I remember everything about attending the 2015 Masters—the first of six pilgrimages I’ve been fortunate enough to make to the hallowed grounds of Augusta National.
All my senses were heightened.
Visually, the immaculate green playing surfaces and their surprising undulations were surreal. You can’t even believe the 14th green when you first see it. Did they bury an elephant there?
The roars, the complete silence and everything in between became a soundtrack I wish could be made into vinyl. You can decipher which roars are for aces, eagles, birdies or close approach shots. The silence is only followed by the sound of impact and an earnest reaction bereft of idiots screaming “mashed potatoes” or some other bullshit.
The smell and taste—of pimento cheese, moon pies, peach ice cream sandwiches and sweet tea—are somehow better when sitting next to a green in relative solitude, imagining all the history that played out before this moment.