Amen Corner, the famous triumvirate of holes on Augusta National’s back nine, never seemed so apt as it did this Masters weekend–as golf breathed its last. Yes, the sport will continue to be seen–like light from a distant star already extinct–but make no mistake: golf is dead. The genteel, mannerly game rode the back of the inimitable and fiery Tiger Woods to a stratospheric popularity around the turn of the century. But golf’s slow pace, great expense, lack of action, and difficulty for the average player doomed it to irrelevance. Golf courses built in Woods’ wake have been abandoned. Some destroyed. Equipment doesn’t sell. TV ratings are halved–on good days. Golf had been sick, no secret there. But then suddenly it died, this weekend, at the Masters of all places.
The Masters, established in 1934 by the great amateur golfer Bobby Jones, will continue for some years to give out green jackets, just as the club where it’s held will continue to admit a token woman once in a while. But golf as a popular pastime will be entombed along with stamp collecting, vaudeville, newspapers and handwriting. The iPhone-addicted, equality-loving, immediate gratification-seeking world won’t know much about golf. Even the billionaires have found better things to do with their limited time on earth. Only people in rarefied air like the president and Michael Jordan will persist. A young man named Jordan Spieth will probably win the 2015 Masters. Broadcasters will wax eloquent about the future of the sport. But no one will be listening. They’ll all be, literally, left to their own devices. Bobby Jones was once given a ticker tape parade in New York City for his victories in golf. What’s ticker tape, you ask? Well, it’s a little like golf…
