Augusta, Ga. – At the Masters, where there’s a musty old rule of etiquette for every blooming azalea on Augusta National Golf Club, the tournament is not declared official until the defending champion fits the new king with a green jacket.
On Sunday, it was Tiger Woods’ turn to dress Phil Mickelson, who made winning the championship look as easy as slipping on a coat. And these guys have this routine down pat.
They are the new masters of the only golf tourney that really matters in the United States. Three years in a row, Mickelson and Woods have turned the green jacket into sport’s most famous hand-me-down clothing.
“I don’t really want to trade next year,” Mickelson said. “But I certainly enjoyed having the jacket put on me, rather than putting it on (Woods).”
The fine Southern gentlemen of the Masters frown on anything that makes golf act like mud rasslin’.
But, for better or worse, golf has finally generated what this genteel pastime has been missing since Tom Watson stopped trading 7-iron shots at the stick with Jack Nicklaus: a genuine rivalry.
Don’t get me wrong. While Mickelson and Woods are both cut from championship cloth, they cannot actually wear the same duds.
Modeling a green jacket, Woods appears to be a golf god chiseled from pure emerald.
Throw a green jacket on Mickelson, and he looks like a beanbag chair tossed in the basement corner.
Woods makes us believe maybe a mere mortal really can knock the Earth from its axis every time he tees up a golf ball.
But Mickelson is the golfer more Americans would rather join for a cold brew at the 19th hole.
There are red states and blue states, health nuts and coach potatoes, Tiger Fanatics and Phil People.
Which side are you on?
No straddling the gallery ropes is allowed.
You’ve got to make a choice.
Fat Phil or Mr. Nike?
C’mon, tell the truth. If you cheer for Mickelson, Woods cannot possibly be your second-favorite golfer. Or vice versa.
Have you driven a Ford lately? Or wouldn’t you really rather have a Buick?
When Woods launches a drive into the stratosphere, golf grows a vertical leap, and the game seems less like croquet while jaws go slack with the same awe once reserved for a Michael Jordan dunk.
When Mickelson laughs after sinking a birdie putt, his belly jiggles like a bowl of pudding, and the golf course seems like the perfect place to leave the honey-do list behind in the carefree pursuit of the beer cart.
At the conclusion of the final 72 holes of the Masters, Woods lagged three strokes behind Mickelson, all of them putts.
From tee to green, nobody was finer in the Georgia pines than Woods. But he had to repair ball marks after putting. Tiger confessed to a violent urge to shatter his putter in eight easy pieces, saying, “This one might have to be fixed.”
Guess it’s back to work for the world’s greatest player.
And we all know the sweating begins for Woods from the second the alarm rings at 5 a.m. It’s far easier to picture Mickelson in a robe on a Monday morning, reading the newspaper and savoring his cheese Danish.
Golf is a job for Woods.
Golf seems like a dream come true for Mickelson.
I would gladly pay to watch Woods do magic on the practice tee, but sitting next to Jay Leno, Mickelson makes for much better television.
Woods has 10 major championships on his résumé. After starting his career in an 0-for-42 slump at the majors, Mickelson has won three of the past nine times he has started at the Masters, U.S. Open, British Open and PGA Championship.
“Three-of-9 sounds better, huh?” Mickelson said.
With a final-round 69, Mickelson knocked the Masters out of the park. One down, only three to go in the Grand Slam.
“Let’s settle down the Grand Slam talk and stuff,” said Mickelson, laughing.
OK, we’ll settle for a juicy debate.
There’s a tee time waiting at Pebble, and you have one spot left to fill in your dream foursome. Who do you call? Tiger? Or Phil?
Staff writer Mark Kiszla can be reached at 303-820-5438 or mkiszla@denverpost.com.
