With Augusta and The Masters winding its ugly, antiquated way towards us again. I have to make a little bit of noise about their as-yet unchanged policy regarding women on those sacred links. OK, so the Masters comes once a year and means something — that I could never begin to understand — to certain Good Ol’ Boys (GOB) whose masculinity is deeply tied to exclusivity and a putting iron. The same fuss about African-Americans was dealt with smoothly (so smooth as to be cruel) years ago. Let one of ’em in … Oh, maybe that kid Tiger Woods. But as the drunk GOB who took my husband as a guest back in the ’90s said about, I believe, VJ Singh, “That jacket” — (you know, the famous green one) — “just doesn’t LOOK right on him.” On the other hand, the, uh, gentleman had complimentary things to say about the early-morning smell of bacon and the sheer pleasure of knowing what color the hands were who were doing the cooking. My husband, who had a single digit handicap and thought golf was sacred, spent the rest of the day avoiding his host.