Nothing around Augusta National is exactly what it seems. You’ve maybe read, here and elsewhere, all the old stories about the place. Those bird noises you hear on the TV coverage? They say they’re dubbed in by the broadcaster. That azure water in the ponds? The groundskeepers are supposed to dye it just the right hue of blue. And all that immaculate grass? The whisper is they spray paint the bare patches. The club have always refused to confirm or deny any of it. Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain, just enjoy the azaleas and have another cup of iced tea.
This year, though, the atmosphere here feels even more unreal than usual. For this week, at least, someone seems to have called off the uncivil war that’s split the sport between the rival tours. Seems those famous southern manners are infectious.
