So for the last two days both the best looking (me) and hardest working (Red) bloggers here at The 300s have been busting our asses getting out Masters #content. I discussed the field a little bit, Red threw down some gambling lines, and all and all there was enough written word in the metaphorical spoon for you to shoot up with and give you your golf fix until today. The Masters, as you may have (fucking) known was supposed to start today, and start it did.
The first pairings made it through a grand total of one hole. One.
And for those really not indoctrinated into professional golf, this is not your Saturday morning tee time at a local muni. The normal reasons for a stoppage or slowdown in play do not exist. There is not a foursome of pretentious walkers ambling down the first hole, taking 20 minutes to look for their lost ball in a pile of late-fall foliage. Nope, such causation does not exist on the PGA Tour.
There is a fucking hurricane hitting the southern United States right now. Thunder. Lightning. Rain. All of it. Is it an actual hurricane? I don’t fucking know. I don’t check the weather for the south. I assume it’s always “80 and sunny, chance of loose interpretation of the second amendment” down there. All I know is the brain trust that runs the tour decided to set a tournament for a weekend centered around a Friday the 13th and my superstitious, Irish ass is having NONE OF IT. The Masters, the only glimmer of hope in this wasteland of a year, is getting Perfect Stormed with Tiger and Broosky playing the parts of Clooney and Wahlberg.
::Freeman voice:: I wish I could end this blog with an optimistic request to weather to improve. I wish I could. But 2020 is no fairly tale.