I remember everything about attending the 2015 Masters—the first of six pilgrimages I’ve been fortunate enough to make to the hallowed grounds of Augusta National. 

All my senses were heightened. 

Visually, the immaculate green playing surfaces and their surprising undulations were surreal. You can’t even believe the 14th green when you first see it. Did they bury an elephant there? 

The roars, the complete silence and everything in between became a soundtrack I wish could be made into vinyl. You can decipher which roars are for aces, eagles, birdies or close approach shots. The silence is only followed by the sound of impact and an earnest reaction bereft of idiots screaming “mashed potatoes” or some other bullshit. 

The smell and taste—of pimento cheese, moon pies, peach ice cream sandwiches and sweet tea—are somehow better when sitting next to a green in relative solitude, imagining all the history that played out before this moment. 

You will think I’m crazy, but even the air felt different there. Something in between the magnolias, azaleas and towering pines create a golf sanctuary. 

Everything about the Masters is stimulating in its own way. It’s captivating. 

Most of our days, we are all so obsessed with time and how it moves. Are we late for a meeting? Are we being efficient enough? Is there enough daylight to finish the round? 

Inside the gates of Augusta National, time doesn’t move faster or slower—it simply melts into a forgotten human construct. There is no time. Time only exists when you’re back on Washington Road figuring out where to get dinner and how early you have to leave the hotel to make your flight. 

With every year that goes by, this immersive fan experience is even more singular. 

Nothing can copy it. Nothing can simulate it. 

And there is a straw that stirs all of this magic together: not having your phone. 

The Thrill (And Hypervigilant Fear) of Freedom

It was the 2016 Masters when I agreed to meet one of my friends at “the scoreboard” so we could get a beer and catch up. 

We agreed to meet at 1:30 p.m. I didn’t have a watch with me, and phones are famously prohibited, so I used tee times to double check my timing. I got there with plenty of room to spare. 

An hour later, he hadn’t shown. Well, actually, I hadn’t shown. 

Turns out I went to the less iconic scoreboard. I chose the one next to the 18th green, which was “the scoreboard” to me, but not to other people. “The scoreboard” is right of the first fairway—a huge manual leaderboard that tracks every player’s score for each hole. 

Lesson learned. Yes, nailing your logistics is an essential part of the Masters experience. 

Once you step inside the gates, there isn’t much communication available other than talking to the person next to you. There are phone banks available if you must—it’s a fun trick to call one of our buddies and have “Augusta National Golf Club” show up on their caller ID. 

If someone needed to get a hold of a patron wandering the grounds, that would be nearly impossible. It can be scary, or at least disorienting, if you aren’t used to being offline for large swaths of time. 

In some ways, you are completely released from the rest of the world once you get there. 

I understand how some people could challenge this policy as being outdated or irrelevant in modern times. It’s odd to watch the tournament in person when you have to work to figure out scores. You have to find leaderboards and certain players to confirm their standing. 

It’s like going back to another era. You are a time traveler of sorts. 

With that freedom in hand, the joy of the Masters comes alive. 

Nobody is staring down at their phones. Even better? Nobody is watching golf through their phones, recording a video for reasons unknown. You are watching golf with nothing else to occupy your focus. 

The highlights will be there for you after the day is over. The Masters isn’t about results, anyway. It’s the only golf tournament in the world where the course wins every single year. 

Patrons come with plans of walking all 18 holes. When they are done, they remark about the walk down the slope from 10 tee (it really is hard to describe unless you’ve done it) and the same steep climb back up the hill from 18 fairway to the elevated green. 

Total strangers talk to each other at an astonishing clip. You meet Bill from Wisconsin, Shelly from Colorado and Steve from Canada. If it is a practice round, you will take their picture and vice versa. And dare I say it—you legitimately care about the story of how they ended up here and why it matters to them, because it does matter so much to everyone there. 

Families are everywhere. I shared the 2015 Masters with my dad and uncle, which is something I will never forget. Each year, there are hundreds of family combinations. Grandfathers with sons and grandchildren. Fathers with daughters. Mothers with sons. Parents follow their children around as they compete in the tournament. 

Every single patron is living in a dream for a moment. For so many people, they have exactly one day to live it. 

If they have any pressing concerns, they are put away for a moment. Every person at the Masters is suffering from something—they are coping with an elderly parent who has dementia or they are struggling to find a job after a recent layoff or they are trying to lose weight—but they are not suffering from anything in this place. 

The Masters is a reminder that nothing beats sharing something you care about with someone you love. 

To do that without distractions—that’s what heaven is. 

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