AUGUSTA — Welcome to the Masters means waking before sunrise, in a rental home, in rural Georgia. Get up. Grab a coffee. Get on the road ASAP.
Marvel at the pre-dawn traffic. Obey the local police or else. Park in the darkness and find your spot in a massive line that snakes through a gravel parking lot. Feel the chill and reverence in the air. You will hear very little idle chatter.
At the Masters, everyone knows the price of admission and the cost of bad behavior. You have won the lottery. You have scored an elusive, exclusive ticket to one of the most cherished sporting events on the planet, an experience that goes well beyond golf. It’s a time machine to a different era.
It’s the only major tournament played on the same course every year, and the landscape bombards your senses. The colors are intoxicating. The slope is breathtaking. This is golf’s green heaven, and television cannot convey what you see and feel in person.
I was blessed to cover the tournament for many years. Further blessed to play the course once, still one of the most harrowing and exhilarating experiences of my life. The only disappointment was my caddie, although I’m sure he was equally uninspired by my performance as well.
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Back then, there was a harder edge to Augusta National, a private club with a dark history of racism, exclusion and discrimination. It was a place that adhered to special rules and enforced them with heavy hands. Even the name of the tournament — Masters — seemed to carry a dual meaning, evoking the worst of the South.
Today, it feels like Disneyland. The grounds are immaculate. The entrance is ornate and treated like a celebration.
The workforce is staggering in size, and employees seem to be smiling at all times. They excel at traffic flow, holding up signs that read “60 minutes to the Golf Shop from here” or “Bathroom line begins here.” They continuously empty garbage containers. They monitor and direct traffic in the bathrooms, where an attendant might ask you: “Front nine or back nine?”
Smart patrons take care of business first, devoting two hours to merchandise you cannot purchase anywhere else. The Golf Shop at Augusta National reportedly hauls in over $70 million during Masters week, or nearly $300 a second. People exit the store with comical amounts of merchandise, and you’ll feel the need to splurge, partly because you find bargain prices everywhere else on the course.
The power of the Masters Tournament is in the past, in the living nostalgia of yesteryear. But the beauty of the Masters is in the present.
As in, it makes you stay present. It mandates you stay in the moment. It liberates you from one of your fiercest addictions. No cellphones are allowed.
You can use a camera to take pictures, but only during practice rounds. You cannot be lewd, drunk or hostile to golfers. You must show respect and a touch of class. You will not get a second chance.
But the real magic happens when you’re walking the course, alone with your thoughts and the ghosts and the loblolly pines. It’s a place full of memories, a place that honors history and celebrates the aged, where golfers in their 60’s reclaim their youth and frequently show up on the leaderboard, where spectators are known to weep openly at their first real glimpse of Amen Corner.
It’s a place that makes you feel better than happy. It’s a place that makes you feel eternal.
Because nothing changes at the Masters. For the better.
Reach Bickley at dbickley@arizonasports.com. Listen to Bickley & Marotta Mornings from 6 a.m. – 10 a.m. on Arizona Sports.
Follow @danbickley
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