Strangely, it felt appropriate that the final round of the 82nd Masters Tournament took place on the same day as Wrestlemania 34. Patrick Reed is the closest thing golf has to a wrestling “heel”, and on an electric Sunday afternoon in Augusta, Reed did just enough to kick the plug out of the socket and disappoint the many patrons who seemed to want anyone but Reed to win one of the maddest rushes to the finish line the Masters has seen in many years.
Reed is the younger generation’s FIGJAM. That acronym – “F--- I’m Good, Just Ask Me” – was once applied disparagingly by fellow pros to Phil Mickelson behind his back; Mickelson always ingratiated himself with his adoring crowds, but his public façade was then at odds with his professional demeanor. Reed, though, doesn’t care what anyone thinks about him, as long as they know he’s one of the best there is.
He’s not one of the PGA Tour bros like Jordan Spieth, Rickie Fowler and Justin Thomas – to name three from the chasing pack at Augusta this year – who vacation together and support each other on the course and off. Reed is a lone wolf who, like Tiger Woods, had a complicated childhood involving overbearing parents and now owns an affectation for wearing red shifts on Sunday afternoons. He loves the Ryder Cup, where his overbearing patriotism finds a somewhat boorish outlet, and as such he seems a perfect Green Jacket winner for Donald Trump’s America.
But make no mistake: Reed was a very worthy winner of the 2018 Masters. For three days he played virtually flawless golf: he shot the fourth-best round (69) on Thursday, the best round (66) on Friday, and the fifth-best round (67) on an explosive Saturday when it seemed only a slight exaggeration to suggest the top 20 golfers in the world occupied the top 20 slots on the leaderboard. That put him within touching distance of becoming the first golfer to shoot four rounds in the 60s in the Masters and, with 18 holes remaining, gave Reed leads of three shots on Rory McIlroy, five on Fowler, six on Jon Rahm, and seven on Henrik Stenson.
That list of chasers does not include Spieth, who began Sunday nine shots behind but birdied the 1st, 2nd, 5th, 8th, 9th, 12th, 13th, 15th and – with a monstrous putt reminiscent of his birdie at the 16th on the Old Course, three Open Championship Sundays ago – 16th, all without a single blotch on his card. That briefly pulled Spieth level with Reed, whose pedestrian final round had otherwise kept the chasing pack at bay, thanks in no small part to McIlroy’s four bogeys in his first 11 holes. Spieth’s heroics put his calamitous 2016 Masters behind him and reestablished his star as the brightest in the firmament of twentysomething golfing talent; alas, they could not win him a second Green Jacket, as his pulled drive at the 18th clipped a tree branch and led to an untimely bogey.
Meanwhile, Fowler – often a flatterer of deception on major championship Sundays – started with six pars and a bogey in his first seven holes, but he finished with six birdies and five pars in his last 11, including a glorious three at the par-4 18th. That left Reed needing two pars to win, and after an almighty scare at the 17th, he played the 18th calmly and securely to secure his sixth professional tournament victory, and to become the ninth first-time major championship winner in the last 10 majors.
I am a Masters connoisseur in the truest sense of the word, someone for whom the recent unlocking of the Masters broadcast vault on YouTube led me scurrying to watch full final round telecasts from the late 1970s and early 1980s. Every spring, I hope against hope that another Masters might even begin to approach the heights of 1986, when Jack Nicklaus won his sixth Green Jacket by defeating the very best players of the age, and most Aprils I resign myself to disappointment as another Masters fails to reach the impossible standards of my childhood memories. The 2018 Masters was no exception, but my goodness, did it come close: all it lacked was a few more fireworks at the finish, a Sunday charge from an aging champion (and Tiger showed enough game to suggest such a charge may one day be possible), and a more beloved winner. But to the latter point, winners feel more beloved when villains and ruffians exist to whom they can be compared, and Patrick Reed fills this latter void to the letter. Long live our Masters Heel!