At the Masters last week, our fleet of content producers told a lotof stories — but not all of them! As ever, they came home with unused material still in their notebooks and noggins, which we’d couldn’t bear to see to go waste. So kick back, pour yourself one last Azalea and enjoy a few of our untold tales.

What Rory’s nervy moment looked like up close  

by Dylan Dethier

Rory McIlroy’s most stressful moment on Masters Sunday? It didn’t come until after he’d hit his tee shot on the 18th hole.

“I’d say walking off the 18th tee not knowing where my ball was,” McIlroy said post-round. “It could go anywhere. It could be anywhere.”

He was right to be concerned; he needed just bogey to win but had blasted driver so far right that it was well out of his sight and, as social-media griping will tell you, out of the reach of CBS’s cameras, too.

But based on sheer luck I was, at that moment, wandering up the right side of the 18th hole with a couple writers, including our James Colgan. A spotter found the ball first, a crowd began to swarm and form around it, and we joined the fray. 

When McIlroy arrived on the scene he seemed to sigh with relief. His ball had traveled so far right that he had a window. Punching back to the 18th fairway would have been treacherous, but an easier line existed: He could look up the 10th hole instead, allowing him to hit a high hook around and over the trees (and the massive leaderboard by the 18th green) to settle somewhere around the putting surface.

Two problems remained. The first was there were suddenly about a thousand people in his way. McIlroy and caddie Harry Diamond walked up their target line, working with marshals to try to push back the patrons. But McIlroy’s start line was so far right, and so many more people were flowing into the area, that eventually he seemed to just give up. He and Diamond had a short discussion: McIlroy confirmed that his ball would come out spinny, because it was sitting on pine straw. And then he readied to hit.

Then came the second problem: Actually executing that high hook, off pine straw, starting it over the heads of a massive group of patrons. I’m sure I see worst-case scenarios differently than one of the best golfers in the world, but I wondered if there would be any flinch from McIlroy, knowing that if he slipped and thinned one — or something similarly catastrophic — he could drill someone and blow the Masters all at once.

But McIlroy played quickly, as he had all Sunday afternoon. He hit a high hook, definitely a little hookier than necessary; I wondered if he’d started it a little further left, subconsciously, to avoid my catastrophic scenario. And then, as he strode after his ball, following its flight, the crowd began to close in around him.

This sort of swarm never really happens at the conclusion of the Masters, at least not in recent decades; the rope lines are well established. (Granted, Tiger Woods was nearly taken out at the knees in a similar situation in 2019.) But quickly, almost from nowhere, security appeared from the crowd and the trees, and an informal barrier went up to give McIlroy a lane to hustle back to the fairway. We headed up the right side of the hole and around the green, hoping for a glimpse of the final putt, glad to have had a front-row seat to the final full swing of an historic Masters.

The *other* happiest place on Earth

by Josh Berhow

At the Masters, you’ll find cheap sandwiches, really green grass and well-behaved patrons. Those are givens. But what always gets me is that everyone is so happy. 

And they should be! Think about it — where else on Earth is everyone universally thrilled to be in one place? (As a parent who went to Disney World a week before the Masters, I can promise you Magic Kingdom is not the answer.)

And that blissfully hypnotic state lingers well after patrons leave Washington Road. Because the second-happiest spot I found last week? It was the tiny bar at the Augusta Regional Airport, where, as I waited for my return flight home, a Masters after-party was in full swing.

Few of the revelers knew one other but happily mingled at shared tables. Drinks were flowing, and the bartender generously poured doubles. Everyone shared stories about where they went and what they saw and what they ate and how it felt. Most were sunburned, several were clad in Masters gear and everyone agreed the course is — stop us if you’ve heard this one before — way hillier than it looks on TV.

One guy from Iowa paid John Daly $100 to sign his brother’s stomach and had the video to prove it. Another from Minnesota raved about his first time in swanky Berckmans Place. Plastic bags stuffed with thousands of dollars’ worth of Masters merchandise — hats, mugs, polos, posters — lined the floor.

“The only thing I didn’t get was a gnome,” one man said. “I’d offer anyone $200 for one right now.”

I smiled and nodded. He seemed so happy I didn’t have the heart to tell him what was hiding in my backpack. 

My favorite Masters Sunday tradition

by Alan Bastable

At a tournament defined by traditions, my colleagues and I have one of our own: Masters Sunday lunch in the Augusta National clubhouse.

Around 11:30 a.m., before the leaders have put their pegs in the ground in earnest, seven or eight of us pile into golf-cart shuttles outside the Press Building for the short ride to the shuttle drop-off by the leader board near the golf shop. From there, it’s a short hike up a tightly mown slope, a hard left turn at the famed old oak where golf’s sparkly people convene (is that . . . Sir Nick?!) and in through the back door of the clubhouse where a guard carefully eyes our credentials. Then it’s a few paces through a well-appointed dual-winged reception room and up a spiral staircase to a floor that houses, to your left as you exit the stairwell, the Champions Locker Room, and, to your right, a rectangular dining room that spills out on to a veranda that offers bird’s-eye views of all the sparkly people and even glimpses of the first tee.

If there’s a better way to start your Masters Sunday (other than smoothing balls on ANGC’s range in preparation for a starting time), I’d like to hear it! Some years we get a table outside; other years, like this one, the only available tables are in the dining room, which lacks the more casual al fresco appeal of the balcony but comes with its own perks such as having a front-row (table?) seat to such miscellany as the names on the Augusta National Jamboree honors board or the display case with President Eisenhower’s stylish knit polo.

The menu, like just about everything else at the club, is clean, simple and elegant. Green ink on white stock. The kitchen’s offerings aren’t fancy, either. Cheeseburger, flounder sandwich, spicy chicken nachos, a sampler plate with three of Augusta’s signature sandies, etc. In one of the dining room’s corners, a door leads to a small men’s room, where you’ll find a framed print of “Comme nos maîtres,” a famous cartoon by the French artist Boris O’Klein that playfully depicts seven dogs doing their business on their hind legs. The name of the piece translates to “Like their masters.” That’s another thing about Augusta, you notice something new on every visit.

But back to our meal. It’s always an in-and-out affair — maybe 45 minutes tops — but in the quiet of the clubhouse, away from the pressures of our keyboards and cameras, time has a way of slowing down. We share stories from the week, toast with Azaleas (pro move: swap out of the vodka for tequila) and generally enjoy one another’s company in a setting unlike few others. Then the check comes. Back to work.

Loitering with intent (around Tommy Fleetwood!)

by Michael Bamberger

Over the past maybe eight years I have noted, in the pages of this website, that my three favorite golfers are Tommy Fleetwood of England, Franceso Molinari of Italy and Jordan Spieth of Dallas. My guess is that Molinari knows my face and name, that Spieth knows my face but not my name and that Fleetwood knows neither, despite my various efforts. Once, for instance, I told him that, by coincidence and during the last British Open there, I was seated next to his aunt at an outdoor café on a Sunday in downtown, Birkdale, England, during a British Open. Tommy said he knew the café and that she likely was eating there after church. You may know that the Open is returning to Birkdale this year.

On Sunday, Fleetwood went off a full two hours before Rory McIlroy, his Ryder Cup teammate, but Fleetwood stayed around after his middle-of-the-pack finish to see how the whole thing would play out. When McIlroy won, Fleetwood was among the players hanging by the clubhouse to congratulate him. What a lovely thing to do — but what else would you expect from this golfing gent? There’s a reason he’s in my Top 3. By the way, and a quick aside, his final-round 63 at Shinnecock Hills at the 2018 U.S. Open has to be one of the best rounds of golf ever played. I would say that’s like shooting a 60 at Augusta National on Masters Sunday. You may know that the U.S. Open is returning to Shinnecock in June.

Maybe 20 or 25 minutes after McIlroy made his winning six-inch putt on Sunday, Fleetwood was standing on front of the clubhouse, waiting on a ride. By the front I mean the side of the clubhouse at the end of Magnolia Lane, facing Washington Road. I have heard some people refer to this as the back of the clubhouse, which I don’t understand, except that it is back if you have a course-centric view of the world. That part I do get.

Anyway, Fleetwood was standing there, by himself, waiting on a ride and not wearing anything with a Swoosh, as he is no longer a Nike brand ambassador or whatever the right term is for that. He was wearing what seemed to be a custom-made pair of sort of beige beltless pants with a billowy legs. The Eisenhower Era meets the Jerry Ford years.

“In the ‘70s a lot of guys used to wear pants like that,” I said. I was loitering with intent, looking for something to write about. That is, something to write about related to the winner. They did wear pants like that, to a point. The pants then were much tighter, often garish in color and made of polyester. Fleetwood’s pants seemed to be made of a fine lightweight wool. “They were called Sansabelts. Johnny Miller wore ’em. Tom Weiskopf. Lot of guys.”

“Sansabelts,” Tom said.

“From the French, sans belt.”

That is, without.

Tom nodded, with ever-so-modest enthusiasm. Soon, his ride arrived. He finished T33. — Michael Bamberger

Rory McIlroy’s good luck charm

by James Colgan

One of the unusual pleasures of watching the Masters broadcast is that most of the views are totally unobstructed. Nobody other than the players, the caddies, the camera crews and Dottie Pepper fill the camera shots inside the ropes — the throngs of golf dignitaries, sponsors, agents, managers and scribes are left outside the ropes with the rest of the people.

Pepper has an unusual honor in the center of the fold. Since 2020, she has served as the only inside-the-ropes broadcaster in Masters history, tracking the highest-leverage groups for the network and collecting datapoints from the middle of the action.

But that’s where this story gets funny. Over the last two years, nobody has seen more of Rory McIlroy at the Masters up close than Dottie, who followed the back-to-back green jacket winner for the seventh time since the start of the 2025 Masters on Sunday afternoon.

Yep, you read that right, Pepper has been on McIlroy’s bag for seven of eight tournament rounds since the start of his star-crossed 2025 Masters start, seeing all but Friday’s second-round rebound in 2025 from the best seat in the house.

In that time, she’s seen some underrated gems — like McIlroy’s second on the 5th on Sunday in 2025 — and some true stinkers, like his tee shot on the 18th with the tournament on the line last Sunday. That’s when Pepper and the rest of the CBS team were thrust into an unenviable position, when McIlroy’s mega-right drive resulted in a mad search for his chunky second-shot, which the broadcast team briefly lost as it traveled from the pine straw into the front-left bunker.

The moment was a reminder of the vagaries of golf TV broadcasting, though nobody at home struggling to make sense of the most consequential moment of the tournament had much patience for it. McIlroy didn’t help matters by playing his second and third shots as if he was worried the meter in the Champions Parking Lot was about to expire.

Eventually, Pepper restored order with a quick blurb on the location, the forthcoming shot and the quality of the lie. And McIlroy soon delivered a tournament-clinching tap-in.

No guarantees that Pepper will be on McIlroy’s bag at the beginning of next year’s Masters, but McIlroy surely won’t squeal if she is. They have a good thing going.