On this April day at other times and in another place, this is what I would be doing: Springing out of bed with a rare enthusiasm, driving to the golf club, unloading my stuff from the boot of my car, heading in for a quick cup of coffee and then taking to the golf course.
Nothing unusual in that. Sneaking out for a cheeky game of golf, eh?
Not exactly. You see, on this the second Thursday of April, I traditionally have been in the U.S., in Georgia to be precise, and the golf course I would head out towards would be Augusta National Golf Club. You may have heard of it. What draws me there is the start of the Masters, of course, the spring festival, the first of the year’s four major championships even though it is officially called a tournament.
Masters week is seven days in heaven. I’ve attended 39 Masters and let’s say I have spent an average of one week there each year. That’s 39 weeks, more than three quarters of one year, in this one place.
Honorary captains (left to right) Byron Nelson, Gene Sarazen and Sam Snead pre...
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