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 breeze transports the memories of bellowing roars of patrons. It carries the ghosts of Sarazen and Snead, Hogan and Jones. Under the stars and the moon it trundles down Magnolia Lane and over the old clubhouse, glancing the Crow’s Nest before exposing the sprawling sanctuary below.
Through the chutes of trees, up and down 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 over the Hogan Bridge, where you can see the faint image of a young boy fishing in Rae’s Creek for his dinner.
It climbs the hill to the 18th green, where so many moments have been etched in time. That young boy, now a man, stands stoically by as his friend, Gentle Ben, finishes the tournament at the top of the big white leaderboard in 1995. The two friends embrace, overwhelmed with emotion. Twenty years later, on the same green, they embrace once again; one final time.
It wanders through the woods to Ike’s Pond where, amidst a hazy fog, the shadowy figure of a man from a bygone era materializes on its banks…
In a few hours, the cool breeze will transform into a warm current 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. Its a tradition.
A tradition unlike any other.
