Last week, during the first and second rounds of the Masters, anything that wasn't bolted down served as a weather vane or wind sock. Hats blew across fairways. Flagsticks bent like politicians' principles. It wasn't just inanimate objects that were influenced. When the wind comes up, golfers turn into numbered Lotto balls, dancing on bursts of air.
Wind favors short guys.
Wind favors fat guys. Wind favors guys with heavy, mallet-headed putters. Wind favors guys who learned to play golf in Texas and Oklahoma, where spring gusts topple trees and overturn small aircraft parked outside hangars. Wind favors Jesper Parnevik, whose tight pant legs don't flap distractingly when he's putting. This year's April zephyr made fools of all of us who spent the past 12 months on our soapboxes, declaiming that Augusta was obsolete and needed to be Tiger-proofed.