They call it the Cathedral of Golf,
that place where trod Jones, Snead, and Sarazen,
and where Furyk, Woods, and Couples yet contend.
Patrons watch in awed silence
as their heroes struggle for elusive victory
amidst azalea- and dogwood-clad greensward.
It is awesome, this Cathedral,
and there in Augusta
with bended knee and hushed voice
the supplicants offer their obeisance.
At the state parks and munis
where I learned to play the Scottish Game,
it was different.
Teebox waits were interminable,
the fairways execrable,
footprint-cratered bunkers rarely raked.
Not a cathedral there, but
a raucous, down-home church
filled with gospel music
and the oath-filled singing
of weekend players.