In the weeks preceding Masters week, the air in Augusta turns green. A bilious yellow-green dust forms on the leaves of trees and settles onto every prone surface. People gripe and sneeze, while airing a collection of common sentiments about the upcoming tournament: “I can’t believe it’s Masters week already.”

Every year, thousands of people come to Augusta, Georgia, for the Masters golf tournament. It's the most wonderful time of the year: a weeklong cocktail party, a Mecca for golf-fans that is nonetheless a cocktail party for those who aren't golf fans. I've attended nearly every Masters since I was born during Masters week in 1987, at St. Joseph’s Hospital [...]