Crenshaw smashed what he thought was a perfect three-wood at the pin on the 15th, but it came down just short of what might have got him the eagle. The ball rolled back to the edge of the pond in front of the green, where it was partially submerged. Up went the trouser leg, off went the shoe, into the pond went the foot and splash went the wedge. When he gouged the ball out and assured himself of at least a par on the hole instead of a number that could have been far worse, the roar was as deafening as any during the tournament. So the day belonged to Crenshaw—but the Masters had long since belonged to Raymond Floyd.
Late Sunday evening as Floyd wandered about the clubhouse in his green jacket, flushed with a new dignity, he was wishing he could put part of his past behind him—from an image standpoint, he said.
"I was cocky when I came out on the tour. I guess that's normal for a kid who could hit a long ball. The game was easy for me. I had to play a while to find out how hard it was, and I probably wasted some years having too much fun. It's nice to go back to work at your game and have it pay off like this."
The golf Floyd played through the four rounds left the 1976 Masters with a joke it deserved. It could be said that the venerable Clifford Roberts finally decided to retire from running the Masters, because he knew there would be nothing left of it when Ray Floyd got through.