US Masters: How I witnessed Greg Norman’s meltdown first-hand

Robert Lusetich has spent two decades covering the action at Augusta National for The Australian.

Greg Norman loses the lead during final round play of 1996 Masters at Augusta National Golf Club in Augusta. Picture: Channel 9 Golf

The call came 20 years ago. It was Stan Wright, the straight-talking then-sports editor of The Aust­ralian, asking if I wanted to cover the 1996 US Masters.

Hmmm, let me check my ­calendar.

And that is how I came to arrive at this magical place, part cathedral, part Disneyland. The fact that it’s not-so-magical outside the gates of Augusta National — an unremarkable town filled with fast food joints and churches, and even a fried chicken place called Church’s — only serves to make what is inside the well-guarded confines more special.

Mine would be, of course, a baptism of fire. Greg Norman held a six-shot lead going in to the final round and the tyranny of time and newspaper deadlines meant my third-round story would be read over Monday morning breakfast in Australia, the final round almost over.

An editor suggested we take a gamble and coronate the Shark; after all, as the rather tipsy British writer Peter Dobereiner had told Norman at the urinal on that Saturday night, “even you can’t f..k this up, Greg”.

But I’d seen too many coronations turn into crucifixions, so I inserted the following words at the start of my front page story: ‘Barring a Zepplinesque implosion’.

At least I didn’t go down with the airship.

Over the years I’ve often pondered that Sunday, and the cruelty of fate. Had Nick Faldo not made birdie on the last in the third round, Norman would have been paired with Phil Mickelson in the final round and probably would have been enjoying Texas barbecue at the champions dinner two nights ago.

But lose he did, and write all night I did.

Though I have many great memories of the play I’ve witnessed, from the Tiger triumphs to Adam Scott’s unforgettable breakthrough, my favourite remains the Sunday charge in 1998 of Jack Nicklaus. The Golden Bear was 58. There was no way he could win a major yet someone forgot to tell him. He went out early and made birdie after birdie. The roars were cacophonous that afternoon and I followed them, like jungle drums beating. I remember a father hoisting his son on his shoulders and telling him one day he will say he had witnessed history.

It would be the last time golf’s greatest champion would finish in the top 10 at a major. Indeed, after that rousing afternoon, Nicklaus would only make two more cuts before retiring.

But most of my memories at his perfectly manicured place are ­personal, such as lunching in the clubhouse with the late, great Ian Wooldridge, of the Daily Mail in London, who favoured type­writers, a drop of good red and a punt. “I quite like Craig Parry,” he’d say far too often, prompting wallets to open and bills to fly out.

Woollers was not a big Tiger fan, so invariably a letter would arrive at my house in Los Angeles the week after a major, addressed to Robert Lusetich, Esq, and inside there would be a $100 bill and a nice note about getting me next time and how Parry’s time would come.

The most enjoyable experience at Augusta National is one very few can have: to sit on the upstairs veranda and have lunch, looking down towards the first tee box.   Perhaps 100 or so have the credentials to get to that veranda and it still amazes me that the hounds of journalism are among them. But the founder, Bobby Jones, counted sportswriters among his closest friends, so his wishes are carried out, in perpetuity.

Because space is limited on the veranda, the maitre’d will sometimes ask if others can join. That’s how I met Gene Sarazen. And a man who told me he “worked for the government” who turned out to be the governor of Georgia.

Only once did someone refuse an invitation. John Daly looked and saw two journalists at a table and said he’d rather eat alone ­inside.

Augusta is also a good place to meet celebrities no one here ­recognises. Dan Carter walked around the grounds two years ago in anonymity as has Ricky ­Ponting, a good man and genuine golf lover.

My other two personal highlights were winning the media lottery to play the day after.

The first one, in 1999, was memorable because I split the fairway on the first, hit the middle of the green and proceeded to make ­double-bogey, putting my first attempt off the green.

Ernie Els wasn’t joking when he said he practised for the Masters by putting in his bathtub.

The round could best be encapsulated by the reply from my ­caddie when I asked if he thought I should go for the green on the par-five 13th.

“Well, ya ain’t scorin’, so I don’t see why not,” he said.

I promptly found Rae’s Creek but I was playing Augusta Nat­ional, how bad could anything be?

The round was also memorable for one of the most audacious ­capers I’ve ever witnessed. Our fourth that day was to be a Swedish photographer who hadn’t been able to change his flight.

As we came up the 9th as a three-ball, a guy on the putting green said he didn’t have time for 18 and wondered if he could play the back nine with us.

When we finished, he confessed that he’d paid a woman with a white van resembling those used to remove television cables to sneak him past the security gates and loitered on the putting green hoping for a three-ball to come along.

I remember that day, too, because of the answer one of the old caddies, I think his name was something like Stovepipe, gave when I asked him how long he’d been carrying bags here. Soon after he started as a boy, he said, they arrived at the 18th green and someone said the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor.

Time, it moves slowly at ­Augusta National.

My second round was better, score-wise, on a cold, rainy morning the day after Zach Johnson won but far less eventful.

Fittingly enough, my favourite quote in all these years came from the Shark. I asked him if he’d grown to hate this place for all the terrible things that had happened here.

“Hate it?” he replied, incredulously, “I don’t hate it. I love it.”

Then he looked out at the ­rolling topography for a moment.

“The problem is, it doesn’t love me back.”