“The applause is louder here.”
It’s actually quite simple. Their hands are free. Their attention is on the players. And there’s a connectedness amongst the patrons that really is never felt the way it is at Augusta National.
It’s because The Masters has no phones. By now, many people know this. But every year, the players, staff, caddies, and even the patrons describe it like they’ve been somewhere sacred. It just feels different. But how did we get to a place where “no phones” felt so pure? And the fact that there is never a moment where a group of people collectively don’t have them together.
Like we’ve been transported back to a place that exists for four days a year. And then it’s gone.
What makes us nostalgic is a version of ourselves where we are fully present, and everyone else we’re with is too. That claps with both hands, watches with both eyes, and exists in a moment that isn’t being documented. Along with everyone around them. Most of us have never been to Augusta (a shame!). So the nostalgia isn’t for the place, but the version of “being” that has changed.
We watch The Masters coverage and ache for that version. And then five minutes later we pick up our phones. We’re not unaware or uninformed. We genuinely, deeply crave something simpler — and we’re still not taking the steps to get there. Why?
No, but actually I’m curious. Why?
Is it that we can’t opt out unilaterally when everyone else has opted in? Is it because presence now feels like a performance unless someone takes that way?
I’ve been thinking about this a lot (clearly!). Mostly because I’m home with my daughter. The days can be long and repetitive in a way you would expect in early motherhood. And I catch myself reaching for my phone. And then I look at her and think, “This is going so fast. What are you doing?” The window of her being this small is so short, it’s almost cruel.
And then there’s lunch with one of your friends. You actively decide to keep your phone tucked away, deep into the bottom of your bag. She grabs two waters and places them down on the table, next to her phone. In case something so incredibly important comes up in the hour. Over the course of the next 45 minutes, the illuminating light from the screen flickers. Eyes glancing down to a stream of irrelevant notifications, causing her to lose train of thought mid-sentence more than once. It hurts your heart a little. You’re not having lunch with just her.
Technology isn’t meant to be the villain here. Because it’s also given us things we’d never trade. But somewhere in the accumulation of all those good things, we stopped noticing what we handed over in return.
Augusta isn’t the solution. Hell, it’s four days a year where someone removes the choice, and you could remember what it felt like to just be somewhere. Fully!
We’re not going back. The world that existed before the phone in our pocket is gone, and nostalgia (unfortunately) won’t change it. But I think that ache is useful. By feeling it (watching a golf tournament of all things), it means something — that we know the difference. And if we still recognize it, we can choose it. Maybe not always perfectly. But we know what presence feels like.
We know what we’re missing. Now we just have to decide if that’s enough to do something about it.