FreeForAll Wednesday is here. We talk pimento cheese, Rory McIlroy, pitching issues and an obscure Eagles classic. Enjoy and if you’re feeling flush, five days a week of this brilliance only costs $8 a month. Enjoy.
Let us start, as all great Masters conversations must, with the sandwiches. They’re awful.
I can say this with all due respect and without fear of reprisal. I went to 24 toonamints. It’s very unlikely I’ll go to another. Going to the Masters is the only thing I miss about retiring from the Enquirer. It’s the only sporting event I’ve worked that not only lives up to the hype, but exceeds it.
But the sandwiches. . .
An old colleague called last week with an urgent question. No, he wasn’t begging me to un-retire for a week. He wasn’t asking me to get him a Masters garden gnome from the souvenir building that’s bigger than a subdivision. He wanted to talk sandwiches. Paraquoting:
“My buddies and I were thinking of buying that Masters sandwich kit. You know the one I’m talking about?’’
I did. For $99 or $199, Masters watchers can channel the toonamint experience by purchasing a box filled with Masters chips, cookies, cups and tubs of Masters BBQ, egg salad and pimento cheese.
The full Masters food Monty. (Masters)
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“I’d rather eat wallpaper paste,’’ I said.
Pardon?
“I’d rather eat asbestos on toast, with a side of roadkill. I’d rather qualify for the Masters and putt with a piece of boa constrictor. I’d eat a loblolly pinecone before I’d eat a Masters pimento cheese sandwich.’’
There is nothing lacking at the Masters. Fastidious assumes new meaning on its 365 acres, which would not look better if Monet his ownself had painted them. Because the Masters is an invitational, very good players almost always win.
Decorum doesn’t just matter. It’s part of the scenery, as alive and well as the horticulture. The Masters is not a clown show, like the aptly named Waste Management Open. It’s not clotted with corporate hospitality tents like the US Open. Anyone heard shouting “Youdaman’’ is dragged to a secret underground location and force-fed egg salad sandwiches.
Tradition’s hand might be heavy. It’s also a big part of what makes the event great.
And god help you if you bring a cell phone onto the grounds. Families have spent decades looking for relatives who attempted to sneak their phones onto the acreage, never to be seen again. Rumors are the miscreants live underground, laboring in the SubAir system that keeps the grass dry and hums perpetually, like some sleeping alien army.
I accepted all of it because, unlike everything else in the world, the Masters works. Ask yourself: What works in the world today?
Answer: Nothing.
Nothing works. Things are breaking down.
The Masters works today same as it did in 1934, when Cliff and ol’ Bobby J. kicked the thing off. Probably better.
You know what doesn’t work?
The food. The food for the masses doesn’t work. It’s not the Masters fault that pimento cheese in and of itself is horrible and only technically food. I mean, does anyone like pimento? Anyone actually sit down with fork and salt shaker and say in gleeful anticipation, “I’m eating my pimento now, don’t bother me.’’
Plus, the cheese-food concoction is. . . orange. Not cheddar-orange. Crayola orange, Creamsicle orange. Radioactive orange.
It could be helped, or at least masked, with decent bread. The Masters chooses bread whiter than the South of Scarlett O’Hara, with all the nutrition of shirt cardboard.
The only good thing about a Masters pimento cheese sandwich is it makes the egg salad and the BBQ seem princely by comparison. Truthfully, they stink, too. The egg salad is overwhelmed by mayo, the pork cn be, well, kinda leaky.
Patrons love to marvel at how cheap the food is. Pimento cheese and egg salad, each $1.50 as of last April. But if you’re going to spend thousands of dollars to be there a week, might you be OK with dropping a few more bucks on a decent lunch?
Enjoy the Masters this week. There is nothing like it. From the looks of the world these days, there never will be. Just don’t eat the food. It’s like going to Aspen and avoiding the yellow snow.
Now, then. . .
Hey, Rory, the course is over here. (Daily Mail)
RORY WILL NEVER WIN A GREEN JACKET. He is the contemporary version of Greg Norman. Or Bert Yancey, who adored the Masters so much, “he made scale models that show the contours and the most likely positions for pin placements on all the greens. He attached the models to a large board, and every night he stared at the board and tried to make himself a part of them.’’ (Sports Illustrated)
Norman and Yancey never won at Augusta because they wanted it too much. And as any golf nut can tell you, no one who ever obsessed on becoming a member at Augusta National is ever invited to join.
Now, it’s McIlroy’s turn to be obsessed. Read this self-absorbed mumbo-jumbo. ESPN.com:
"I definitely feel like I'm in a better place than I was a few weeks ago," McIlroy said Sunday. "Through the Florida swing, there was just a lot of volatility in my game, some good, some bad, quite a few big numbers, so just trying to tidy that up."
As far as the rest of McIlroy's plan to end his major drought and finally win a green jacket?
"Control of myself, control of my emotions and my thoughts," McIlroy said. "If I can control those, it makes the physical control of everything a lot easier and a lot more simple.’’
No chance. The mystique of the place wraps like a wisteria vine around Rory. He’s trying for the 10th time to complete the career Grand Slam. He hasn’t won a major in nearly a decade. He’s still living in his head.
Chill out, Ror. Have a cheese sandwich.
ARM WOES ON DISPLAY. . . Hunter Greene-v-Wade Miley at the Small Park tonight. You want two entirely different ways to get hitters out? There ya go.
All we know for sure is, there has to be a better way than simply throwing too hard all the time. Or, as Justin Verlander put it recently, “Everyone is throwing as hard as they possibly can and spinning the ball as hard as they possibly can. I don't know how we rewind the clock...the trickle-down permeates all the way to little league.’’
I’d love to see Greg Maddux quoted on this. Where’s Bronson Arroyo?
A smart MLB team or teams is going to hire one of these guys and have him try to teach young pitchers how to pitch. Those teams are going to scout, draft, sign and develop kids who don’t throw 100, but who are smart, resourceful and aren’t elbow explosions waiting to happen.
Mike Leake was that way. He had a decent career here.
Max-velocity is the rage, and has been for a generation. Look where it’s getting us.
“Throwing hard is a direct stressor on the elbow, and throwing hard has been shown to lead to injury by multiple studies over the years.’’ (The Athletic)
Teams spend mega-millions on starting pitching, even as it’s the most fragile part of any club. Why not find a way to turn back the clock, when flame-throwing was no more valued than changing speeds and hitting spots?
Tonight, 37-year-old Wade Miley will make his 309th career start in his 13-year big-league career. His fastball barely knocks over a milk bottle at a county fair. He’ll face 24-year-old Hunter Greene, making his 49th career start. Greene tops 100 all the time. Who’s taking odds Greene will be around anywhere near as long as Miley?
TUNE O’ THE DAY. . . Was Long Road out of Eden the Eagles last album? I think so. Regardless, I liked it as much as any Eagles collection not named Desperado. Here’s a tune from that set.
Did I just hear a "cowabunga" at the master???!!😳😬! Find that man and string him up!!
Spot on with the food, it’s criminally bad and will kill you at that. Sometimes the good ole days weren’t really what you remember. But if you think you have it bad, imagine being there sunup to sundown all weekend and needing to eat gluten free. You may as well ask the vendors if you can dig up an Azalea and eat it.