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My first trip to Augusta was to play the course. I was a working-class baseball writer with a connected friend who wasn’t in the mob. I flew from Philadelphia through a storm at night and in private jet. One pilot. One other passenger, smoking with his left hand and drinking with his right. It was terrifying.
We landed in sleepy Daniel Field in Augusta, a gent loaded our stuff in a green club van and feelings of peace washed over your correspondent.
We stayed in California Cottage, along the 10th hole. You could call the club’s front desk and ask to watch any Masters you wished on your bedroom TV. This was before YouTube and before Golf Channel, so you were seeing things you hadn’t seen before. I fell asleep watching the ’58 Masters, Arnold’s first win. The course, in black-and-white, had rough spots. Arnold’s swing was a blur. The ads featured a man in a suit talking right at you.
The next morning, I saw the club as I had never seen it before.
This was 30 or so years ago. When I went to lift my golf bag, a caddie in his white jumpsuit went running to bag, to beat me to it. All the caddies were Black, as were all the waiters and barmen and housekeepers, at least the ones I saw. All the members and guests that I saw were white, as was the pro-shop staff.
At dinner that night — coat-and-tie, of course — I wore a white shirt. I was told not to wear a striped shirt. I don’t know why but when I looked around the dining room I saw nobody in a striped shirt.
But the joys from our two-day visit are the most powerful memory.
The driving range in those days was small and charming. The grass was short and perfect. The lies were tight. The silent caddies had satchels of grass seed and dirt hanging over their shoulder and on their chests.
The course was unspeakably alive, so green and fresh. Eternal spring. From the tee, on one tee shot after another, there was almost nothing to aim at. Driver in hand, there were no trees to worry about, and no rough. All you saw was a wide carpet of green.
The course was wider than it was long, so it seemed you could wail away. Getting on the greens or near the greens in regulation was not hard. Getting the ball in the bottom of the hole was impossible. Two chips and three putts per hole yields many triples. Happy triples.
We played the nine-hole par-3 course. At the Masters, players routinely go around in in 23 or 24 or 25 shots. I recall needing about two sleeves of balls. There’s water in play on your tee shots, and on your chip shots. It’s spectacular.
The whole place was spectacular, but I’m happy to say it’s better now. Among many other things, nobody looks at you twice if you’re wearing a striped shirt in the clubhouse.
The tee shots, though, have become much harder. All those new trees. I don’t see them, in my mind’s eye. I shut my lids and see a course that’s wide and green and inviting.
Michael Bamberger welcomes your comments at Michael.Bamberger@golf.com.
Michael Bamberger
Golf.com Contributor
Michael Bamberger writes for GOLF Magazine and GOLF.com. Before that, he spent nearly 23 years as senior writer for Sports Illustrated. After college, he worked as a newspaper reporter, first for the (Martha’s) Vineyard Gazette, later for The Philadelphia Inquirer. He has written a variety of books about golf and other subjects, the most recent of which is The Second Life of Tiger Woods. His magazine work has been featured in multiple editions of The Best American Sports Writing. He holds a U.S. patent on The E-Club, a utility golf club. In 2016, he was given the Donald Ross Award by the American Society of Golf Course Architects, the organization’s highest honor.