As the huge, crested gates slowly and silently swing open, and the electric cab purrs through, the crunch of the tyres on the pristine gravel surface of Magnolia Drive is only just audible over our driver’s surprisingly mellow playlist. Debussy’s Prelude seems an unlikely, but appropriately ethereal number with which to pass, eyes wide open, into this property and along this famous piece of road.
D & I glance at each other momentarily, mentally pinching ourselves at the splendour of this quiet morning in Georgia, a moment we’ve dreamt of experiencing since watching Nicklaus roar back on to the podium in ‘86, followed by heroes such as Lyle, and Woosie. But our smirks are quickly directed back out towards the immaculate gardens and the tall, shadowing trees through which the Pontiac creeps.
We’re a little tight on time, our breakfast delayed at the hotel, but I am glad the driver is sufficiently cautious on this hallowed property to advance slowly. For much of today is about time, and we’ve waited half our lives and more to climb from the leather seats of this vehicle, and smile at the welcoming lady who will know our names and treat us like royalty, if just for a day.
We move through the quiet corridors of the Clubhouse, soaking in every little detail - the gorgeous, worn oak that frames old photographs of Bob Jones, testing the newly sown final green with his hickory putter, Calamity Jane; the silent closing mechanism of the lobby room door; the smell of boot polish in the locker room; and the impossibly fresh glare of the silver taps.
We sip a fresh coffee and savour the slow tick of the Grandfather Clock beside the bar, so comfortable in these green leather armchairs, where the great and the good have sat through two World Wars and a whole lot else. And then it is time to head to the tee, and we once again step into the same fresh air the golfing world imagines breathing from afar every April. The clouds that threatened a storm last evening have blown past overnight, and while it is still cool out here, the sun is rising behind us.
The starter fills our pockets with tees, and our hearts with joy, explaining “gentlemen, you are next off”, at 9.15am. We are reminded to observe the courtesy of the Rules of Golf, to refrain from taking photos, and to keep our place on the course, but he winks as he warns us that the next group are fast players, and will start at 11.30am. As a thousand times before, I spin a coin for the honour - for this greatest of honours - and D calls right, “tails for Wales, never fails”, and pulls an early fist-pump.
The next couple of hours pass as though seconds; my every attempt to stop, breathe, soak up the sacred moments of this chance of a lifetime pointless, as they slip away faster than I can hold them. Somehow, we manage to flush our drives down “Tea Olive”, the opening hole, and twelve strokes later our balls are in the bottom of the cup, and we remain all square, both glad to only three-putt the undulating green that provides a menacing warning of the journey ahead.
At “Magnolia”, number 5, D’s drive creeps past the bunkers that guard the dogleg, while mine bounces hard left into the first one, from where I struggle to a seven. Again, D three-putts, but it’s enough to take a slender lead. From here, we share bogeys and doubles until the 9th, “Carolina Cherry”, where two fine drives put us side by side in the centre of this carpet-like fairway, and from there, two good irons find that familiar green atop the hill, the tiny Clubhouse emerging as we reach the crest of the slope, nestled among the tall pines. D lags close for a four, but mine, likely to run right off the front after a rush of blood to the head, gets hooked in by the left lip, and drops for a ridiculous, marvellous birdie; one to cherish.
The halfway drink is welcome, as the cliche about how hilly this old plantation land is doesn’t do it justice. We have climbed a steep slope to reach the turn, and breathing deeply to catch our breath, it is the perfect spot to look back out at the course, sprawling through rolling countryside before us. The turf - pure rye at this time of year, before the temperatures rise and the warm season grasses are introduced - is perfect, a vivid, healthy green, and the contrast of the deep blue sky with the bleached white bunker sand provides an hypnotic backdrop for this swift pitstop.
The tee shot at the 10th, “Camellia”, is impossible to describe, our best drives stopping short of that sheer slope that kicks on the drives of the Masters invitees, from a tee fully thirty yards behind us. Back at all square, the next few holes seem to go by in the blink of an eye, with two balls in the short bunker on “Golden Bell”, the infamous 12th, and the 13th and 15th painfully long for us mortals. We each win one of the par 5’s, but not in the birdies or eagles that we’re accustomed to watching unfold on television, before packed and breathless crowds of lucky patrons. Instead, we in turn scrape a par, in the enormous silence of this deserted amphitheatre.
All square on the 16th tee, and we play “Redbud” from the wooden markers of the tips, the bunker sand reflecting off the lake as we savour the challenge in front of us, on (at last) a hole built for our games, not Tiger’s. D still has the honour from his two-putt par on “Firethorn”, and his 6 iron hangs high above the right edge of the green, and just holds the edge, before swinging hard left and rolling down to what looks like a foot. For a brief, priceless moment, we both think it could go in, but it must have slipped behind the tall white flagpole. As these things go, it’s a daunting one to follow.
I push my tee into the sward, and everything seems to slow down, after the exhilarating ride of the last two and a half hours. After all these years of playing these matches together, on various courses in a number of countries, I can hardly believe we are here, approaching the end of a day we’ll never forget. We’re still all square, but this shot simply has to go close, for I am tiring, and the demanding 17th and 18th holes will no doubt be harder than we expect, like every other hole in this crucible of golf. D will not need his putter here, a gimme birdie, so it is at least simple for me to understand what is required. There’s no time for a defensive play here.
I swish a couple of practice swings, while thinking of my old golf teacher, and his insistence on rhythm. “Swing through it, not at it” I can hear him say, as if it were yesterday, but it is hard to stay focused on a shot I’ve always imagined playing, a scene I’ve played out in my head a thousand times. My senses are on fire out here in the visceral majesty of Augusta, and my heart is racing. Finally, I stand up to the ball, and stare as hard as I can at the back dimples of this little, disobedient sphere before me.
I prepare to take the club away, but something is buzzing round my wrist, above the white glove with the famous logo, which I will retire from use in another half an hour. I flap my arm, but don’t see anything flying around me, and so re-grip and start again. Again the buzzing, and again, and again, and then, as fast as it arrived, this vision of a lush oasis in front of me softens at the edges, and the vibrant colours fade away, and then I am awake, at home in bed, my watch vibrating with the morning alarm.
And so it’s all over, this lifelong dream of ours, until the next time, and I feel the same sadness I have known walking off the courses of my waking life, mourning the end of another precious chunk of time spent in the company of friends, with the ghosts of the architects, and in pursuit of an un-winnable, unimaginably wonderful game.
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haha, you had me, bravo