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A stroll around golf heaven
Posted: Tuesday April 04, 2000 10:27 PM
AUGUSTA, Ga. -- I pulled into Augusta National late Monday afternoon, following a long night pounding out a Gary Nicklaus piece from the BellSouth. The drive from Atlanta is just under 150 miles. I did it in an hour and fifty minutes flat (golf writer motto: Don't be gentle, it's a rental). I was giddy the whole drive. The BellSouth Classic is work; the Masters is a pleasure. I think one of the reasons the tournament inspires such religious fervor is because of its surroundings. I was shocked the first time I drove up to Augusta National. The club is situated right off of Washington Road, the loud, crowded main drag that is blighted by the worst of 21st-century living -- mini-malls, Velveeta souvenir stands, endless genres of fast food, etc., etc. Masters week only makes it that much rowdier and less appealing. A couple blocks from the hallowed grounds I drove by Hooters, where an archetypical waitress was standing curbside, demurely spinning a hula hoop around her toned torso. In the abstract I may approve of this kind of promotional gimmick, but let's just say it does nothing to further the legacy of Bobby Jones. Assorted riff-raff were lining the street, heckling every passing car, because they NEED TICKETS or have CASH FOR BADGES. By the time I fought my way to the course I was in need of some dazzling. Somehow, Augusta National never disappoints. There is no more stirring view in golf than from beneath the famous tree behind the clubhouse, as the whole of the course falls away precipitously into the distance. I had stopped by the course just to check in and grab a few things to read. I had not planned on walking the course until Tuesday, but Amen Corner, way off in the distance, at the bottom of the hill, exerts an irresistible gravitational pull. I strolled down the right side of No. 10, to my mind one of the great par-4s in the world, plunging practically straight down to an impossible green guarded by that beautiful, clover-shaped bunker. There was virtually nobody out walking at this hour, and in my reverie I was struck by how the course comes alive in the late afternoon, the humps and hollows and subtle swales twisting the shadows of the towering pines into evocative patterns.
While Els was strolling to the green, I walked down to take a peek at the elbow of Amen Corner. It is impossible to describe the beauty of this part of the golf course. On TV you get the flowers and the water and the sculpted turf, but you lose the sense of scale. From where I was standing I could see all the way back to the 11th tee, tucked into the woods; the whole of the devilish 12th; and most of the shapely fairway of the do-or-die 13th, all of it framed by Technicolor banks of azaleas and dogwoods and pine trees that stretched towards the heavens. I circled back to catch Els play 15 -- he pounded a drive and then stuck a five-iron to 15 feet, an effortless run at eagle. Slowly I marched back up towards the clubhouse, taking a detour to the 18th tee to remind myself of just what a tough angle that shot presents. I moseyed up to the putting green in time to catch my favorite player, José María Olazábal, go through an endless series of putting drills. At one point he poured in seven straight putts of 15 feet or more. Ollie with a putter is like Michelangelo with a chisel. From there I wandered over to the driving range. Davis Love III was all alone, painting the sky with artful long irons. Every now and then he would look up and smile, at no one in particular. He looked happy and relaxed. He looked like he could stand there all night, hitting golf balls just for the sheer joy of it. Adjacent to the range is Augusta's excellent short-game area, and one of my other favorite players, Padraig Harrington, was there by himself, peppering the large practice green with all manner of bump-and-runs, flops and everything in between. He spent a lot of time chipping with his six-iron, the shot that has helped Olazábal win two green jackets. On my way to the par-3 course I passed Magnolia Lane, where it spits out cars into a turnaround at the front entrance of the club. Every Monday night of Masters week there is a reception for the National's members, and wave after wave of Jaguar sedans and Lincoln Navigators pulled up, belching forth an endless parade of graying white guys, each and every one of them turned out in a green jacket. Many were accompanied by their wives, a disproportionate number of them Georgia peaches a third the age of their hubbies. I couldn't help but think of Charlie Croker and his mismatched trophy wife, and the miserable times they endured in A Man In Full. When I got to the first hole of the par-3 course -- which is every bit as beautiful as its big brother -- Jay Haas was about to tee off. Earlier I had seen Haas coming up the 9th fairway of the big course with Art Wall Jr., one of the ageless past champions who grace the tournament every year. Wall was long gone by now, and Haas had the run of the little course. He struck a crisp approach to the back of the green and then handed his club to his caddie, a lanky teenager who happens to be his son. Junior took a couple of languid practice swings with the stick and then played an educated draw just below the pin. "We'll play skins," Jay said. "Whoever loses a skin has to carry the bag on the next hole." Jay and his boy marched off to the green, and I, in turn, headed for the exit. My little stroll around the grounds took less than two hours, but that was plenty. Once again I'm under the spell of Augusta National, which is as big a star as any of the players. Let the Masters week begin. Sports Illustrated golf writer Alan Shipnuck's column appears each Wednesday at golfplus.cnnsi.com. He will be filing daily from the 2000 Masters in Augusta. Click here to send Alan a question or a nice, friendly comment.
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