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the stars of the game in the old lower locker room, listening to their banter and lighthearted humor. I have tape recordings with former champions such as Gene Sarazen, Sam Snead, Byron Nelson, and Arnold Palmer, who sat down on the porch of the main clubhouse for lengthy interviews.
At one time, the Masters purse was the biggest in golf. That was big with the competitors, but they all waxed positively about Cliff Roberts and Bobby Jones and the way the Masters was run. And, of course, they were big fans of the golf course. I have heard many thumbs-up testimonials from the former winners about the efficiency and organization that was found at Augusta.
It was the Masters that gave us red letters, denoting under-par scores for the scoreboards. The Amateurs still stay in the Crow’s Nest in the main clubhouse. Free parking has always been available for loyal patrons. A pimento cheese sandwich costs $1.50, same as it did a quarter century ago.
Dating back to the beginning, Masters officials have always accommodated the press. After all, the grand old man of the keyboard, Grantland Rice, was a founding member.
With April dates, the tournament enhanced the coverage of the major sportswriters, who were returning home from spring training. They would take respite in Augusta for the tournament, with its over-the-top hospitality. Southern cooking— with dishes like fried chicken and greens, accompanied by iced tea—was a “look forward to” perk. Legend has it that you could find access to the best moonshine available. Then on Monday following the tournament, the press was allowed to play the course.
This will be my 67th Masters, and I reach this point every spring with great anticipation and thanksgiving, feeling fortunate for the classic journey that has come my way. As the sports editor of the Athens Banner-Herald in the sixties, I was entitled to a working press credential, two season tickets, and parking. Breakfast in the old Quonset hut by the first fairway featured Krispy Kreme doughnuts, which took care of breakfast. When lunchtime arrived, there were those famous pimento sandwiches— also ham and barbecue.
My old high school coach had moved to nearby Evans. He and his wife put me up for the week for those two season badges. I got a tasty homecooked meal for supper.
The Banner-Herald would not pay for Western Union to wire my stories so I wrote on a manual typewriter in the press building and took my copy down to the Augusta post office and mailed it to Athens via special delivery, which cost 35 cents. A tank of gas for the week for my ’50 Ford cost about three dollars.
With that plan, I could cover the Masters for less than $10.00. In those days I felt like a rich man for a week. When I say my prayers, I always give thanks for being the beneficiary of the greatest accident of geography a man could have.
