Where the Masters Magic Fades at Dusk

My favorite place to sit and watch golf every Thursday at the Masters isn’t Amen Corner. It isn’t the bleachers on 15, nor is it by the pond on 16. It’s the driving range — also known as the “tournament practice area” — at golden hour, when some of the best players in the world are stripped psychologically bare, and left alone to wrestle with their swing thoughts. 

Augusta National is a beautiful place, particularly at sunset. I’m not breaking any news here. The sun transforms from yellow to orange as it sinks behind the pines, and sometimes you’ll even get a dash of pink at dusk. The driving range can look like a living room carpet that someone sprinkled with a bag of loose pearls. And when play is done for the day, it is eerily quiet. 

Except, of course, for the murmur of doubt and the infrequent lashing at the ball. 

Some players come here as part of their routine when their round is complete. Scottie Scheffler is one. Even on his best ball-striking days, the world’s No. 1 player needs to hit a few shots so he can double-check his grip, recalibrate his alignment, and lastly, clear his head. 

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But not everyone is Scheffler. For some players, a visit to the range when the shadows get long is a genuine tell. They are lost in the wilderness. Dinner and family can wait. It’s Thursday, and they have one final chance to get this fixed. 

Jon Rahm was on the range Thursday evening, lashing at the ball and trying to make sense of what had just happened. He seemed so ready for this year’s Masters. He was poised to reclaim his position at the top of the game, and silence all the critics who dismissed his LIV Golf accomplishments. Then out of nowhere, an ugly 78. It didn’t make sense, at least to him. 

Every few seconds, Rahm launched another ball into the sky, studied its flight like a professor standing in front of a dry-erase board, then sighed to himself as it drifted offline. His instructor, Dave Phillips, looked on from a few feet away, trying to hold his best poker face. 

Every year, we love to shine a spotlight on the rewards that the Masters dangles in front of you. It’s rare that we get to see the torment, at least away from the cameras. But the driving range at dusk is where all the magic fades. If you find yourself here on a Thursday, an uneasiness awaits you. The cut looms. It’s your last chance to untangle your demons.

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Brooks Koepka was on the putting green, not far from Rahm, with his jaw tightly clenched. He rolled putts in silence. His caddie, Ricky Elliott, was there to fetch Koepka’s golf balls out of the hole, but Koepka wasn’t making many putts, so there wasn’t much to do. Koepka fared far better than Rahm on Thursday, an even-par 72, but his putter had frequently betrayed him, another quarrel in their rocky relationship. Now he had to grind, to try and find a feel — or at least some hope — for the morning. 

A little farther away, a slow trickle of patrons was moving toward the exit. No one made much noise. They looked tired and sunburnt, carrying plastic bags full of merchandise, a stack of cups with warm dregs of beer. A few kids lingered by the putting green, pleading for autographs. Koepka signed a few, ignoring the grown men who thrust pin flags over the kids’ shoulders, begging to get a signature of their own. 

Jordan Spieth drifted across the green to chat with Koepka, to explain the infuriating roll one of his putts had taken that day, and Koepka nodded in solidarity. Spieth had just shot 71, nothing to be upset with, but a far cry from the magic he used to summon here. 

If you looked across the putting green and down the range, you could count 10 majors between Koepka, Spieth, and Rahm. Except right now, no one was counting.  

The line of patrons was thinning. Security was politely encouraging everyone to head for the exit. You could hear garbage trucks rumbling to life, somewhere in the distance. Spieth headed for the Players Service Building, and Rahm soon followed, taking his hat off and running his fingers through his hair, one final deep sigh to wrap up his day. 

Koepka wasn’t finished. He was going to mash a few drivers with whatever light was left. Other than the sound of Koepka’s driver, all you could hear was the birds in the trees, singing the same refrain every few sections. It would have felt peaceful, serene even, if this maddening game didn’t so often make you want to scream.