A Tradition Unlike Any Other

Nine times out of ten, I write these blog entries with the reader in mind. This is not one of those times.

This is for me, and for any serious player who may read it.

By "player," of course, I mean one who plays golf. Note that I write plays golf, not "golfs." "Golf" is not a verb. One does not "golf," any more than one "soccers" or "tennises" or "baseballs." One plays golf. If you get that, and agree with that, read on.

Zach Johnson, the pride of Iowa and a current resident of Seminole County, Florida, won the Masters last year. He has won three times on the PGA Tour and twice on the Nationwide Tour. I once chatted with him on the driving range at my club, talking football and such. He's all of 5-10, maybe a buck-65 soaking wet. A wee thing. Hits it as pure as the driven snow.

Justin Rose, on the other hand, has won five international events, and has a history of early leads at The Masters, as you may have heard during Friday's second round coverage. He's a star. Broke out at the 1998 British Open, appears in television ads, has a swing to die for. He's dreamy. On the surface, if you were a betting man, you'd take Rose over Johnson every day of the week and twice on Sunday, especially the Sunday of a major.

Unless you're a player. In which case, you'd recognize one of your own. Which brings me back to Friday.

There were two moments that stood out to me in watching coverage of the Masters, both involving Johnson and Rose. I'm leaving out Tiger, because everything he does is a "moment." Yes, his par save on 18 on Friday was All-World. Of course it was.

Let's instead start with Johnson's par save on 18 on the same day. Little Zach Johnson, he of the sweepy hook swing and wedge game, got himself into downright jail on Augusta National's final hole. He hit it long, to the back tier of the three-level green, in a position from which no human could possibly escape. Par was the goal, bogey was the reality. He was deader than fried chicken.

Sometime within the same ten minutes, Rose decided to lay up on the par-5 fifteenth, even though he had but 213 yards to the hole. This decision, although on Friday and not Sunday, may someday be regarded in the same breath with Chip Beck, but that's another blog entirely.

The point is, Johnson looked over his 80-foot birdie putt from nowhere and promptly knocked it down to within a brush-in. It will never be revisited again, because Johnson won't win tomorrow, but it was among the five best putts I have ever witnessed.

Rose, on the other hand, with a sand wedge in his hand from less than 100 yards, dunked it into the creek. Drop, thin skank over the green, chip, two putts, triple bogey. Goodbye, Masters.

Johnson, I failed to point out, came to 18 on the heels of an atrocious double-bogey on 17, where he toured every bunker on the hole. Yet, rather than pack it in, he redoubled his efforts and managed a stellar 4 on the final hole, thanks to that incredible putt. It's worth noting that he bounced back to shoot 68 on Saturday, with five birdies and one bogey.

Justin Rose, who is, as we have agreed, dreamy, responded to his triple on 15 on Friday by throwing a bogey at 16, followed by three more bogeys, one double, and four birdies on Saturday en route to an irrelevant 73, a stretch in which he pretty much played his way out of the Tournament.

Understand that I come here not to bury Rose. Rather, I come to identify with Johnson, who is nothing if not a grinder. He willed himself into contention on Saturday, as tenuous as that may be. That's the difference between a guy who has won a major, and a guy who has a nice swing.

The final round comes tomorrow, one of my favorite days on the sporting calendar. If I had to pick anyone other than Tiger to win it, I would go with Steve Flesch or Brandt Snedeker, both of whom have demonstrated the kind of stuff that Johnson showed on 18 on Friday -- fearlessness. That's the secret, in case anyone was wondering. Fearless swings at precise targets, as Gio Valiante likes to say. Not how, but how many. The battle of wills is what makes Augusta so compelling, year after year.

Me, I'll be rooting for the grinders, if only because that's the sort of player I'd like to think I can be.