The Masters and Immortality

I spent a lot of last weekend watching the Masters golf tournament, the most pretentious spectacle in all of sports.

The fans are “patrons” and the golf course is “the property.” “Stuffy” doesn’t begin to describe either the event itself or the broadcast. The property was referred to more than once as “the sacred sod,” and without irony. Yet, an egg salad sandwich purchased by a patron on the property is still just an egg salad sandwich and it costs only $1.50. So, there’s that.

Also, little known fact: you only get one green jacket. So, when Rory McIlroy won his second Masters in a row, they just put his own jacket back on him. Good thing he remembered to pack it. Throughout the weekend I kept being reminded that Jack Nicklaus won six green jackets. Turns out he didn’t. He won just one. I don’t know. Maybe if the Members jacked the price of an egg salad sandwich they could pop for a new jacket for Jack, as that one he got in 1963 has to be somewhat ill-fitting by now.

If there’s one thing that permeates the whole thing, beyond monumental self-importance, it’s the yearning for immortality. Even though the course only opened in the 1930’s, they have all these rituals that you’d think were ordained in the Bible. The Old Testament to be exact. There’s the jacket and the tearful interview in Butler Cabin and the name “etched into eternity” on the trophy and the champions’ dinner and the ceremonial opening tee shot. Jim Nance and the other commentators/officiants sprinkle their chatter freely with references to “immortality” and “one for the ages” and “the history books” and “down in lore” and “legends.”

Even the ads stay true to the theme. They’re not just selling cars. These are classics with a heritage that is timeless.

All of this speaks to a need some guys have (yes, unfortunately, it’s mostly guys) to believe they won’t ever die really. They’ll never be forgotten. Football is also big into this. Ever visited Notre Dame? The stadium is literally ringed with statues and none of them are the statues of literal saints. They’re the graven images of winning coaches. Even Dan Devine has one, which, given his name, might make a certain amount of sense. But Dan freakin’ Devine, for cryin’ out loud! Even here in otherwise strictly secular Madison you can’t go buy a tee shirt at Camp Randall without passing statues of Barry Alvarez and Pat Richter. Every time I see those I think to myself, “Oh, for Christ sake…”

And yet, guess what, I’ve got news for you: we’ll all be forgotten.

About 117 billion human beings have lived and died on this planet since we showed up 300,000 years ago. How many of their names do we remember?

And even that 300,000 years is just a blink of an eye. The universe is 14 billion years old. And, in that universe, we are little more than an afterthought. There are a billion stars in our galaxy and there are a billion galaxies. Our sun is an unexceptional little star and we’re a ho-hum solar system in a corner of our galaxy which is in itself a rather unimpressive one. Given that, the odds that there are other humans out there are just about 100%. So, if we were insignificant among 117 billion people, well, multiply that by a billion or so.

How many of us can even name our own great-grandparents much less know anything about them? I was a mayor, but how many Madisonians could even name, say, three mayors? “Well, Rhodes-Conway is the mayor. And of course there’s Soglin. And… uh… Scott Walker, was he mayor? If he was, I didn’t vote him! Bastard!”

If you’re bummed by this, you shouldn’t be. I actually find my insignificance comforting. In the big picture, I really can’t screw anything up. When you put it all in perspective there’s nothing to worry about. Meaninglessness isn’t a dark abyss. It’s freedom and an opportunity for creativity.

Had Rory really become the first guy with a six shot lead on Saturday morning to lose the Masters (and that looked likely for a few holes on Sunday), eh, so what? Have another Guinness, mate. It’ll all be forgotten soon enough.