For me, Christmas comes in April and lasts a week.
It begins Monday, when I'll walk through the gates of golf's magic kingdom like a wide-eyed child at Disneyland to discover again that time can, indeed, stand still and that there is beauty in this world that never fades.
And it ends seven days later, when I'll leave the greatest office a man could ever know wondering how time could've passed so quickly.
For a while in the noughties, former Augusta National chairman Hootie Johnson with his Tiger-proofing obsession and Mother Nature conspired to put coal in my stocking, turning my favorite tournament into a dour test of survival, an April U.S. Open that never fit the motif of what Bobby Jones envisioned in 1934.
But new chairman Billy Payne and his Young Turks have restored my faith in springtime Christmases, which are now more like my first Masters, in 1996, when Nick Faldo -- too ably assisted by Greg Norman -- turned a coronation into a crucifixion.
This decade so far has see...