In a Wet and Weird Masters, Trevor Immelman and CBS Shined Even When the Sun Didn’t

Working his first Masters as CBS’s lead analyst, the South African showed he belongs in the chair with cliché-free candor, John Hawkins writes.

Trevor Immelman woke up last Thursday morning, took one look at the opportunity staring back at him and decided he was the best damn golf announcer on the planet. No more mealy-mouthed aversion to calling it as he sees it. No more grandstanding from the 18th tower. No more Mr. Nice Guy just because Mrs. Nice Guy says so.

En route to Augusta National for his first Masters as CBS’s lead analyst, Immelman wisely chose the road less traveled. The path of least resistance wasn’t worth the time and distance, so for no other reason than the best reason possible—to enlighten millions of viewers with his knowledge in a voice that wraps the good, bad and honest into tidy little bundles—the handsome South African instantly reinvented himself as a guy who sounds as good as he looks.

It’s a viable explanation for Immelman’s exceptional performance at a tournament with a 30-hole final round, no middle to speak of and a dart-throwing contest at the start. The 87th Masters was different, a cumbersome journey to a destination worth every minute, and so was the network that televised it. Immelman carried the coverage to a higher level during its primary windows. He asserted himself not only as the commentator who spoke the most but also as a source of confidence and efficiency, which hadn’t been the case during his first three months as successor to Nick Faldo.

Sir Nick also did his best work at the Masters, a tournament he won three times. Although Immelman never came close to equaling Faldo’s achievements as a player, he replaced a guy who never delivered such an effective mix of useful information and candid observation. This was the week that validated CBS’s promotion of Immelman. The week he began sounding like a sage major champion, not a hayseed fan.

We’re all the better for it. Immelman delivered dozens of sharp takes over the weekend, many of them focused on what he perceived to be swing flaws or putting deficiencies. He identified Viktor Hovland’s lengthy string of misses left of the cup and attributed it to Hovland’s shoulders being open at address. He told the audience which way the wind was blowing before crucial tee shots and where those shots shouldn’t land. Immelman’s basic strategic philosophy—avoid mistakes, turn to aggression only when necessary—is hardly an original mindset, but his grasp of appropriate context when reiterating that advice was uncanny. He didn’t predict where the ball would land, which is sheer guesswork, opting instead to provide timely reminders about the consequences a dumb decision can have on the pursuit of an emerald blazer.

That’s how you call a golf tournament. Articulate your own success and failure as it relates to the here and now. Brief viewers on specifics—don’t burden them with an overload. If you dabble in humor, turn onto Self-Deprecation Avenue and stay there. Avoid clichés, figure out different ways to say stuff everyone has heard a thousand times, and please, keep it relevant. Change speeds, mix fastballs with curves, and, more important, throw ’em like you know they’re strikes. Immelman didn’t walk a single batter at Augusta National.

For that reason and a few others, the completion of the second round Saturday morning—handled by CBS but shown on ESPN—was the Eye’s best golf telecast in years. Play resumed in what became a relentless downpour, which created an eerie, almost solemn competitive atmosphere. Because 97% of the spectators were holding umbrellas, there was virtually no applause. Because it was so early, nobody had consumed enough adult beverages to partake in the usual vocal stupidity.

Just the patter of hard rain and the thoughts of broadcasters utterly immersed in this odd environment. Dialogue between players and their caddies has never been more accessible, and they had plenty to talk about. Immelman’s sunny disposition was, like the big yellow ball in the sky itself, nowhere to be found, which left him talking about playing in horrible weather and fighting off the demons that show up when golfers have neither the time nor the energy to mess with them. It was fascinating TV, so full of reflections on crisis management and drives barely going 230 yards that it was hard not to wish we had more lousy days on the schedule.

Immelman, whose best days as a tour pro were spent largely in cold and windy Europe, spoke off the top of his head like a guy who’s been up all night rehearsing his memories of such misery. His dialogue with CBS superanchor Jim Nantz was superb, his manner subdued, his thought process operating at full throttle.

Ian Baker-Finch became the first to point out that if Rahm won, it would happen on the 66th birthday of the late Seve Ballesteros, a fellow Spaniard and godfather of golf’s Euro invasion. Not even IBF can break out his dictionary of superlatives when it’s 47° and puddles are forming on the greens. When the elements forced the Masters to the edge of grim reality, CBS turned grim reality into exemplary television.

All those missed four-footers by the game’s biggest superstars apparently brought out the beast in this normally placid bunch. Critical analysis reached its highest and most engaging level since Lanny Wadkins slapped around anyone who deserved it back in the early 2000s. When Immelman saw something he didn’t like, he let viewers know about it, conveying his disapproval in clear terms without belaboring the point.

From the overly optimistic, relatively inexperienced Masters champ sitting alongside Nantz to a guy holding one of the most important jobs in golf, Immelman’s sudden commitment to excellence should remind anyone paying attention that a strong lead analyst adds considerable flavor to any golf telecast, let alone the precious few presiding over the game’s best event. It’s a negative = positive kind of thing, a balanced call to fairness in the fairest sport of all. CBS’s presentation of the 87th Masters amounts to just one birdie, but as old-school Hall of Famer Ben Wright once bellowed, there’s life in the Old Bear yet.