The pearly gates were unlocked at 8 o’clock sharp Saturday morning, and thousands of spectators awaited this grand opening, all the better to stake out positions for a match that would not begin for more than six hours.
Bearing their precious badges, patrons carried rain gear and great expectations too. Anybody who had rushed through breakfast and also brought coffee was detained until contents could be poured into a green Augusta National Golf Club cup.
Otherwise, it was onward to this revered course for this special occasion. Greg Norman vs. Nick Faldo, a Masters classic. They would be the last pairing of the third round, but they would play alone. Their visceral rivalry has been a coexistence spanning two decades with few pleasantries.
It was almost eerie. As noon approached, a gray Scottish cloud cover arrived, and hefty gusts of wind too. How reminiscent of a Saturday in 1990 at St. Andrews, the misty birthplace of golf, where this pair of giants dueled for the British Open lead.
They were tied at game’s start, but Faldo beat Norman like a rug, 67 to 76, in four hours of stony silence. It was not even as close as those scores indicated. Faldo went on to win his second of three silver claret jugs while Norman disappeared in every sense.
At rout’s end after that watershed round, it was as though the Great White Shark had sunk to the bottom of the Firth of Forth. He walked in solitary confinement across the gorse to the Old Course Hotel, caddie Bruce Edwards lugging the clubs that didn’t work far behind.
Norman, devastated, didn’t win another tournament for two years, a remarkable drought for a golfer of his talent and ardor. So pronounced was his funk. There is defeat, and there is defeat with honor. To be drubbed by an adversary who has haunted him was too much, even for Norman.
But he might just be the most resilient athlete of our generation. That St. Andrews massacre affected Norman every bit as much as Bob Tway’s bunker shot or Larry Mize’s miracle pitch, yet here is Norman again, stalking that green jacket, a survivor yearning to be fitted.
Norman posted a 71 Saturday at Augusta National to Faldo’s 73. Norman is a touchdown ahead of the field. Would he dare lose now? Ed Sneed led by five swings after 54 holes in 1979 and couldn’t win. Craig Stadler blew a lead of six on the back nine in 1981 before he beat Dan Pohl in a playoff.
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So it can happen. But it shouldn’t happen.
Saturday was an exercise in exorcism, tense but pure sport. There are no billboards at Augusta National, no corporate takeovers, no rowdies. Alcohol isn’t discouraged, for beer is only $1.50, but restraint is advised. Aspirin goes for $1.75.
Inside the ropes of golf, there are no forearm shivers to referees, drug arrests or outbreaks of trash talking. When Norman and Faldo walk together but apart, there is little talk, period. Saturday wasn’t as chilly as St. Andrews. There was some banter on the first tee, and at No. 14.
Otherwise, when Norman spoke, it was to his caddie, Tony Navarro, a Cubs fan from Moline, Ill. Faldo, mellowing only slightly in his 40s, opted primarily for eye contact with fairways and flagsticks. He was politely expressionless.
But the two-time Masters champion wasn’t flawless. He twice fluffed chip shots from below the green at No. 3, a tough hole TV never shows. When Faldo rallied to birdie No. 5, Norman already was in the bathroom beside the sixth tee. Talk about a cold war between international powers.
In the past, when Norman wasn’t gored by the unfathomable act of an opponent, Norman would slit his own wrists by doing the unthinkable. But Saturday, at age 41, he beat his second-fiercest foe. Now, there is left on the grounds of Augusta National only one man who can beat Norman.
And on Sunday, he can achieve Masters peace with himself in a bloodless coup at arm’s length from a nemesis. For in the last group at 2:49 Augusta National time, Norman and Faldo again will play alone together.