The 12th

The 12th was to Weiskopf what the Exxon Valdez was to shrimp. Weiskopf loved the Masters. "Every year, after I open my Christmas presents, I start thinking about the Masters," he used to say. On Thursday in 1980, the pin was, typically, front left, the easiest of all pin placements because you can shoot for it. Better yet, there was no wind. Weiskopf took an eight-iron and sailed it to the front fringe, where it hit, took a little skip-hop forward toward the pin, then spun rapidly and cruelly back into Rae's Creek.

Bad break. Time to drop a ball on the far side of the water and try again, hitting 3. Only Weiskopf didn't lay up next to the creek, he went farther back—about 60 yards from the hole. "I didn't want a little wedge. I wanted a half or three-quarter wedge."

He hit the exact same shot. Fringe. Skip-hop. Spin back into Rae's Creek. Hitting 5. "Now I'm pissed," he recalls.

Weiskopf decided to drop again in the same place—60 yards back. Even Weiskopf is not sure why. "You're embarrassed," he says. "You're in a fog. You're standing in front of the world, and it's like you're playing the hole naked."

This time his drop rolled into a barren spot and his wedge shot did a little Greg Louganis dead into the water. Hitting 7.

Weiskopf wasn't moving an inch. He was determined to drop in the same place, 60 yards from the hole. Who knows what happens to the mind in situations such as these? My theory is that some madness chemical fires in the brain and reason gets cleat marks in its head.

Madness: We are going to prove to the world that this was the place to drop! I don't care if we blow the tournament and the next six tournaments after this and we have to go back to frying burgers at the Dairy Queen!#!&!

Reason: This is crazy. Let's go up and drop right next to the creek like we should have the first time. Whaddya say, fellas?

Madness: (Cleatstomp.)

Another drop. Another terrible shot. Another sinking feeling. Hitting 9.