Loran - Smith
Loran
No one knows what the Garden of Eden was like, but Masters aficionados, without the slightest hint of irreverence, certainly wonder if that remarkable and stunning place was more beautiful than the grounds of the Augusta National Golf Club at its peak in April.
Augusta simply is a place that looks good and smells good, with all the floral blooms dictating the most pleasant of atmospheres. Nature can bowl us over, but even its best handiwork is no match for the grounds at Augusta. The start of the tournament generates overwhelming excitement, which continues through Sunday’s final round, making us regret that we must leave this lush and tranquil sanctuary.
There is no setting in sports to compare. Augusta is a venue that has no equal. Wimbledon and the Kentucky Derby are in Augusta’s sphere but cannot surpass what we experience the first full week of the calendar’s fourth month. Some critics have tried to find fault over the years but failed miserably—a reminder that there are those who would find something to carp about after dinner with Aphrodite.
Pebble Beach and Cypress Point enjoy extraordinary, Augusta-like rank. There are other notable masterpieces across the globe, but for sheer beauty and exalted competition, Augusta is the best.
How fortuitous was it that the cofounder, Bobby Jones, happened on the property of Fruitland’s nursery, which was developed in 1858 by the Berckmans family. It was known to have a great variety of plants and ornamental trees. Throughout its history, club officials have underscored an affection and appreciation for nature, naming each hole on the golf course for a tree, bush, shrub, or flower that was grown on the incomparable layout.
This is a course that has no easy hole when the competition is the keenest, especially on Sunday afternoon. The first nine holes are less dangerous than the second nine, but when the battle is joined, any competitor knows he cannot go to sleep on these waterless holes. As it seems to be with every Masters innovation and routine, all decisions emanating from the time of original Chairman, Cliff Roberts, and Bob Jones, President in Perpetuity, have stood the test of time.
In the beginning, the nines were reversed. The front nine today was the back nine when the course opened for play in the mid-thirties. There was good reason for the change. The holes that make up “Amen Corner” are near the bottom of the low-lying Rae’s Creek. This tree-shaded area took longer to dry out following early morning frosts that would delay the start of play.
While the Masters has the ultimate in drama, historically its aura and setting enhanced its exalted reputation. When the best in competition is showcased amid stunning blooms, scents, and nature’s best offerings, a special ambience makes competitors and patrons sense that there is no greater shrine in the sports world. You feel blessed to be in this elevated environment.
The Masters has something of an “old home week” feeling. The former champions come back, highlighting the emphasis on amateur and foreign competition that was so important to Bobby Jones.
Celebrities of all walks show up. One year on the 13th hole, I walked up to a guy whose hat was pulled low, slightly covering his face, and began a conversation about the splendor of “Amen Corner.” As he walked away, I realized it was Bing Crosby.
The most fun was to mingle with continued from page
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.
