What his offspring made of such a proclamation remained unspoken, but the fact that they were watching Billy Mayfair’s practice round may have left them unimpressed by his parenting skills. This is what the Masters does to people. Just as it makes grown men prostrate themselves on the shrine of Mayfair, so it brings out the botanist in every journalist who previously did not know his azalea from his elbow.

The players, meanwhile, are strangely subservient. Tiger Woods is stalked by cloying battalions of well-wishers, but it is Hootie Johnson, the club chairman, who is the most powerful man here. Rules abound, but no one cares. No flasks, no coolers, no bags larger than ten inches high by five inches wide by five inches deep. No folding armchairs, no rigid-type chairs, no stools. It is a place to stand up and count your lucky stars that you are here.

Frank Chirkinian, the CBS sports producer, once said: “Nothing ever happens at Augusta. Dogs don’t bark and babies don’t cry. They wouldn’t dare.” It was no throwaway remark. His CBS colleague, Gary McCord, was not invited back after he called the fast greens bikini-waxed in 1994. This year it has taken an institution such as Jack Nicklaus to criticise the changes to another institution. For some, adding yards to Augusta is like giving Nicklaus hair extensions.

Incongruities abound in this part of Georgia, the sheriff’s department being situated next door to the Augusta Pain Centre for a start. There are palatial whitewashed southern mansions and tacky fast-food burger joints. Someone outside the cemetery recommends the Laurel and Hardy museum — die laughing, perhaps. The biggest curiosity of all, though, is that this most exclusive of golf clubs is public property.

Everyone loves Augusta and wants a part of it. Greg Norman imploding against Nick Faldo in 1996 is burnt on the brain. So, too, the Ursa Major when a supposedly washed-up Nicklaus patented romance by winning at 46 in 1986. Interviews take place under the old oak tree. Both the law and the lores are seductive.

Augusta has come in for plenty of flak down the years over matters such as race and gender, but it truly is special. To abridge Mark Twain, it is a good walk. The setting is idyllic, the holes horrific to club players. The massed fans at Amen Corner during the practice rounds are there partly to laud the players and partly to indulge in car-crash golf. The Tuesday cheers shame Sunday afternoon crowds elsewhere.

The exclusivity is part of this appeal. The British equivalent is Wimbledon. Its no-frills clothing policy has often been dismissed as anachronistic and famously came under threat when a young Andre Agassi was dressing as a colour-blind skateboarder. When this hirsute Stig of the Dump turned up in Persil whites, it drew gasps. Rules ruled there, as they do here.

So three cheers for Mayfair. If watching him is the best day of your life, it may make the cynical wonder whether Bobby Jones, the man who started all this, was exaggerating when he said that golf is played on a five-inch course, “the distance between your ears”.

But this is Augusta. It remains aspirational and inspirational. You will never be a member, but this is golf for the common man. And bad parents.