Daniel Ruth considers the Masters Golf Tournament’s continuing sojourn in the 19th century. A nugget:
Augusta National is much more than a private country club for swells. It is a vast corporate enterprise that rakes in gazillions of dollars a year in sponsorships, television rights, ticket sales, merchandising its logo around the world, licensing video games and other assorted marketing and promotional campaigns.
The club is, for all practical purposes, the IBM of brassies. Augusta is the equivalent of someone who pours out their most intimate details on Facebook and then complains about not having any privacy.
Why wouldn’t one of the assembled reporters ask a couple of essential questions: “Yo, Billy Bob. Isn’t this whole thing regarding Virginia Rometty simply, supremely stupid? Don’t you feel just a bit dopey in being held up as a classic example of lug-headed sexism in America? Really now, is the world going to end merely by admitting an accomplished woman to your hallowed halls?”
And maybe this: “General Bullmoose, do you really want one of the great golf tournaments in sports to be overshadowed by the club’s persistence in treating women like lower-caste scullery maids?”