The Masters is teeing off this morning, in all of its stately glory. The green jacket. The azaleas in full bloom. The soothing, piped-in bird noises. The genteel linguistic tyranny. And presiding over it all, as he has been since the 1980s, with his collar fully erect, is Jim Nantz. You and I know all about Jim Nantz, with his burnt toast fetish and whatnot. You and I also know how disturbingly horny Nantz is for the Masters, and for golf in general. Well, I’m glad to report that the man spoke to reporters before this year’s tournament and reaffirmed just how intensely fucking WEIRD he is about this event. Jim, what does the fabled green jacket mean to you?
It’s just emblematic of excellence in golf. You’ve reached the highest level that’s achievable in the game just to be able to don a green jacket. Isn’t it refreshing, in a time in sport where all we ever hear about is money and guaranteed contracts and outrageous numbers that most people can’t relate to that at all? In fact, they’re numb to it. The numbers, it’s fantasy to them. When you have the Masters tournament, there’s never a discussion about purse money, how much you win. It’s about a jacket. It’s about a coat that you win. Tell me something else that compares to that. You won’t come up with anything that means more than just a green jacket. Yes, there’s money involved. It’s never discussed. I couldn’t even come close to telling you what first place pays at Augusta, and I don’t care. Nor do the players. You know what it is? It’s immortality in golf. You achieve it, you have found a place in history. It’s permanence. It’s forever.
OK, that was a lot to take in from just one paragraph. Allow me to break it down in more digestible, bite-sized pieces.
Isn’t it refreshing, in a time in sport where all we ever hear about is money and guaranteed contracts and outrageous numbers that most people can’t relate to that at all?
Can you believe that athletes make MONEY now? And some of them are black! Bobby Jones would never!
When you have the Masters tournament, there’s never a discussion about purse money, how much you win.
First of all, golfers totally talk about money. I know because I’ve seen Ian Poulter’s Ferrari collection, and because Dustin Johnson is one of the first people I’d hit up if I ever needed a key bump. Secondly, a dozen players in this year’s field are here from the LIV Tour, which pays some of them nine figures per annum, rendering their potential Masters winnings incidental. All of these fuckers are either rich, or would like to be.
It’s about a jacket. It’s about a coat that you win. Tell me something else that compares to that.
The Stanley Cup? The Lombardi trophy? An Olympic gold medal?
You won’t come up with anything that means more than just a green jacket.
Yes I will, you freak. I just did.
Yes, there’s money involved.
But only a $20 million purse. We need not speak of it.
It’s never discussed. I couldn’t even come close to telling you what first place pays at Augusta, and I don’t care.
THAT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE NOT PLAYING IN IT. And you’re already rich, you asshole! You built a full-sized replica of the seventh hole at Pebble Beach in your backyard. No shit you never talk about money. You don’t need any! Your whole life is the embodiment of “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”
Nor do the players.
Pretty sure the low-ranking dudes coming into today care a LOT about that money, Jimbo. Win the Masters and you get a $3 million top prize, an automatic five-year exemption onto the PGA Tour plus all four majors, and sponsorship money out the ass. Citizen will hand you a check for $20 million the second you walk off the 18th. You’re set for life if you win this thing. Returning champion and freshly released domestic violence convict Angel Cabrera is already salivating over all of that future bail money.
You know what it is? It’s immortality in golf. You achieve it, you have found a place in history. It’s permanence. It’s forever.
GTFO. Immortality? In sports? Well that’s new to me. You think NFL players took a knee because they actually care about police brutality? Jim Nantz doesn’t think so. And you wouldn’t believe the number of stories I’ve read about LeBron James caring more about his stats than he does about championships. It’s always POINTS POINTS POINTS with that guy, I swear. No, nothing else in sports compares with The Masters, with its amateur souls perishing any thought of riches to engage in a wholly spiritual—one might say godly—quest for a blazer. The Masters tournament is the last pure thing in the world, and it must defended at all costs.
Jim Nantz, I can’t relate to you in the slightest. I hope I never can.
