I won a round at Augusta – this is what it’s really like to play there

After the thick end of five hours together, the tone of conversation between golfer and caddie had long since regressed.

Back on the driving range, where I initially met Matt a little after midday, our introductions had been formal and earnest. But those layers had gradually been burnt off under the sweltering heat of a Monday stroll through god’s playground. By the time we reached the 14th fairway of Augusta National, they were all but gone.

Southern to the bones of his ancestors and formerly a college-level golfer, now in his thirties, Matt had got to my ball first.

The drive had been reasonable enough but left some work, meaning 201 yards uphill to one of those subtly horrifying greens. Par-four.

Rory McIlroy had taken a four here a day earlier, which was the kind of thought that dominated this round of a lifetime. You know, walking in the footprints of giants, and Matt liked that theme. He wouldn’t let it lie.

‘You’re getting a four here as well,’ he said.

Me: ‘Give it a rest, Matt.’

Him: ‘I’ll give you a three-wood and you’re aiming straight at that leaning tree in the distance. The hill will bring it right to the flag. I can see it. It’s going to be so, so beautiful.’

Me: ‘Five iron, please.’

Him: ‘You’re not laying up. You’re making this one.’

Me: ‘You said that at 13.’

Him: ‘12 and 13 were both you.’

Me: ‘But you didn’t persuade me. Five iron.’

Him: ‘You’re right and I’ll always be sorry for that. Would you like your little five iron, sir?’

Me: ‘F*** sake, Matt, give me the three wood.’

And that is what it looks like when a serpent convinces you to take the apple. But we should back up a little at this point.

It is Friday evening at Augusta National. McIlroy is working his way through the sublime before the ridiculousness of his weekend, but there’s a disturbance within the luxurious mansion used to service the media.

An announcement has come through on the speakers to say the lottery results are in and the names of the winners are now on screens in the downstairs lobby.

You don’t run at Augusta, because old Bobby Jones wouldn’t have liked that back in the day, but you can speed walk. Dozens of applicants shuffled as quickly as they could to see if this was finally their year.

Augusta National is a land of privilege, open to some former presidents but not others, and the privilege of being here for their big week conditions strict obedience. Perhaps no privilege is greater than the one where the Green Jackets allow a handful of press to play their sacred course the day after Masters Sunday. As many of the global elite have found to their disappointment, it is a round money cannot buy.

I missed that announcement when it came — I was on the phone in one of the few spots of this property where such behaviour isn’t a sin. But soon I was mobbed. My colleague Ewen Murray once described it as being greeted like a EuroMillions winner, back when he was picked for his own tour of privilege a decade ago. I was swamped in back slaps and handshakes. Some were palpably grumpy.

The guilt concerns what I ought to confess — my second thought, after the first that it was all rather nice, was about the admin.

I didn’t have any clubs and Augusta National don’t keep hire sets. Of course they don’t. When I suggested to the lady at the front desk that I might be forced to rob Scottie Scheffler, she didn’t smile.

The next consideration was my flight — I’d have to change that. And the hire car booking and the Heathrow parking. Which is to say nothing of my trousers.

That became an obsession. They weren’t jeans, as I understood it, but someone mentioned they fell short of a chino. That obsession became a panic — the guy turned back at the first tee for the wrong trousers. They bend grass and trees here, but the rules are law.

So I checked the trouser situation at the pre-privilege briefing, which was pleasant and firm on the dos and don’ts. There were more don’ts than dos, including arriving more than an hour before your tee time — my embossed invitation was for 12.50pm, so 11.49am was out of the question. As were my trousers. How did I prepare for Rory McIlroy’s second Masters title? An hour before he teed off, I was on the other side of Augusta, in the fourth shop I’d visited that morning, where I found the right slacks. And in the boot of my car was a hire set, sourced from a local club and including a left-handed sand wedge. I mentioned these burdens to a close friend. He called me a ‘p****’.

The beauty of Augusta National is the reference points. Being the only major held at the same course every year they are easy to find, whispering the sweet nothings of better men than you as you walk between the pines.

I had that feeling on the first hole. Goodness, there’s a weight attached to that shot on any course and I striped mine up that famously steep wall of green. Matt, back when we were distant associates, was satisfied.

Him: ‘Nice ball. That’s right next to where Rory was yesterday.’ Me: ‘Thank you, Matt.’

We’ll caveat this a moment. When the press intrude here, we use the members’ tees, which aggregate to around 1,200 yards less than the tips from where the big boys play.

But it is still 6,300 yards and those greens treat all trespassers the same.

I bladed my approach, executed a good chip to Matt’s plan on the recovery and missed a three-footer for par on the first hole of Augusta National.

Matt has caddied this paradise for the better part of four seasons now. He sees what we don’t — the breaks on the greens, the bits that look slow and run rapid, the spots where there is no hope at all. There is alchemy in a good bagman — psychology, topology, yardage – and Matt was all of the above.

He steered me to 49 for that front nine, the pin positions unchanged from Sunday.

A bogey on the par-three fourth was one better than McIlroy on Sunday — I’ll always have that over his two Green Jackets — and my triple on the sixth was the first time on this pilgrimage that I putted across a green and played my next from the fairway.

A first par on the seventh was secured by the kind of gimme I’m not sure I’d give my closest friend, but the caddies felt we needed to up the pace.

Amen Corner was when the dynamic with Matt really began to shift. I hit a strong drive up the 11th — the fairways were surprisingly easy to hit, which is all part of the grand trap, because placement for the second shot is king — but laid up rather than risking the water to the left of the green and settled for bogey.

There was a chunter that I won’t repeat here and it fed into what happened at the 12th. I chased a flag against the advice of my sherpa and sliced into Rae’s Creek instead. As it happens, it’s full of turtles. As it happens, Matt had some views.

Him: ‘Yeah, go for the flag. Tiger doesn’t, but sure.’

I got a double there via a drop zone that may or may not have been from the wrong side of the water and then stepped on to the 13th. Entering the pine straw up the right after two strokes, one of those reference points poked me in the eye. I was 180 yards from the flag, creek in front and Phil Mickelson of 2010 is urging me to go for it.

Me: ‘Matt, I want the four iron.’

Him: ‘OK, Phil. Solid plan. I’ve never believed in anyone so much in my life.’

Me: ‘Thank you, Matt. Now stand back.’

After that ball drowned, I eventually signed for an eight, two better than Haotong Li managed on Sunday.

But then we had the 14th. And the chat.

Golf can be a cruel game, a humbling game, but there is always one shot that keeps you coming back. Mine was that three wood up the hill.

It fizzed on a path towards the leaning tree, caught the bank, arced around like Matt said it would and rested 15 feet away from a birdie. Obviously it didn’t drop, but the one for par did, bang in the middle of the cup. Matt and I celebrated like madmen.

The rest of the round took the score to 101, based on the entirely reasonable assumption that I never miss from five feet. That was a privilege on a day of them. Not all masterpieces look the same.