This past Sunday was mostly grey and chilly. Somehow yard cleanup wasn’t as appealing as spending the afternoon in our cozy den. Who am I kidding? We were going to watch The Masters anyway. The Masters Golf Tournament in Augusta, Georgia is one of those weekends – like Wimbledon, the Super Bowl, the Indy 500 – the superlatives of the sporting world. It’s must-see TV. I honestly think that big-screen, hi-def television is often at its best when broadcasting world-class sporting events into our homes – athletes’ freckles and all. The Masters, as always, didn’t disappoint.

This past Sunday brought exciting golf, awe-inspiring scenery, and more than a few memories – all the same impressions I’ve treasured since our lucky trip to Augusta 14 years ago.

Our day at the Masters was much like last Sunday – clear, sunny and 70’s. Beautiful doesn’t begin to describe the landscape of the course. It is 365 acres of eye candy, designed by world-famous golfer Bobby Jones in 1930. The sculptured rolling greens are accented by splashes of coral and hot pink azaleas. It’s breathtaking.

Everyone who loves golf should find a way to make it to Augusta once in their lifetime. I didn’t say everyone who plays golf, because I don’t. But having had 40 years of marriage to a dedicated duffer, and mothering a son with a single-digit handicap, I learned to speak fluent golf. Loving the game all these years, I was as excited watching this year’s final round Sunday as any club-wielding fan… especially cheering for my boy, Rory McIlroy. The personable Irishman gave his all trying to catch the eventual winner, Scottie Scheffler.

The place has always been a boy-land, toy-land. The men travel in packs – businessmen talking shop, family guy groups, buddies, father/son duos. I had never seen so many happy men in one place – ever.

The afternoon I was there, I began to tire and had to sit. So, I plunked near a tree, only to find myself staring through an endless sea of khaki Bermuda shorts of every shade of tan – both shorts and legs. Later, I asked an important-looking employee about the attendance. He confided that although The Masters never releases actual numbers, he speculated that 100,000 was possible. A medium-sized city.

Never having witnessed 100,000 people scattered across a 365-acre playground before, I was amazed how uncrowded it felt – with the possible exception of the gift shop. And, for the first time ever, the lines at the ladies’ rooms were short and fast-moving. The serpentine lines for the men’s room were sluggish and a bit impatient. A few women, gloating quietly, stated the obvious … that the situation was the opposite of every other public facility, everywhere.

My son had given me the assignment of trying to find just one weed amidst the green perfection of Augusta’s course… a futile pursuit. The greens were emerald velvet. It even seemed wrong to walk across the fairways manicured as perfectly as greens at most courses. But, crossing was the only way to the arched Hogan bridge and its famously beautiful Amen Corner. I realized mid-morning that I felt as though I were walking inside a painting with beautiful brush strokes on the pine boughs and magnolias.

Arnold Palmer had gone home ill on Monday after driving the ceremonial opening ball, but there were still enough famous names to satisfy this golf junkie. Spotting the golf legends became the afternoon sport: Gary Player, Tom Watson, Ian Woosnam, Nick Faldo, Freddie Couples, Fuzzy Zoeller, Mark O’Meara — they traveled in chatty pairs.

The crowd’s reactions reflected one of the elements of golf I most appreciate – that it seems to be the last bastion of civility in American sport. Respectful silence during shots and polite applause were the order of the day. But when Freddie Couples sank his spectacular hole-in-one, cheers were appropriately over-the-top. Everyone was unfailingly polite, enhancing my feeling of well-being. “Excuse me, please” mixed readily with “Cheers” and “Cheerios” as British and Aussie voices joined in.

The gift shop was expensive, but everyone expects it to be. I was amazed, though, that parking was free, and a good southern cheese and pimiento sandwich accompanied by a bag of chips and a coke cost three bucks. The entire food selection was simple, good, and all wrapped in Masters green containers.

As the afternoon shadows lengthened across Eisenhower Cottage at the end of that once-in-a-lifetime day, I found myself a little sunburned, a little foot weary and a lot happy.

Last Sunday’s televised 5-hour show brought it all back – each pond ripple, each azalea, each amazing long putt. I’ll be back in the den next year, taking it all in. And I’ll be rooting for you, Rory!

Every year, whether in person or in front of the big screen, Augusta is … well … it’s masterful.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.