Sometimes this column is about you.

Sometimes it’s about your kids and grandkids.

Sometimes it’s about other people.

Today, it’s about me.

I love the Master’s golf tournament.

I love the beauty of it. I love that you can hear the birds chirping a happy tune as the players get ready to swing. I love that each hole has a name and a group of holes is so famous (or infamous) that has its own name—Amen Corner.

I love tradition, so this week is the best of all weeks. Rarely do things change there, including how the tournament begins.

The organizers always welcome back three legends of the sport to hit ceremonial tee shots to begin play on Thursday morning. Sometimes it’s so foggy that you can’t see where the tee shots land. But the message of the moment is crystal clear—the past matters at Augusta National.

So when Gary Player, Jack Nicklaus and Tom Watson strolled slowly to the tee box at #1, there was a power, a grace that took hold of all who watched in-person and on TV.

And that’s when it hit me—I had a confession to make, and an apology to offer.

For all of my years growing up, I hated Tom Watson.

Yes, I used the word hate and that’s exactly what it was.

I wanted him to dub every drive. I wanted him to 4-putt every hole and finish with at least 80 every round.

In reality, it wasn’t so much that as it was that I wanted Nicklaus to beat him. He was my favorite, and always will be.

As I watched Mr. Watson walk to the tee box, put his tee and ball into the lush, perfectly-manicured turf, those feelings completely did a 180-degree turn. I realized how much I appreciated the rivalry that existed between Nicklaus and Watson. Those Sunday afternoons with the two of them matching each other shot-for-shot on the back nine were irreplaceable.

And, at age 54, I finally came to understand it.

It’s not the first time this has happened to me.

In the last few years I have come to appreciate Prince and Duran Duran and their musical contributions to my teenage years.

I realized how much a certain teacher I had in my middle school years really wanted to help me be better, even though I would have totally denied it at the time.

It started me on a road to re-examining people and things from my youth that I had such scorn and distaste for then, and opened the door to the possibility that I was wrong, then.

I found a lot of things that fit into that category.

So, on Friday, with tears welling up in my eyes, I took to the social media site Twitter with one simple goal in mind—to apologize to Tom Watson.

Oh sure, he’s a really busy guy and he probably doesn’t much care about a five-times-a-year left-hander from Winona Lake, Indiana.

But that can’t be the reason not to bare my soul to him anyway.

So I did it.

I posted a message for all of my followers, for Tom Watson himself and all of his thousands of followers to see. I explained to him how sorry I was for wasting all of that time hating him. Telling him I wished I could bring those days back and relive them again through different eyes.

Telling him how much I appreciate him now, and enjoyed seeing him standing there on that first tee, telling us all how honored he felt to be standing there on that hallowed ground with those two special men.

I don’t know whether he will actually see it himself. I hope he does.

And I hope he will smile that gentle smile of his and say “Roger, I understand. Those days were great days and I wouldn’t trade them for anything…” or something like that.

None of us would.

But at the Master’s, and in life, there are no mulligans.

You take your swing, then you live with the consequences.