Golf's classiest tournament...

... and lowkey one of the strangest sporting events on the planet.

Let’s start with the basics: Augusta National Golf Club was co-founded by Bobby Jones and an investment banker, which kind of explains everything. It’s pristine, private, and operated like a Bond villain’s front lawn. The grass is so flawless that birds don’t even land there—and not just because they're scared. It’s rumored that actual bird sounds are piped into the TV broadcast to make the course seem more... natural. Spoiler: it’s not.

This is a tournament where rules are enforced with cult-like precision. No running. No laying down. No cell phones. No backward hats. And if you’re wondering whether you can call fans “fans,” don’t—at Augusta, they’re “patrons.” Because nothing screams accessible like a tournament that sounds like a colonial-era dinner party.

Somehow, despite all this, the food and drink are comically cheap. A $1.50 pimento cheese sandwich. A $5 beer. Sandwiches wrapped in color-coded paper so Augusta staff can snitch on you from a distance if you smuggled one into the wrong seating area. (Yes, really.)

And then there’s the green jacket. Awarded to the winner, but technically always Augusta’s property. You can wear it for a year, but then it goes back in the club's closet—which we assume is guarded by lasers and golf cart-riding mercenaries. If you’re wondering what happens if someone steals it, you’re in good company. One did go missing once... and ended up in a random thrift shop. Imagine buying a jacket for $5 and accidentally joining the Illuminati.

Also: don’t even think about applying for membership. Augusta doesn’t have an application process. If they want you, they’ll let you know. Like Fight Club, but with more khakis.

So whether you’re tuning in for the back nine or just pretending to care while you drink outdoors, make sure you’ve got something cold in hand—bourbon if you want to fit in, something green if you want to be annoying about it, or just any drink that helps you deal with how weirdly serious this all is.

Here’s to tradition, quiet clapping, and billionaires micromanaging sandwich wrappers. Cheers.