This is what Augusta National means to me

The best time is the late afternoon. The patrons are streaming away from the golf course. But Augusta National decides this is the time to unveil its true beauty.

I stand watching the shadows form over Amen Corner. The warm spring light reflects off the perfect green turf, and bathes the dogwoods and azaleas. The light breeze gently moves them and the refractions sparkle.

It feels like a firework show just for me. And it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. As I write that, give me a moment. I need to take a breath.

For 35 years I dreamed of this place. Constructed vivid pictures of what it would be like, how I would feel, and what I would do, if I was ever fortunate enough to get here.

Nothing I ever formed in my mind’s eye comes close to what it’s really like. Dreams are a poor substitute.

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My first Masters was Nick Faldo’s second triumph in 1990. I was 12. A few weeks earlier, I’d swapped an acoustic guitar – a discarded Christmas present – for a rusty 9-iron. I’d barely picked up a club before, but it seemed a better bet than irritating my parents with the annoying twang of an instrument I’ve never been able to master.

You’ve all been there. One good shot. But I’m certain that’s not what compelled me to take up the game which now provides my living.

It was the viridescent flash on the TV screen. The kaleidoscope – of reds, purples, yellows – and the majesty of the pines that set the synapses roaring in my young brain.

It was like being hammered by a heavyweight. I was knocked out.

Augusta National: ‘I can’t wait to hear the roar of a birdie’

Through those early teenage years, I’d sneak on the TV, drown out the sound and desperately dampen the glow of the tube to avoid the bedtime curfew. Nothing could get in the way of gazing at Augusta.

I’ve since watched on in awe at Tiger, jumped almost as high as Phil Mickelson when it was finally his time, and felt the joy of a nation as Danny Willett brought it home for England.

All the while praying I’d one day see Augusta National for myself. It’s a resolve that’s been severely tested. Ballot rejections year after year. Hospitality package prices that never seem to reach a ceiling. It was hard not to give up hope.

But here I am.

I can’t tell you the excitement I’ve felt this week. The adrenaline surge that sets the hairs standing every time I’ve driven down Washington Road.

Each first step, every day, brings the same tingle. I’ve reached down to touch the ryegrass. Just to convince myself it’s real. I’ve gazed at the quartz shimmering from those impossibly white bunkers. I’ve revelled in the same joy, with a beam just as wide, as everyone else with whom I’m lucky to share such precious seconds.

Now comes the main course. A perfect setting combined with the thrill of competition. I can’t wait to see what the Masters has in store. I can’t wait to hear the roar of a birdie and feel the electricity from a Sunday charge.

I can’t wait to finally see the green jacket slipped on in the flesh.

This is what Augusta National means to me.

Let me leave you with one last picture. I hope whenever my time is up, when they say you see what you’ve done in your short time flashing before your eyes, that for just a second I’m transported back to a moment.

When I stood before the shadows and watched the lights dance.

Now have your say

Have you been lucky enough to go to Augusta National? What were your impressions of the iconic venue? Why not let me know by leaving a comment on X.

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