A Gentlemens Game (Golf Is No Ordinary Game Book 9)

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Andrews, in Scotland, the so-called home of golf and an inspiration for the layout at Augusta, is a public course.

1912: A Year That Changed The Game - Byron Nelson

The U. Open, which took place last week, was at Pebble Beach, in California, also a public course. Augusta is obstinately private. Its leadership, embodied by its chairman, who serves for an indefinite term as a kind of sovereign and is the only person authorized to speak about the Masters, invariably deflects questions about club matters by saying that they are club matters.

The club operates as a for-profit corporation.

No one, anyway, is pocketing cash. Augusta National opened in As he grew disenchanted by fame and by competitive golf, Jones sought to establish a world-class private club in his home state—a winter course. Roberts, a flinty, fastidious martinet with a hardscrabble background and a knack for making himself indispensable to powerful men, befriended Jones and took up the cause. In Augusta, they found three hundred and sixty-five acres of a defunct commercial nursery called Fruitland, which had been owned and operated by a Belgian family called Berckmans.

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The owner before that was a slaveholder, and some evidence suggests that slaves were housed on the property. Jones and Roberts hired a British designer named Alister MacKenzie to lay out a course, and Roberts set about building a membership. At first, he had a difficult time getting more than a handful of men to join, owing both to the remote location and to the Depression.


1912: A Year That Changed The Game - Byron Nelson

In the first decade, the operation was basically broke. During his Presidency, Eisenhower made the club his Mar-a-Lago, visiting twenty-nine times; Roberts had a house built for him on the property. Eisenhower and his son were shareholders, along with other members, in a lucrative international Coca-Cola-bottling venture called Joroberts, run by Roberts and Jones, who were set up in the business by the Coca-Cola chairman and early Augusta member Robert Winship Woodruff, known as the Boss.

Augusta National is still Coke country, although, in keeping with a Roberts edict of yesteryear, no brand names are visible at the concession stands. The golf establishment tends to remember Roberts as a sour figure, a charmless tyrant, and a canny sycophant—the bad cop to the faultless Bobby Jones.

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Owen dismisses or, at least, parses some of the nastier Roberts legends. Because of him, the Masters is probably the best-run sporting event in the world. You could also say that this America never really existed, except as a figment of privilege and exclusion, and that the conjuring of it, on such a scale, is a kind of provocation.

As a televised event, the Masters is peerless. The club maintains tight control over the broadcast, and has been awarding one-year contracts to CBS since Originally, only the final four holes were broadcast.

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Now the entire tournament is televised, and this year an app carried every shot by every player in the field. From the beginning, even though subscription fees were modest, it was a club for the rich and powerful. The majority of the members, then as now, were from outside the South. In the early days, the Eastern Wasp establishment prevailed.

Many of those C. The chairmanship certainly has some of the pomp of the papacy. On Wednesday, the current chairman, Fred Ridley , a real-estate lawyer from Florida and a former amateur golf champion, submitted to his, with a few dozen members assembled at the back of the hall, like a convocation of cardinals—all in their green jackets. Ridley was onstage, flanked by two committee members.

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The reporters addressed him as Mr. Chairman, or Chairman Ridley. Will you please talk about the decorum in place at Augusta National that sets the Masters apart? So it was that kind of a press conference. One does not apply for membership; the invitation just comes when it comes, though there are back channels for communicating a desire to be considered. The game of golf has its own ugly history with regard to African-Americans; the Professional Golf Association, which governs touring golfers in the United States, had a whites-only rule until One finds now, in the back and forth of this saga, foreshadowings of the cancel-culture wars of today.

Eventually—and somewhat amazingly, looking back from the reputation-strewn battlefields of —it all just sort of went away. To let its sponsors off the hook, the club announced that it would stage the Masters by itself, without them—opting, once again, for control over short-term profit. And then, nine years later, the first two women were admitted: Condoleezza Rice , the former Secretary of State, and Darla Moore , a financier from South Carolina. Around midnight on the eve of the first round, while killing cockroaches in my room at the Rodeway Inn, I got a text message from an acquaintance who works in finance.

A client of his had cancelled at the last minute, which left him with a spare pass to Berckmans Place. He offered it to me. Berckmans is the Oz within Oz, a lavish dining-shopping-and-drinking complex accessible only to those who have been approved by the club to buy passes, at a cost of ten thousand dollars for the tournament. The club built Berckmans seven years ago, behind a wall of greenery southwest of the fifth fairway, to give favored patrons and corporate friends a sumptuous refuge from the elements and the throngs, and presumably to capture some of the revenue it had been ceding to off-campus entertainments.

Wheels down: out pour the premium-experience guests.

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A certain kind of Instagram feed fills up with photographs of rich people, famous people, lucky people, flashing the Gulfstream grin. And so a luxury pop-up culture has sprung up outside the gates. Augusta homeowners cover their annual mortgage payments and landscaping bills by renting their houses to the out-of-towners, who, in turn, host clients and friends for spectation by day and dinners and other festivities by night.

Celebrity chefs are flown in. Even the journalists get in on it. Mercedes and the other two domestic tournament sponsors, I.

Various fixers and event planners put together elaborate itineraries, which sometimes include a round of golf at a nearby club, such as Sage Valley, across the South Carolina border—a highly regarded Augusta National clone, founded in by a real-estate magnate who had given up on being invited to join the real thing. A Berckmans badge might be part of the program.

Not long afterward, the van pulled up to a pavilion, where a dozen or so attendants stood smiling and waving to us. I can turn them down for you. Everyone is allowed one chair. Presumably, these two were carrying additional ones for their superiors, or else—could it be? As soon as the grounds open each morning, chair holders—first members and their guests, then the general public—fan out across the course and secure their viewing spots; you leave a chair behind, usually with a name tag or a business card affixed to it, then wander around in the expectation that it will be vacant, or immediately vacated, when you come to claim it.

Sometimes the chairs stay empty, like barely used country houses. Berckmans operates for just one week of the year. There are shrines to various touchstones of Augusta National lore and a vast, immaculate store that sells Masters merchandise, one of several on the grounds. Sweaters, hats, shirts, jewelry, club covers, platters, pens. You can buy official merch only on site; Augusta National sells nothing online or outside the gates. You might guess that this restriction would cut into sales, but scarcity fuels desire, or so it appears, judging by the queues at the shops and by the patrons lugging around clear-plastic shopping bags stuffed with purchases for the people back home.

In some ways, Berckmans is just a food court, but exclusivity can be mind-altering. A badge holder pays for nothing. People who can afford a meal at any restaurant in the world derive a thrill from dining without being handed a check. There were hooks under the table on which to hang our ball caps. A TV on the wall carried a live feed of Jim Nantz, off air but on site, having his hair strategically restructured.

At the buffet, we heaped our plates with biscuits, grits, eggs, French toast, and candied peaches. I thought guiltily of my colleagues at the press center, having to make do with omelettes and no hooks for their hats.