Back Where it Belongs
Swinging into Augusta National Golf Club off Washington Road and schlepping slowly down Magnolia Lane has been one of the great privileges of my sporting life. As road trips go, this 330-yard drive may be the shortest you ever embark on, but it is also one of the most engaging if golf hovers towards the centre of your interests.
This strip of tarmac is framed by 61 ancient magnolia trees, the branches reaching across to each other so that it becomes more tunnel than road. The light at the end of this ‘tunnel’ is the Augusta clubhouse, its white clapperboard exterior reflecting the sun and beckoning you forward and into another world.
It really is another world, too. A place of privilege and money, of slow, gracious manners and swift, tough action if anyone starts acting foolishly. Move carefully, speak softly and remember your manners isn’t the club motto but, really, it is.
Some of its reputation is built on light smoke and hazy mirrors and the sort of smart marketing one may expect from a place that counts blokes like Microsoft’s Bill Gates and investment guru Warren Buffett among the membership,
