The hills are alive.(media coverage of the golf Masters Tournament shown in Austria)

Augusta, Ga. I WOULD be embarrassed to admit how big a part the Masters has played in my life: in my mental life, and, to a degree, my writing life. I'm talking, of course, about the tournament held every April at the Augusta National Golf Club.

Over the years, on practice ranges far and wide, I have "played" holes at Augusta National. This relieves the tedium of practice. I take the clubs I believe will be necessary on each hole. For example, I'll take a 6-iron on 16 tee--aiming for the traditional Sunday pin position. And, at night, I compete in the Masters, as I'm drifting off to sleep. Often, I'm head to head with Tiger. Strangely, he loses.

I am not alone in this, by the way--this Masters fantasizing. In fact, it is a pretty common condition. I can introduce you to many others who suffer from it, or rather, enjoy it.

Like them, I have watched the Masters on television from an early age. I remember the tournaments more than I do Christmases, and probably as much as I do presidential elections. Seve slashing his way around the course. Mize chipping in on Norman. Lyle coming out of the bunker. Floyd hitting it into the water on 11. And, above all, Nicklaus winning the tournament in 1986, at the age of 46. (He was the oldest Masters champion ever.) I will never forget watching the final round unfold, as I sat in my dorm room. That was an afternoon of utter amazement and jubilation.

The next Sunday, in the same room, on the same television, I watched Horowitz return to Russia, for the first time in over 60 years. I was extremely nervous as he played--as I had been when Nicklaus played. But, like Jack, he triumphed. A couple weekends later, Willie Shoemaker was the winning jockey in the Kentucky Derby, at 54. That was a thrilling, odds-defying spring.

I have written about the Masters a lot--a whole lot: about its history, its politics, its aura. You could even speak of its spirituality. You can write drippily about the Masters, and I hope I have not done that. But it's hard not to drip at least a little. There are things about the Masters that irritate me, because there are things about virtually every institution that are irritating. For example, the Augusta brass insist that television commentators refer to the fans, not as fans, but as "patrons." Yeah, well, whatever. But we can live with some silliness and quirks.

From a lifetime of immersion, I feel like I know every blade of grass at Augusta National. In my mind, I have practically lived in the Eisenhower Cabin. And yet I have never been there--never been to Augusta. I'm like Ruth Benedict (if I may), who wrote her book about Japan, The Chrysanthemum and the Sword, without ever visiting there. (This was a wartime assignment.) Don't let anyone fool you: That's a very good book. Where Augusta is concerned, I even know what's supposed to surprise the first-time visitor: the hilliness of the course, for example. It's a lot hillier than you think.