Golf Review, 1986 Masters Tournament: Final Round

Golf Review, 1986 Masters Tournament: Final Round

Mr. Nicklaus’ creamy yellow shirt hangs in Georgian air with the body while it’s fifteen degrees under 100°F, the golf balls finding their ways toward flagged holes before and after swinging professionals start treading around leaf greens.  Mr. Norman, second up, has the curious visage of a welcomed ghost as he looms above hilly bridges when taking eyelash glances.  Nicklaus is nearing fifty age after a couple of spare decades gaining the Masters on occasional field celebrations, but Mr. Langer wins the Masters ’85 and Mr. Crenshaw almost fills the top at 86 years after year 1900.  No, I’m not saying Crenshaw is an old geezer at this point; in fact, he’s fairly young at a moment when 86 years have passed since 1900, so Nicklaus isn’t the only golden bear on the planet.  We find Mr. Nicklaus making one glove a very stretchy article of his field uniform as this golden bear creeps in from his standing in sports evolution to rub the grass wielding a formal golf ball, at the epic moments having vague awareness of sticky flags.  So, we have Greg Norman the Australian Angel; and Pavin, Tway, a Japanese smile, plus I sing about Ken Green!  There’s way many greens on the golf world in Augusta: jackets, trees, grand césped.  Jack Nick strikes some poses in gentle ways as he makes one over a gord of water, acting as his own endeavor in the face of Georgia’s wide natures even if a few threads of hair are blown.  The Masters House which Jack smiles in is a place where a 3-Time Masters Victor washes his eyes over in forced happiness and jaunts over a comfortable microphone seat in order to display a hard-worked passion for golf enjoyment.  In fact, one of the reasons or hearts that I write so much for myself and the internet audience is because of Golf Channel: Golf Channel’s constant influence on my confidence simply because they work for persistent confidence.  It’s interesting how they show a photo of “the Golden Bear” as he frowns then earlier, since later on Nicky wins and becomes more of a middle-aged celebrity.  Of course, Pavin gets a nasty surprise near that gord of water; his swing doesn’t look or sound right; so, it’s as if Mr. Pavin acts on his own accord during his show of wiry physics.  Victory convos are hints of marvelous times until there’s rainbow’s end; Mr. Nick has levels of comprehension which somewhat show on his face whether he’s grim and entertained or happy and wild, so a country’s clothing may only show features with limits.  A game of golf for an athlete for it is partially about rebasing his or her focus on physics, a fact which can’t downplay the importance of Golf Channel’s chats and vibes; to add to Nick’s comment about “composing the body,” I believe we struggle with our own literacy of sports regarding everything.  A mind can fail against lots of storms throughout generations of refined freedom.  Golf news reporters continue to make educated guesses about mysteries and pretty much ignore so much information: as one of my educated guesses, I ponder over their wonderful attitudes when plenty of golf conundrums must exist.  The nourishing music of the ’86 Masters is quite often leveled with the shredding presentations of warm flowers, although my female parent can’t smell anything anymore, and I mourn over the loss of older versions of technology like the now vintage cameras or those few Nick’s irons.  I’m not sure if golf has gotten more popular because of videogames; it’s not like Nintendo made Mr. Nicklaus more famous, and so many sports gamers just want to kill something.  A novice television show on ABC Family in either the 90’s or the 00’s just shows a type of “disc jockey golf” played by stupid reality actors in two golf fashions: gullibility, nonsense.  I’m biased on these subjects because an individual’s fun can also be her or his offenses; besides maturity levels aren’t precisely divided.  Nicklaus implies in his after-game interview before getting his coat dressed by Langer that nerves are like the brushes of psychological minds which twist and turn but must be assorted with thought locations for one’s psyche.  A pair of golf news spectators gasp in mild shock as Nick applicates criticism over prejudiced journalists: you know, their ageist comments about activity bearings and poor elders.  I rather say that Nick wins occasional Masters Tournaments than give dumb statements over humans and varying maturity; after all the tickles by news writers, there’s various days and new ignition senses with which golf enthusiasts must wake up or wake down to with pleasure, concentration, great thoughts, and bending vigor.  Faces in Jack’s crowds are involving if also bright over grass and imperfect in small ways for group emotions; on this ’86 sunshine ladle of life, crowds go nuts on momentary hours even when silence is keen boredom, plus Nicky gets his balls on the Augusta land curves with determined eyebrows and confidence that may be rebuilt up again and again.  My English language is disordered from my fractured schizophrenia; still, I watch golf games off and on and pay gradual attention to golf’s intense walking athletes bounding to long distance holes, themselves separated yet marching across reflecting dirt and attempting to live out the morals of gold entertainment.  Nicky strikes a bald match with sensations and rolling ball vibrations, so it’s a brisk accomplishment for this golden bear when tough activity scenes become popular memes.