Can you remember what you were doing 28 years ago?
The chances are you may have a decent recollection, but are a bit light on detail. Not me. April 1997 is etched into my memory. It will remain there until my last breath.
It was the only time I ever crossed the boundary between relentless sporting mediocrity and sporting achievement. The journey didn’t last long, and I retreated very quickly. But on cold, dark winter days or in packed, airless train carriages when I need to lighten my mood, the memory sustains me. It nourishes my soul. And it bores my friends.
14 April 1997 – Augusta National, Georgia. The most magical golfing terrain on the planet. The sky is a pure blue, the dogwood and azaleas vivid pink and red, the fairways an emerald green.
As a humble BBC sports producer on my fourth and last trip to Magnolia Lane, imagine my excitement when I learn I’ve been successful in the media ballot – one of 40 accredited journalists invited to play the course the day after the Championship.
Andrew Murray is there to support me. Most likely to laugh at my misfortune. But I’m laughing now.
So, barely 12 hours after Tiger Woods romped to his first of his 15 major titles, there I am standing on the 10th tee at Augusta ready to start the round of a lifetime. Our group play the back nine first, teeing off at 07:45.
I nearly miss my tee-time, because on my way from the car park I notice that the clubs I’ve borrowed from a kind photographer don’t include a putter. Cue a brisk walk to the pro shop (you’re not allowed to run at Augusta), an Oliver Twist-style request to the pro to borrow a putter, and a kind but stern lecture to look after the club and return it in the condition it came.
In those days, my handicap was nine, and I begin with three regulation bogeys. Solid enough for a player of modest ability. Then something strange happens.
The par-five 13th is an iconic hole protected by Rae’s Creek. Having laid up in two, I hit my third shot from around 100 yards to within 20 feet, and to general disbelief, hole my snaking putt for a birdie four. The 1989 European Open champion, Andrew Murray, is part of the BBC broadcast team and is there to support me. Most likely to laugh at my misfortune. But I’m laughing now.
The par-four 14th has an undulating green that looks as if an elephant has been buried in it. Blocked out a little by the trees after a slightly smothered drive, my low, drawing second shot with a four-iron chases up the fairway, trundles on to the green, rims the hole and comes to rest three feet from the cup. Another birdie.
In danger of drowning in my own incredulity, I make my way to the par-five 15th.
A hundred yards short of the green in two, I hit my approach to 15 feet. And yes – you guessed it – I hole out again. Three birdies in a row on the back nine at Augusta. It sounds preposterous. Am I having an out-of-body experience? Andrew Murray says with Mancunian bluntness: “F— me, you’ll never do something like this again as long as you live.” (He was right.)
My Augusta National caddie Albert – whose ability to read the greens makes me wonder why he hadn’t been taking on Tiger for the previous four days – points out I ought to be drug-tested.
I par the short 16th, and bogeys at 17 and 18 take me to the turn in 38. Two over par. Ludicrous. Pars at 1 and 2 leave me +2 after 11. Perhaps this is my calling. A life on tour awaits… and then reality sets in. Three shots in the bunker at the 7th remind me that delusions of grandeur are not helpful. I’m back on planet earth.
Still, a round of 81 – nine over par – is not shabby. I shake hands with my playing partners – one of whom, a journalist from the Arkansas Gazette, had rather smugly proclaimed when we began that he played off a handicap of six. He didn’t break 100, having four-putted seven times on Augusta’s treacherous greens. He’s quiet and sullen now.
I walk up the hill to the clubhouse to return the magic wand of a putter to its rightful home and to tell the world about the fleeting glance I’d had into the world of sporting achievement.
Only the words of the great PG Wodehouse could sum up the feeling: “This was like going to heaven, without all the bother and expense of dying.”
Rob Nothman is a BBC broadcaster, producer and broadcasting coach to presenters, commentators and pundits.
