Tiger Woods had just tapped in a three-foot birdie putt on hole No. 15 to take sole possession of the Masters lead, as one of my friends shouted the idea that defined our Sunday afternoon.
“Boys, hurry up and put on red!” he yelled.
We took off in a dead sprint, all nine of us, through a first-floor corridor of Beechwoods Hall and to our dorms. We promptly replaced whatever shirt we were wearing with one of Tiger’s signature Sunday shade.
Woods started donning red on the final day of tournaments before I was even born.