When Crenshaw bogeyed the 18th for a 68 and a 14-under-par, one-stroke victory, he bent over at the waist and held his face in his hands and cried. Then he came out of the scoring tent and held Julie's face in his hands, and they both cried. Then he hugged his sobbing brother, Charlie, and everybody cried. All in all, you would've loved to have had a piece of the Kleenex concession.
"I believe in fate," said Crenshaw when it was all over. "I don't know how it happened. I don't."
Love, does. "I just had this feeling all week that this was going to happen," he said. "Either way, one of Harvey's boys was going to win." For his trouble, Love gets the discomfort of knowing that his 13-under 275 was the lowest score not to win the Masters.
Sunday night closed with the Crenshaws eating dinner in the Augusta National clubhouse while the Gatlin Brothers serenaded them from the porch. That was as good a way as any to end the three most unforgettable consecutive Sundays in Ben Crenshaw's life. A lesson. A death. A championship. It's funny how things work out. A little man spends his whole life trying to teach you his grip, and then you find out you have been in it all the while.