THE MASTERS GOLF tournament has an aura about it, an air of mystique. When people hear you’ve been there to commentate, they usually ask, ‘What’s Augusta like?’
The city of Augusta is a lot like the rest of the USA. It has bright neon signs advertising cheap hamburgers or motel rooms featuring cable television or, in extreme cases, ‘Owner has brain damage.’
That was a sign I saw on the drive into Augusta. In its unique language the hoarding was advertising cheap prices for second-hand motor vehicles. Outside other establishments, there are signs promoting recording artists who will be appearing during Masters week. These musicians include the likes of Jerry Jeff Walker, who Willie Nelson sang about in the hit tune ‘Luckenbach, Texas’ in a reference to Hank Williams pain songs and Jerry Jeff’s train songs.
That’s the same Willie Nelson who was quoted in 2008 as saying, ‘I’ve just turned seventy-five and I’ve outlived my dick.’
All this American craziness is outside the white walls of the Augusta National Golf Club. As you approach the entrance you suddenly sense, ‘Inside is going to be a whole lot different from what I’ve just witnessed.’
If you drive in through the main gate – television people aren’t allowed to arrive via this entrance – you crawl along Magnolia Drive at around ten miles an hour. This is the perfect speed to take in the scene.
Immediately on the left is the practice range. With the advent of John Daly and improved equipment, an extension had to be added to the top of the screen to protect people either walking or driving out on Washington Road. Low-flying missiles that have already travelled in excess of three hundred yards, and which hit either person or car, are cause for an open-and-shut case in a highly litigious society like the USA.
The branches of the large magnolia trees on both sides of the drive provide a shaded approach to the clubhouse. As the car bursts out of the shade into sunlight, the clubhouse – a large old white Georgian mansion – appears behind a circular driveway. In the middle of the lawn in front of the clubhouse is a map of Georgia depicted by yellow magnolias.
Inside the clubhouse and beyond, the predominant colour is green. Fortunately, one of my favourite beers is Heineken, which comes in a green bottle and is served in the Augusta clubhouse.
On my last trip to the Masters in 1996, I took Tim Sheridan from Channel Nine to the clubhouse. I told him, ‘We have to go to the bar near the players’ locker room and have a beer. It’s a tradition.’ What I didn’t tell him was that it was my tradition, not one promoted by the club.
It was the same bar where the year before I was having a beer with the Channel Nine producer Mike ‘The Pom’ Williams’ when Ernie Els strolled up and ordered a beer. He took a swig and, looking at me, said, ‘Don’t I know you?’
‘Ian Chappell,’ I said, offering my hand.
‘Ah ha,’ said Ernie, an avid cricket fan, ‘that explains it.’
The first time I’d arrived at Augusta National, I thought it would be just like Lord’s cricket ground. I always left Lord’s with the impression that the officials worked on the Fawlty Towers theory: ‘This would be a perfectly fine cricket ground if there were no players or fans to pollute the joint.’
I couldn’t have been more wrong about Augusta. Provided you had the right credentials you could go virtually anywhere, and it required no more than a nod or a smile from an official who had noted your accreditation from afar to allow freedom of movement.
The huge gentleman who officiated at the press room couldn’t have been bettered as a person to guard the door. He looked like he could beat the living daylights out of anything other than a charging rhinoceros, but with typical Southern manners he was no more aggressive than a polite ‘Good morning, sir’. Mind you, I wasn’t in any doubt he’d have escorted me out of the building without my feet touching the ground if I didn’t have the correct accreditation.
This is a far cry from the behaviour of the attendants at Lord’s. They grab your accreditation badge, pull it close to their nose and scan it like it’s a request for day leave from gaol. They then turn it over and over again, searching for a misspelled word that would allow them to usher you out onto St John’s Wood Road.
Then, with a sigh of despair, they begrudgingly nod that you’re free to move on to the next guard . . . err, official, who then goes through exactly the same process; if anything, a little more thoroughly.
To be fair, the atmosphere was a lot friendlier when the Marylebone Cricket Club appointed an Australian CEO.
This freedom of movement at Augusta surprised me, especially when it extended to the players’ locker room. To tee up an interview with Greg Norman required only the nerve to walk into the locker room, enquire as to his health, and ask about his availability for a chat.
I did take advantage of this Masters hospitality in my first year, albeit after the tournament had finished. The Pom had been fortunate enough to score a round at Augusta. His was one of about forty names from the media contingent drawn from a hat and they got to play eighteen holes on the Monday following the tournament.
I drove Michael to the course with the intention of following the round with his fourball. I was firmly but politely told that Augusta’s hospitality didn’t extend that far.
So I arranged to come back at 12.30 pm to pick him up after his round. When I arrived at the appointed time, neither The Pom nor any of his group were anywhere to be seen. With some time to kill, I began to wander around a virtually deserted Augusta National.
I took a good long look around the players’ locker room. It was like most golf clubs – wooden lockers with carpeted floors and ample toilets and showers. It was spotlessly clean and even after a hectic week of the Masters, there was nothing out of place.
I wandered through the bar area and the kitchen; the former being far more of an attraction than the latter to a man who can’t boil an egg. Then I came to the Masters room.
This is where the previous winners change. I looked to my right, then to my left and then back again in both directions, taking far more care than when crossing the road. I decided there was no one around so inhaling deeply I entered the room.
If that seems excessive, ponder this for a moment. The Augusta National is the club that banned CBS commentator Jack Whitaker in 1966 when he said on air during the tournament, ‘The mob is running towards the eighteenth green.’
He was told in no uncertain terms by the autocratic chairman, Clifford Roberts, ‘There are no mobs at Augusta and if there were they wouldn’t be running.’
I’d already had experience of this rule on my first trip to Augusta in 1988. I’d decided to follow Norman and Tom Watson on a practice round and experiment to see if it was possible to actually witness them hit every shot. I eventually achieved my ambition but at one stage I was falling behind, so I put in a sprint. Suddenly a booming voice hit me like rolling thunder: ‘No running at Augusta, sir.’
The lockers in the Masters room were almost identical to those in the players’ changing facility, with one exception: up in the left-hand corner there was a simple but elegant gold plate with the name and year of a champion.
In the case of Jack Nicklaus, he had next to his name the years 1963, 1965, 1966, 1972, 1975 and 1986. The last being when he became the oldest player – at age forty-six – to win the Masters, by shooting an incredible 65 in the final round.
I went down the line – Gene Sarazen, 1935. I imagined I could hear the almighty roar that went up when ‘Gene the Machine’ holed his miracle double eagle shot at the fifteenth.
Arnold Palmer, 1958, 1960, 1962 and 1964. The ‘Lasher from Latrobe’ obviously had his on-and-off years but he was the first player to win the Masters four times.
All the big names from golf’s rich history were there: Ben Hogan, Sam Snead, Byron Nelson, Tom Watson, Seve Ballesteros. And there was a shiny new gold plate gleaming with the name Larry Mize. Next to his name was the year 1987, when Mize miraculously chipped in at the eleventh to beat Norman in a sudden death play-off.
And very soon there would be a locker with the name Sandy Lyle on it and the year 1988. His win would be synonymous with the fairway bunker shot he hit at the eighteenth on the last day. He hit a seven iron to about fifteen feet and holed the birdie putt to become the first Briton to win a Masters.
It was an eerie but exhilarating feeling and, like a cat, I was overcome with curiosity. Feeling the need to find out what was in the lockers, I tugged at the door marked Jack Nicklaus. I fully expected it to be locked but to my amazement it opened as easily as a kitchen cupboard. Inside was a green jacket.
Seeing these green jackets hanging invitingly in each locker as I opened the door was tempting. However, the feeling of wanting to try on a coveted green jacket passed quickly – I didn’t fancy joining Jack Whitaker on the sidelines after only one visit to Augusta National.