Something whispers in the wind...

Something whispers in the wind...

Nimbly and delicately sweeping through the towering 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 autumn breeze transports the memories of patrons’ bellowing roars. It carries the spirit of Roberts and Jones.

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

Through the chutes of dogwoods and loblolly pines, it lumbers along the immaculately groomed swells shaped by the hands of MacKenzie, Maxwell and Jones. 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 it meets the faint image of a young boy fishing in Rae’s Creek for his supper.

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

In a few hours, the cool breeze will yield to a warm pulse of energy as the veil of darkness draped across the sanctuary gives way to light. But the silence will linger, as for the first time in its storied account, the gates beyond Berckmans Road will remain sealed. Millions will witness an unprecedented championship for an unprecedented time, but the hallowed grounds will remain pure and unspoiled.

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

A tradition unlike any other.