Thrilled, that’s what I was. I was thrilled to learn Augusta National had enlarged itself by 285 yards this year, the most extensive redesign in The Masters’ 70-year history.

Finally, I thought, they might listen to my song.

I have nothing against the light, sonorous one that plays underneath Jim Nantz while he says, during commercials, “A tournament unlike any other. The Masters. On CBS.”

It’s soothing to hear less a pounding of the baby grand than a tickling of it while Ken Venturi takes me through the leader board on Thursday and Friday.

But this was my hope: Since Augusta seems this year to be receptive to change, perhaps it’ll go along with a new song.

Or rather an old song rewritten by me.

This had always been my dream, to become the greatest songwriter since Willie Nelson.

I can imagine it now: Growing my hair out real long, playing a beat-up guitar at, say, Farm Aid next to Johnny Cash who’s reminding us all he’s still the man in black.

All I needed was a ballad. About golf.

Something that was the essence of struggle – surrounded in beauty. Something about striving.

Not something politically overt or serious like “We Shall Overcome,” but a song about a social utopia that is broader, more vague – difficult to define and easier to feel.

But also a song that isn’t self-important.

After all, this is just golf. And those “struggling to win” still take home for losing the tournament more money than I’d care to steal.

After grappling with various artists – where would Snoop Dogg keep his indo and bitches in Georgia? How come every Lynyrd Skynyrd song ends in an 11 minute, whiskey-fueled solo? Why is Hootie and the Blowfish simply too white and suburban for Augusta? – I gave up.

Then I heard Billy Joel.

“The Piano Man,” the song that’s enabled him to buy Montana if he so fancies, is perfect for Augusta.

And I’d like to thank Billy for recording it with me today.

Anything for a young sports writer.

What a guy, huh?

Anyway, I’d better shut up. The harmonica’s already kicked in.

Just remember our deal about royalties, OK Billy.

Billy?

It’s nine under par on the leader board/

Tons of flowers in bloom/

There’s a Tiger on the course today/

Sinking putts, the top better make room/

He says, “No one can hit as far as me/

O why did your lengthen your course/

`Cause they’re bad and they’re meek and on Sunday they’ll seek/

Second place as they fake their remorse”/

La lala didi da/

Lala didi da dadum/

A tournament unlike any other/

The greatest major of all/

It’s golf at Augusta National/

And Jim Nantz is giving the call/

Now Duval, at the range – I like that guy/

His mind as great as his swing/

And he prefers Ayn Rand to some smothering fans/

Yet there’s no place that he’d rather be/

He says “Jim I believe I can win this week”/

As his eyes fall behind his shades/

Well now that I’ve won my first major/

My doubts, they dwindle then fade/

Oh la lala didi da/

Lala didi da dadum/

Now Phil is a diff-e-rent story/

He’s never had luck at this place/

Lefty’s talking with Norman, whose past performance/

Shoulda kept him from showing his face/

And the Walrus is practicing follow-throughs/

As Montgomerie slowly bemoans/

Yes these fans if they were his children/

He’d neglect. No wait, he’d disown.

A tournament unlike any other/

The greatest major of all/

It’s golf at Augusta National/

And Jim Nantz is giving the call/

It’s a pretty good crowd `tween the redwoods/

And Sergio hits it a mile/

Yet if his drive’s errant, it might hit a parent/

Who’ll later recall it and smile/

And Parnevik looks like a carnival/

And J. Daly smells like a beer/

And they sit at 18 while a player foreseen/

Wins it all – how it’s great to be here/

Oh la lala didi da/

Lala didi da dadum/

A tournament unlike any other/

The greatest major of all/

It’s golf at Augusta National/

And Jim Nantz is giving the call.

Paul Kix is a junior in journalism and mass communications from Hubbard. He is the senior sports reporter at the Daily.