I’VE never been very good at dealing with new-fangled contraptions or cutting-edge gadgets. Even the seemingly simple procedure of prising
open the laptop to begin the cumbersome chiselling of the Tuesday column resembles a fumbling, muttering old colonel wrestling with a packet of Granny Sookers.
This wariness of various gee-whiz gizmos was heightened the other day when I read something about technological singularity. In a nutshell, it’s a process by which boggle-eyed boffins design some kind of artificial intelligence that’s smarter than ourselves, which in turn designs an intelligence more brainy than itself, which in turn designs something even more intellectual.
On and on this evolution goes until it becomes impossible to imagine anything smarter and everybody’s mind pops like cherry tomatoes on a barbecue. At that point, presumably, human civilisation collectively curls into the foetal position and weeps itself into oblivion at the feet of our cackling, high-tech overlords.
The reason I bring this up is that one of the all-singing, all-dancing innovations available on digital platforms during this week’s Masters will be commentary by “generative artificial intelligence”.
If that doesn’t float your boat, though, you can always stick with fusty old me in these pages and read “degenerative authentic incompetence” on a daily basis.
It was the legendary American broadcaster, Jim Nantz, who first uttered that Masters homage,
“a tradition unlike any other.” We assume those artificial thingamabobs will spout something along the lines of “an automation unlike any other” as they continue their march towards a technological tyranny while mankind is left to form a vast, snaking queue at the dole office. Give it a few years and the green jacket itself will probably be presented by a bloomin’ virtual avatar of Augusta chairman Fred Ridley against a backdrop of politely applauding cyborg patrons.
The times they are a-changing. And, these days, they change at a heck of a pace. In fact, time doesn’t just march on, it almost tramples us into the ground.
Golf has never been more focused on engaging with new audiences than now. Rather like the different ways many folk experience the actual game – going to driving ranges, simulators and glitzy golf-themed entertainment facilities rather than the traditional offerings – the way we consume it continues to evolve.
If you log on to the Masters website this week – and I appreciate I may have flummoxed some of you already with that instruction – you’ll be able to watch every single shot of every single competitor, accompanied by that artificial intelligence commentary. It’s quite the resource. The Augusta National bigwigs used to be terribly stingy about showing actual footage of their beloved course, didn’t they? For years, you only ever got to see a handful of holes on the back-nine. The front nine, meanwhile, was guarded with a miser’s care and shrouded in the kind of mystery that envelops shenanigans in North Korea. Nowadays, though, you can click and scroll through every blow on every hole.
There will be many who still pine for the days of major championship coverage on the BBC when we circled its scheduled slot in the Radio Times and were all then inspired to go out and thwack a bit of coal with a nibbie after watching Sandy Lyle’s 7-iron from the bunker. Old Auntie’s retreat from televised golf over the years, however, has been well-documented and lamented. This week, the Beeb won’t even show any late-night highlights of the Masters.
Of course, for a new generation brought up with a smart phone in their hands, the idea of actually watching something on terrestrial tele is probably as antiquated as the stove pipe hat. It’s all streaming here, apps there and downloads and uploads everywhere. That’s the generation golf is looking to appeal to, not crotchety, middle-aged correspondents like me who has about as much technological flair as the porcelain chamber pot.
However you consume the Masters this week, there will be so much to digest you’d better stock up on the antacids. Tiger Woods, scheduled for a press conference today, will whip everybody into the usual gasping frenzy about the prospect of another miraculous comeback while the presence of a battalion of LIV players – the rebels with a cause – has the potential to give the 87th edition of this Augusta showpiece more spice than Scottie Scheffler’s firecracker shrimp that’s getting served at the Champions Dinner.
Imagine if Tiger, who loathes everything that LIV stands for, somehow ended up in a pairing with Phil Mickelson, the poster boy for golf’s polarisation, at the weekend? That aforementioned artificial intelligence commentary would probably choke on its own algorithms.
Scheffler himself is aiming to become just the fourth player to don back-to-back green jackets while eager chatter about Rory McIlroy finally completing the career grand slam with victory in this parish has almost become an Augusta tradition in itself. Every year we say he’s destined to do it, and every year it doesn’t happen. It remains, to coin a Nantz-like phrase, an unfulfilled mission unlike any other.
Throw in discussion and debate about proposals for a distance-limited tournament ball – Augusta chief Ridley will address the media tomorrow – and there’s plenty to keep the cogs and pistons of interest and intrigue birling and clanking away.
Now, how do I get on to this swanky Masters website again?
