Tinkly pines of azaleas

 The Masters golf tournament began this morning down in Augusta, Ga., and, no, Scottie Scheffler hasn't won it yet. Neither has Bryson DeChambeau, Jon Rahm, Rory McIlroy or any of the other favorites among the twee golf set, who live for these four days like no other.

Me?

I think it'll be tinkly piano music over a Cathedral of Pines and a bed of azaleas in a playoff.

No golf tournament, with the possible exception of the Open when it's at St. Andrews, trades on its flora, fauna and geography like the Masters. It's a lovely place, Augusta, enhanced by all those beauty camera shots CBS puts up to shove the loveliness right down America's gullet. It is, to coin a phrase, Nature Unlike Any Other. 

Also History Unlike Any Other (although not really, considering the Open predates it by about 75 years). Also Self-Reverence Unlike Any Other, and Ritual Unlike Any Other, and -- the Blob's personal favorite -- Mayhem Unlike Any Other.

Weird stuff happens at the Masters, especially on the back nine on Sunday. Greg Norman blows a six-stroke lead. Rory McIlroy hits a ball onto the Butler Cabin's front porch, or nearly so. Drives sail into the pines; irons splash into Rae's Creek; green jackets go sailing off with the angels because, on Augusta's marble-top greens, Ricky Joe Farnsworth IV breathed too hard on a putt and sent it skittering a mile past the cup.

Either that, or Rory finally wins the thing and spends the next 15 minutes alternately weeping and laughing. 

That happened last year -- and, listen, if it didn't suck you in, you must have had a soul-ectomy somewhere along the line. It is, after all, the kind of drama that keeps you watching even though it's golf, and that separates the Masters from your weekly Citibank Mutual of Omaha Rubbermaid Open.

And, hey: There's always a chance Scottie Scheffler won't win.

Or Rory. Or Bryson DeChambeau. Or Jon Rahm. Or -- let's see -- Xander Schauffle, Justin Rose, Ludvig Aberg, Colin Morikawa, Viktor Hovland or Cameron Smith. Or even some random A. Bhatia or S. Im.

And speaking of random ...

I'm putting my dimes on Maverick McNealy.

He's a 30-year-old pro out of Stanford who's 41st on the PGA money list right now, and I'm not picking him just because his name is Maverick McNealy. OK, so, that's mostly why I'm picking him.

 I mean, come on: Has there ever been a better golfer name than Maverick McNealy?

You think Maverick McNealy, you think the suave, sashayin' jerk the hero must vanquish in a Dan Jenkins' golf novel. You think Shooter McGavin from "Happy Gilmore". Heck, you think Happy Gilmore.

Maverick McNealy!

Start sizin' him for that green jacket now. You heard it here first.