By Matthew Rudy
Sports Illustrated

And you think Norman had it tough...

The hours leading up to tonight's race against the clock were unlike those at any other golf tournament in the world. Augusta National built what most consider the preeminent press center in the world, a huge, permanent amphitheater that looks like one of my old Michigan State lecture halls. At the front of the arena, two huge televisions overlook a two-story high leaderboard. I'd like to believe the tournament people built this new building out of the kindness of their hearts (although it may have been guilt -- Pittsburgh Post-Gazette golf writer Marino Paracenzo, who has been covering this tournament since before I was born, made a point to show me a photo of the old pressroom, a glorified Quonset hut), but there really is a more basic reason. This golf tournament is the only one that is virtually impossible to effectively cover live. No armbands allowing access inside the spectator ropes are given out -- to photographers or press. Follow the leaders on Sunday and for the most part, your view is of the backside of quite a few spectators' heads. I certainly don't begrudge the fans anything. They came at 6:00 a.m. Sunday to get a spot next to the 18th green, and Faldo and Norman didn't make it there until 7 p.m. There had to be another way to follow the tournament. With the luxury of having a full battalion of reporters and senior writers in town, SI opted for the shotgun technique. Rick Reilly, Jamie Diaz, John Garrity, Tim Rosaforte and I were in the pressroom, while Sally Jenkins, Michael Bamberger, Rick Lipsey and Alan Shipnuck followed various groups on the course. Hopefully we got everything.

The television coverage provides closer looks at the greens, scoring updates and replays, so the amphitheater was 80 percent full by the start of Norman and Faldo's rounds. Just before Norman hit his first drive on No. 1 the large scrolling message board at the front of the pressroom flashed the message, "Greg Norman has finished as runner-up in seven majors, 1984 U.S.Open, 1986 Masters..."

Ron Sirak, the Association Press' golf writer, was on a constant deadline. Down in the second row, he looked up to see a shot, then fired a staccato burst into his laptop. When he missed one, Sirak barked, "What did he do there?" In unison, three or four other writers answered, "Norman chipped it to six feet.". More staccato. A wing of English writers also hung on every shot. When the leaders teed off at 2:49, it was five hours later in England. By the time Norman double-bogeyed 12 to lose the last shreds of his lead, most of the morning editions were holding open as long as they could to get a complete report in. A group of writers with seats in the back row, some 200 feet from the televisions, moved up and sat on the floor in front, notepads in hand. When Norman actually hit his approach into the water there was a loud collective groan, a moment of silence, then the sound of hundreds of telephones ringing -- legions of sports editors, looking for a refile.

Norman came back with two birdies, but found the water again on No. 16 for another double bogey. Some anonymous soul in the next row whispered, "He might shoot 80." Sally Jenkins went to the parking lot because she and a few others were worried Norman might do something that absolutely noone would blame him for-- sink his putt in 18, give Faldo a hearty slap on the back, walk straight to the parking lot and drive to Queensland. She would have the unenviable task of trying to head him off and get a quote. But Norman is a consummate professional. He came to the interview room and took his medicine. "I played like shit. It's as simple as that."

And when it was all over, Parascenzo sat at his laptop and scratched his head. "What the hell am I going to say about this ?"