with the way the game is being played at the highest level. Johnson was right, beginning in 2002, to push back hard against the wedge-fest that had broken out on too many par 4s on the course that was 6,985 yards. That's not to mention all the middle- and even short-iron second shots that were being hit to the back-nine par 5s. When his last change before the 2006 tournament lengthened the course to 7,445 yards, it was for the not-unreasonable goal of having players return to hitting the same approach clubs that Bobby Jones intended.

There's irony in how the determination to go back to the future compromised some of the design principles of Jones and Alister Mackenzie. Augusta became not only longer but narrower because of the second cut of rough and pockets of newly planted trees (a reaction to straighter-hitting drivers and balls that curve less). The loss of fairway width has largely meant the end of the multiple approach angles to the flagstick that purists loved. Of course, there's a good argument that those angles became irrelevant when so many holes became a drive and a wedge, especially with so little penalty for wayward drives.

But the bigger effect is that to most Masters competitors, what was a thrilling roller-coaster ride has turned into a grim slog that begins on the climb toward the first green and ends with an even steeper ascent at the 18th.

Johnson was never known for his subtlety. If Augusta National were a museum piece--like another Mackenzie masterpiece, Cypress Point--the redesigns would have constituted a desecration. But Augusta's place has long been as a movable marker for the state of the elite game, an early adapter to evolutionary change. Furthermore, the Masters is a major championship, and if not the ultimate examination, it should at least be rigorous. Fun or no fun, it should demand the best of the best players.

The changes have done that, which is why I'm not put off when a short-hitting, supposedly off-brand player has won the Masters on the revamped course. Mike Weir maxed out his abilities in 2003, and so did Zach Johnson in 2007 and Trevor Immelman in 2008. When surprise champions emerged like Herman Keiser in 1946, Art Wall in 1959, Tommy Aaron in 1973 and Larry Mize in 1987, it did not repudiate the course or the setup. A top professional having a career week, particularly with the putter, is tough to beat on any course. Those who were bitter because Palmer or Nicklaus or Norman or Woods didn't win at Augusta and lost a chance at the Grand Slam that year could save themselves a lot of aggravation by remembering that.

BIG NAMES DISPLAYING BIG GAMES

That said, big names with big games traditionally win and contend at the Masters more than any other major, and that has been no accident. Augusta's most valued distinction remains the way it calls for "talent shots"--the big drive on a bold line, the high and soft-landing long iron, the dramatically shaped recovery, the perfectly pinched pitch, the imaginative chip. They are shots that display the highest skill and athleticism, and they have the smallest margin for error. Such shots take daring, which provides the adrenaline and theater that has made the Masters the best tournament on earth to play and to watch.

Even with the redesigns, it remains so, although the outcry would make you think those days are gone forever. Too many critics have fallen prey to nostalgia and legend, and they overestimate the level of excitement and noise that can reasonably be expected, especially when the last two years of Immelman and Johnson have been judged dramatic duds.

But a little perspective: For all the close finishes and big stroke swings and electric eagles and star-laden leader boards, the past is full of runaways and relatively dull Sundays. Claude Harmon was never threatened on Sunday in his five-stroke victory in 1948. Neither was Cary Middlecoff when he won by seven in 1955, and Raymond Floyd won by eight in 1976. The fact is, even at Augusta, the convergence of big-name contenders, memorable shots and tight finishes requires some luck.

Favorable weather is probably the most important factor. But also crucial is the course setup. The club has proved masterful in the way it can influence--by regulating flagstick positions and green firmness--the probability of excitement without compromising challenge. The players have appreciated this skill, regularly calling the tournament the best run in the world. It's why they've been more hesitant to publicly criticize the course setup than they are at others majors. "They've usually had someone who really knows the game to make the calls," says Tim Herron. "And for the most part, they've been good calls."

LESS EXCITING, LESS INTERESTING?

But since Hootie's changes, the players have become more outspoken about what they miss. And that is an arena that let them play with more art than anywhere else, with the freedom that comes from knowing that the course provided chances to make up for mistakes. It's easy to forget that the players love Augusta National like they love golf, and they know its charms more intimately than anyone else. And after seven years, they have reached the collective verdict that the Masters has become less exciting and perhaps less interesting.

"There are really no roars out there anymore," four-time winner Tiger Woods said after his first-round 72 last year, when he finished second to Immelman. "It's hard to make eagles and the big birdies. The golf course is playing so much more difficult now."