Writing a Masters diary for The Daily Telegraph, which is what I did in the 1990s, may sound like an easy brief. Not so. As soon as you unearthed a fresh source of information and posted the relevant story in the paper, someone would seek out the source to advise that he or she would do better to keep quiet.
That was the precise sequence of events after I had stopped off at the lost-and-found cabin early one morning in 1994. “Anything interesting to report?” I asked a friendly soul at the desk.
Curtis Strange at the 1994 Masters – sans sweater Photo: Augusta National via Getty Images)
“Oh yes,” she returned. “I’ve just had X’s auntie on the phone and she’s asked me if I would find a way to remind her nephew to take an extra sweater out on the course today.” Alas, I cannot find the relevant cutting today, but I have a funny feeling that the player in question was Curtis Strange.
Yet there was one source of information which officialdom was powerless to silence. Who would have thought that Georgia’s equivalent of the UK’s Pu...
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