In an elegant arena, an electric Rory McIlroy hunts his first Masters title

AUGUSTA – In the shadow of a mighty oak tree on April 12, in the kind light of a Saturday afternoon, the week’s best golfers began their chase for sporting immortality. Along the way they might have noticed that beside the greens at the Masters is often a small, roped-away space. Reserved for “movie crew” it says.

It makes sense, for the unscripted drama of sport makes for the finest epics. One might unspool on Sunday when an American partial to James Bond movies clashes with a Northern Irishman who is currently watching Bridgerton episodes on Netflix.

“A fun test” was Bryson DeChambeau’s verdict of his impending duel with Rory McIlroy. Let’s add it will be explosive. The American leads the field in distance by averaging 330 yards on his drives, the European is a close second on 325. Still, this is not about muscle, but nerve.

Saturday was supposed to be moving day, but it sure felt like McIlroy day. He started his third round 3, 3, 3, 3, 3 which translated to birdie, eagle, birdie, par, birdie. Let’s just say he was flying. It was majestic, high-energy, record-writing sport and yet it’s not enough. The only number which concerns him comes on Sunday and it is one. As in coming first and earning what his Major wardrobe lacks.

A Green Jacket.

McIlroy wobbled midway on Saturday with two bogeys, responded with another birdie and a gorgeous eagle – a six iron from 205 yards to six feet on the par-five 15th – and finished with a six-under 66. Sublime? Not quite. Congratulated on a low round, he replied: “Not that low.” These fellows have standards. Just like DeChambeau, who had three birdies in his last four holes, including a 50-foot birdie putt on the 18th. He lurks two shots behind.

This Saturday was about shining rounds but also about a unique place. If these men hunt history, then the oak tree which looks onto the first tee from outside the clubhouse is history. Gone With The Wind was a story set in Atlanta in the 1860s and this vast tree, like some towering, leafy umbrella, is even older. Everything, and this is the genius and pretension of the Masters, has a story.

People come to the Masters for the game, but also for this understated atmosphere. This is both coliseum and museum. There are no giant TVs anywhere nor any sponsor boxes overlooking the 18th hole. The tee markers are nothing grand, just small pieces of wood from their trees. A sign at the first hole simply says 1 and anything else you need to know about it, its name, Tea Olive, its distance, 445 yards, is found in a neat 67-page Spectator Guide.

It lists everything. The history of the course, where to watch from, which champions are deceased, and that every player who scores an eagle receives a pair of crystal glasses. And yes, one gentle directive: “Most distressing to those who love the game of golf is the applauding or cheering of misplays or misfortunes of a player.”

In the long hikes across this landscape this week, this writer did not hear a single unworthy comment from fans. The Masters will gently remove you if you do. There are rules, dear fellow. A college coach in the incorrect attire – he was wearing shorts – was escorted off the practice range. But everything is done politely. “Have a good day” feels like the club anthem. The folks who manage the walkways, which allow you to cross a fairway once the players have passed, apologise if the wait is long. When you leave these premises, you will be better mannered.

Players are celebrated, like DeChambeau who slapped hands with fans all day, but the arena is the enduring star. The pines soar and the greens, smaller than you think, stand like disarming inquisitors. At other events they’ll tell you the green speed on a Stimpmeter, but the Masters does not release such figures. In a data-heavy planet, they understand the power of mystery.

Near the oak tree is a wooden cubby hole which contains the day’s pairings and starting times. “Please one per patron,” it is written. Walk 20 metres from it and you can see the magnificent sweep of multiple fairways all at once. If on TV the Masters is prettier, in person it is mightier.

Fellows with giant tweezers walk around picking up litter. The course is ordered, but not everyone’s game is. Scottie Scheffler, twice a champion here, didn’t get out of second gear with his even-par 72. The land rises steeply and falls here like a McIlroy iron. The fairway at No. 10 descends like a ski slope and how will Tiger Woods ever return here on a body which is forever in the repair shop?

Some huff here, others puff at cigars. Rest is best taken with a lemonade (US$2 or S$2.60), a famous Pimento cheese sandwich (US$1.50) or some Georgia pecan caramel popcorn (US$2). No tournament in any sport offers their patrons such affordable fare.

But for the Masters, money – those who miss the cut get US$25,000 – is a vulgar subject. They deal in aura and tradition. Priceless stuff, you understand. Often through the day fans stand in line for over an hour to enter the merchandise shop. Nothing is sold online and the shop is open only 10 days in a year. If you want a piece of the Masters, then you must come to the Masters.

But their most telling product is the course and they show it off beautifully. There’s something delightful about athletes jousting fiercely on this picture postcard. Warriors in wonderland. The club will not care who wins, but the romantics will lean towards McIlroy. He is 35, in his 17th visit here, has had seven top 10s and had his heart stepped on when he led by four on Sunday in 2011 and had an 80 and finished T15.

The Northern Irishman has not won a Major in 11 years. He had a chance at the US Open in 2024 but stumbled late and let DeChambeau through. He is a creature of sublime gifts yet also thick scar tissue. And so he will look at the positive mantras written in his yardage book. And speak to his sport psychologist. And perhaps watch a movie on Sunday morning with his daughter as he did on Saturday.

Then he will walk to the first tee, watched over by the oak tree, and wield his driver with ferocious elegance. For years he’s been denied here and it must feel like a curse. Yet it takes only one brilliant spell of shot-making to lift it forever.