Something whispers in the wind...

Something whispers in the wind...

Nimbly and delicately sweeping through the Georgia pines - under the soft moonlight of a Southern sky - fleeting whispers of memories past shatter the silence of this slumbering modern-day Garden of Eden.

The serene lull of a cool dawn breeze transports the memories of patrons’ bellowing roars. It carries the spirit of Roberts and Jones.

Under the cover of centuries-old trees, it trundles down Magnolia Lane and over the old clubhouse, brushing by the Crow’s Nest before revealing the vast sanctuary below.

Through the chutes of dogwoods and loblolly pines, along the immaculately groomed hills and across the creeks. If you listen closely, you can hear the roars of Sarazen's shot heard 'round the world in ‘35, Nicklaus’ eagle in ’86 and Tiger’s chip in 2005.

It creeps across the Hogan Bridge, where you can see the faint image of a young boy fishing in Rae’s Creek for his dinner.

It wanders through the timbers to Ike’s Pond where, amidst a hazy morning fog, the figure of a man from an era bygone materializes on its banks…

In a few hours, the cool breeze will transform into a warm pulse of energy as the veil of darkness draped across the sanctuary gives way to light. The silence will be broken by thousands joined together once again, just as they do every second Sunday in April.

Something whispers in the wind. It’s a tradition. 

A tradition unlike any other.