Augusta Dreamin'

Well, that final act of CBS's reality show, "March Madness," concluded with the level of drama and talent on display that I haven't seen since my fellow Buds, all near 50 now, faced off in a four-on-four, shirts-versus-skins, first-team-to-twenty, 90-minute showdown.

As that second half unfolded Monday night, I suspected CBS had slipped in an extended-length Buffalo Wild Wings commercial as an April's Fool joke...

Guys at the bar: "Hey, can't you make this game last forever? I wanna get really hammered and stay here all night!" Bartender pushes a button, underpaid worker at Reliant Field flips a switch, and magically, the rims contract.

Unfortunately, this was no commercial. The clock kept ticking, Butler kept missing and missing and missing, and the futility lasted well past 11pm. A nightmare.

But now, I can now turn my full and undivided attention to A Tradition Unlike Any Other: The Masters. And since I am currently sans employment, I do mean full and undivided.

Ahhh yes, could spring be far behind? Well, sure it may take its time, this is Chicago after all. And as I look out my window, the Midwest dome of rain, fog, and depression has descended upon us yet again.

I vividly recall one dreary Master's Saturday afternoon, shortly after moving to Chicago, when a snow/sleet mix coated my skinny self as I trudged down Clark Street. As I happened past an appliance store with several big (not "flat") screen TVs positioned in the window amidst the toaster ovens, hair dryers, and waffle irons (small wonder these stores dried up), I noticed that the TVs were all tuned to ATUAO.

Like some homeless, hungry Tiny Tim waif staring at the window of a bakery, I stood with teeth chattering, nose running, and eyes squinting to catch a shot of the leaderboard as the ice sliced through my very soul. The camera paused upon a gaggle of sun glassed, sun dressed, and sun tanned southern babes politely laughing at God-knows-what (me?) And then, to my horror, I caught my pitiful mug reflected in the $19.99 lighted circular magnifying makeup mirror.

In the words of Verne Lundquist, "Oh my." (He was not using his complimentary tone.)

"What the F was I doing here?" I thought to myself. "This is America, by God. I could live anywhere and I chose Chicago?

Clark and Fullerton. Early April. I was wearing two layers of flannel when I could (and should) be in Augusta, Georgia...assuming I had the money, vacation time, and passes...scarfing down pimiento cheese sandwiches and sucking down cold Budweiser after cold Budweiser charming these Belles with my disarming wit and vast knowledge of all things golf: "You know ladies, if he wins this weekend, he gets a green jacket; but he has to leave it here. Hey darlin', pass me a hush puppy."

I comforted myself knowing that my Chicago commitment would launch a very soon-to-be-successful advertising career. I'd rise the corporate ladder faster than Darren Stevens and ultimately get my very own invitation to join Augusta National. Hell, I'd look back on this moment with a chuckle and a sigh as I would personally witness ATUAO in my very own 42L Masters Green blazer that I had to leave behind.

That invite has yet to arrive, but, I digress...

Even if it is a torturous watch for us Midwesterners, The Masters is a sporting/TV event that appeals to those who have never even concerned themselves with shaft stiffness, rate of ball spin, or square grooves.

Golfers tune in annually to revisit memorized holes so that they can witness normally hardened robotic professionals three-jack and yip four footers. Sports fans watch the inevitable competitive drama unfold Sunday around 4pm as amateurs, superstars, and once was's vie for eagles and a piece of history. And to women, it's a four-hour HGTV landscaping and garden special as the occasional oddly dressed good looking man tours the grounds with his specialized tools to take random chunks from the manicured greenness.

I have no doubt that this year's Master's will again hold me rapt.

Can Lefty fight off creeping arthritis, hold hair intact, and keep his manssiere secure enough to grab a fourth green jacket? Can Eldrick manage his personal demons, find a swing, and lay off the chicks to get back to being Tiger again? Did Dustin Johnson learn enough at the PGA to avoid another DQ? ("Excuse me, Mr. Johnson, word has it that you addressed a patron as a "fan;" please step this way and bring your clubs.") Can John Daly navigate his Hootersmobile past security and squeeze down Magnolia Lane and still make a 7:54 am tee time? (What's that? He's not in the field? Did they not know where to mail his invite?)

If there were some way for Buffalo Wild Wings to infiltrate those hallowed grounds and pay off some disgruntled grounds-keeper to cause a six-way tie around 6pm Sunday, I'm all in. They say it will hit 80 this weekend, but this is Chicago and that kind of warm April weather comes with an asterisk: *expect 65-mile-an-hour winds, Armageddon-like rain and hail, and inevitable flooding in and around all golf courses.

I think I will stick near my TV.