Commentary by Danielle Wilson
I’m a mess, people. I smell, I haven’t brushed my teeth in over 30 hours and I’m choking back tears as I watch an homage to the late Arnold Palmer. Wow. Even I am impressed with this level of falling apart. What gives?
Well, as you may remember from last week, I headed down to Florida with five-sixths of my family for spring break vacation. I’ve just returned, having driven through the night for 16 hours straight. Doo helped some, taking the 1-to-5 a.m.-“orphan maker” shift, and then again from 7 to 9 when my eyes quite literally began to cross. I suppose when a middle-ager like myself only gets about four hours of upright dozing, she’s bound to be a little off.
But I think my emotional reaction to the Masters Tournament is more than the result of post-road trip exhaustion. I grew up watching golf. I have vivid memories of Papaw sipping his highball and cheering on Jack Nicklaus and Tom Watson. My parents have a painting of their favorite players hanging in their kitchen. Doo and I have always followed Phil Mickelson and fondly recall his first green jacket win just a month after our fourth child was born. When I hear the CBS intro music, I get chills. And I may have a commentator crush on Jim Nantz.
As I read back through this, I realize how lame I sound. I can’t pull all-nighters and I actually choose to watch golf, even when awesome movies like “Big Trouble in Little China” are on. I suppose the combination of sleep deprivation, a blatant disrespect for personal hygiene and the gorgeous pink azaleas of Augusta National have left me susceptible to a longing for my youth. A simpler time when I didn’t have to worry about anything except whether Mom’s “Freddie” would birdie No. 13. Oh, how I long for the ‘80s!
But here in 2017, I should probably just pull myself together and shower. Peace out.