But not everyone is Scheffler. For some players, a visit to the range when the shadows get long is a genuine tell. They are lost in the wilderness. Dinner and family can wait. It\u2019s Thursday, and they have one final chance to get this fixed.\u00a0<\/p>\n
Jon Rahm was on the range Thursday evening, lashing at the ball and trying to make sense of what had just happened. He seemed so ready for this year\u2019s Masters. He was poised to reclaim his position at the top of the game, and silence all the critics who dismissed his LIV Golf accomplishments. Then out of nowhere, an ugly 78. It didn\u2019t make sense, at least to him.\u00a0<\/p>\n
Every few seconds, Rahm launched another ball into the sky, studied its flight like a professor standing in front of a dry-erase board, then sighed to himself as it drifted offline. His instructor, Dave Phillips, looked on from a few feet away, trying to hold his best poker face.\u00a0<\/p>\n
Every year, we love to shine a spotlight on the rewards that the Masters dangles in front of you. It\u2019s rare that we get to see the torment, at least away from the cameras. But the driving range at dusk is where all the magic fades. If you find yourself here on a Thursday, an uneasiness awaits you. The cut looms. It\u2019s your last chance to untangle your demons.<\/p>\n
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Brooks Koepka was on the putting green, not far from Rahm, with his jaw tightly clenched. He rolled putts in silence. His caddie, Ricky Elliott, was there to fetch Koepka\u2019s golf balls out of the hole, but Koepka wasn\u2019t making many putts, so there wasn\u2019t much to do. Koepka fared far better than Rahm on Thursday, an even-par 72, but his putter had frequently betrayed him, another quarrel in their rocky relationship. Now he had to grind, to try and find a feel \u2014 or at least some hope \u2014 for the morning.\u00a0<\/p>\n
A little farther away, a slow trickle of patrons was moving toward the exit. No one made much noise. They looked tired and sunburnt, carrying plastic bags full of merchandise, a stack of cups with warm dregs of beer. A few kids lingered by the putting green, pleading for autographs. Koepka signed a few, ignoring the grown men who thrust pin flags over the kids\u2019 shoulders, begging to get a signature of their own.\u00a0<\/p>\n
Jordan Spieth drifted across the green to chat with Koepka, to explain the infuriating roll one of his putts had taken that day, and Koepka nodded in solidarity. Spieth had just shot 71, nothing to be upset with, but a far cry from the magic he used to summon here.\u00a0<\/p>\n
If you looked across the putting green and down the range, you could count 10 majors between Koepka, Spieth, and Rahm. Except right now, no one was counting.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n
The line of patrons was thinning. Security was politely encouraging everyone to head for the exit. You could hear garbage trucks rumbling to life, somewhere in the distance. Spieth headed for the Players Service Building, and Rahm soon followed, taking his hat off and running his fingers through his hair, one final deep sigh to wrap up his day.\u00a0<\/p>\n
Koepka wasn\u2019t finished. He was going to mash a few drivers with whatever light was left. Other than the sound of Koepka\u2019s driver, all you could hear was the birds in the trees, singing the same refrain every few sections. It would have felt peaceful, serene even, if this maddening game didn\u2019t so often make you want to scream. \u00a0<\/p>\n