There are moments that, even though they have no real significance, mark the beginning or end of something. Maybe it’s something happy or maybe it’s something painful.
The start of spring for me isn’t dictated by the calendar or the temperature. It’s not even dictated by the blooming cherry trees or greening grass.
Whether it’s snowing or 90 degrees, spring officially starts when I have an egg salad sandwich from The Masters and Augusta National. It officially starts when there’s golf on TV and pollen in the air. It starts when Jim Nantz talks over my naps and I wake up to watch the last 8 or 9 holes on Sunday.
Spring starts when Chairman Billy Payne (though I miss Hootie Johnson, really, because BEST NAME EVER) says it does. When Arnie, Jack, and Gary line it up and take shaky but usually perfect tee shots, that rings the bell of time.