The 89th Masters Is Underway
- Apr 10, 2025
- 3 min read
Hello, friends.
Jim Nantz here, live from the azalea-lined Garden of Eden that is Augusta National, where dreams are made, legacies are cemented, and careers are derailed faster than Tiger Woods’ Achilles tendon during a weekend getaway with President Trump’s former daughter-in-law. (Allegedly. But also… probably.)
It’s Masters Week, baby.
While the rest of the world is still mopping up from Hurricane Helene’s big wet hug, Augusta has been reborn. It’s miraculous, really – FEMA hasn’t touched a thing. The fairways are pristine, the pimento cheese is suspiciously lukewarm, and somehow the magnolias are glossier than a Hooters wall calendar. Speaking of which…
John Daly is in mourning.
With Hooters flapping its final greasy wing into bankruptcy, Big John’s sponsorship options are thinning out faster than his mullet in a wind tunnel. He’s reportedly in talks with Waffle House, Monster Energy, and an off-brand CBD patch company owned by Phil Mickelson’s cousin “Slick Rick.” Reliable sources say Daly will be hosting a tailgate vigil in the Hooters parking lot just outside the gates of Augusta—complete with a tribute concert, mechanical bull, and commemorative chicken wing urns. Bring your own Slim Jims. We’ll be checking in with him later today to try to score some free samples of Good Boy Vodka.
Back inside the ropes, the course looks firm, fast, and ready to ruin some lives. Rory's searching for a career Grand Slam, Scheffler’s trying to remember what it feels like to miss a cut, and Tiger’s… icing down everything from the waist down. We hear his Fitbit caught fire on Tuesday. They’re now calling his personal trainer a first responder.
As for you, the depraved pool participants of “Live From Disgusta,” the coverage you’ve come to know and love is well underway. Thanks to the marvels of modern technology—and a network of Google Sheets more meticulously crafted than a Bryson DeChambeau yardage book—we have a real-time leaderboard to scrutinize, celebrate, and, of course, roast.
Let’s not kid ourselves—nothing that happens before noon on Thursday has ever mattered. The current board is less a reflection of golf excellence and more of a psychological Rorschach test. That red number by someone’s name? Could be a birdie. Could be a clerical error. Could be Mr. Daly inputting his Chipotle order into the wrong app.
Most Entries So Far Look Like This:
One golfer firing early and giving hope.
One guy who might be colorblind and forgot Augusta doesn’t have any blue tees.
A sentimental pick from the early 2000s who now walks slower than molasses in January.
And two amateurs who, while impressive, are here for the merch.
Shoutout to all of you who stacked your rosters with “guys who played well once at the Valero Texas Open.”
My trusty sidekick, Indigo the Aussie—affectionately known this week as "Caddie"—has been turning heads in her Masters coveralls and new, azalea-printed bandana. Her keen nose for birdies (the golf kind) and disdain for bogeys (also the golf kind) make her an invaluable companion during this week of high stakes and higher tensions. This morning, she’s already making wise cracks about the two morons that don’t watch the news and picked Vijay Singh. He’s sitting here on the sofa with us.
Reminder of the Stakes
We have 118 entries this year, but 5 of those were from Juicy John Stephens, who still claims his financial planning operation isn’t just a big Ponzi scheme to fund his White Boy Rick lifestyle.
As always, there will be:
Prizes for the Top 3 Finishers, who will no doubt claim it was skill and not sheer dumb luck.
A crowning of our Ladies Champion, unless Indigo claims it by paw.
And of course, the sacred Consolation Prize for our last-place finisher—because nothing says “you suck” like a publicly announced gift from a degenerate golf pool.
Lastly, some housekeeping.
I still need payment from the following entrants:
If you don’t think I’ll knee cap you for gambling without collateral, ask Collier why he walks with a limp.
That’s the news for now, but stay tuned. By this time tomorrow, we’ll have our first real batch of heartbreak, heroism, and “Why did I pick Phil?”
May your swings be smooth, your cut lines merciful, and your wives not find out you paid $15 (to $75) for this again. Keep those refresh buttons handy.
Welcome to the pageantry. The pressure. The pollen.
Welcome to Disgusta.
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