There was something unsettling about seeing one of the most hallowed grounds in golf tucked between a Red Lobster, an Olive Garden, and a scattering of strip-mall churches. But that’s Augusta, Georgia—and that’s The Masters. A global event hidden in plain sight, a tournament that has somehow remained impervious to the modern excesses that define professional sports. My first visit to The Masters left me stunned, nostalgic, and slightly confused.
Before I even set foot in Augusta, I peppered every Masters veteran I knew with questions. Where should I stay? What should I eat? How should I watch? One piece of advice came up again and again: walk the entire course early, soak it all in, then spend time at Amen Corner before planting yourself in the grandstand on 16. I followed that plan to the letter. And it paid off. But I’ll get to that in a minute.
To call The Masters “unique” doesn’t do it justice. It’s a cultural anomaly, a secret society in broad daylight. You don’t just “buy” tickets—sorry, “badges”—you inherit them, win the lottery (literally), or you know someone who has a friend. And if you’re lucky enough to borrow one, you’d better tread carefully. Augusta National is notorious for banning members for life if they’re caught renting out their credentials. I heard many stories about families who lost privileges after renting their badges or lending them to clients who didn’t uphold the standards of Augusta National. This isn’t Ticketmaster; this is legacy.
Much like Davos during the World Economic Forum annual meeting, Augusta doesn’t have enough hotels to accommodate all of the people who come to watch and support the Masters. If you’re lucky enough to get a room, it might cost you $1,200 a night for a 2-star Fairfield Suites. I stayed in a modern day frat house with an electric group of executives, entrepreneurs, current and former pro athletes, a media personality, and more. Every couch was full, air mattresses everywhere, but I was lucky to have my own bedroom. It definitely added to my experience and I wouldn’t have wanted to do it any other way.
Everything inside the gates of Augusta National is by design, it felt much like Disney World. There are no massive hospitality tents or brand signage along the fairways. Corporate America doesn’t own The Masters—it’s politely escorted off the course and into the neighborhoods nearby. There, brands host lavish house parties with private chefs, open bars, and performances this year by artists like Dave Matthews, Darius Rucker, and Noah Kahan.
Once you step through the gates, you’re on holy ground. Everything is pristine, down to the wax paper that cradled my $1.50 pimento cheese sandwich (I wasn’t a fan). While most sports events charge $12 for a mediocre hot dog, The Masters keeps its concessions priced like it’s still the 1980’s. Even the coveted merchandise—Masters-logo hats, polos, and mugs—is reasonably priced. The only catch: you can only buy it on site. Hence the airport is full of grown men hauling duffel bags stuffed with green and yellow memorabilia through security like contraband.
I learned that like Disney, the magic is what you don’t see. My Uber driver, a local who sometimes works on the Augusta National grounds, filled me in during our drive. “There are more than 40,000 cameras on the property,” he told me, “and they’re not just watching the people—they’re watching the plants.” At first, I thought he was joking. He wasn’t.
“There’s a central security command that looks like something out of the CIA. They’ve got feeds from every camera, and they know everything that’s going on, at all times.” he told me. The camera network, he explained, doesn’t just provide security; it monitors the bushes to ensure no guests get too handsy with the landscaping. He also described how the course staff carefully chilled the azaleas for weeks ahead of the tournament so they would bloom right on cue. The floral perfection you see on TV? It’s even scheduled.
For all the surveillance, the irony is that inside Augusta National, the patrons are cut off. The club cares about cell phones as much as their Rhododendron. All mobile devices are banned. No cameras. No selfies. No distractions. At first, it felt liberating—no buzzing, no temptation to scroll. But it quickly turned into something unfamiliar. Without a phone, you’re left alone with your senses and your thoughts. You ask directions. You talk to people. You make new friends and run into old acquaintances.
You remember what it’s like to be fully present.
You’re not totally unreachable. There are real corded phones on the course. Luckily, I had my little notebook with important numbers written in it, another great tip from a friend. I lined up and when I finally got to the phone went down my list of people to check in with. I even got interrupted twice by incoming calls looking to reach someone who had just tried calling them. It took me a second to remember how to click over to another line—a muscle memory I hadn’t exercised in decades.
As for the course itself, it defies explanation. The TV doesn’t do the elevation justice. You don’t walk Augusta; you hike it. And yet, not a blade of grass is out of place. Even the pine straw looks curated.
On Friday, just as I made my way to Amen Corner—the famous trio of holes 11, 12, and 13—I lucked into perfect timing. The group of Rory McIlroy, Ludvig Åberg, Akshay Bhatia was just approaching. I decided to follow them. That spontaneous choice led to one of the most unforgettable sports moments I’ve personally witnessed.
Standing just yards away from the pine straw on 13, I watched Rory weigh his options. The angle was tight, the risk was high, and the crowd murmured nervously. A few fans near me didn’t hold back: “He’s crazy if he goes for it,” someone said. But Rory went for it—and stuck it. He landed the shot on the green and rolled in the putt for eagle, sending the patrons into a frenzy. Just like that, he was in contention. And I was there for every second of it. This is the same hole he double bogeyed on Sunday that almost led to his demise.
But that’s The Masters. You never know when magic will happen—and when it does, it unfolds right in front of you, unfiltered, without a single phone screen in your way.
It was my first time at The Masters, and I’m still processing it. Everything about the experience was unsettling in its uniqueness. It felt like a time capsule—one maintained not by nostalgia, but by relentless precision. I look forward to returning, not just to watch the golf, but to peel back more layers of the Augusta mystery.
