AUGUSTA, Ga. » The best part of being a sportswriter is the access. You won’t get rich going to the ballpark on the weekend, but you will be in the dugout, or on the football field, or in the locker room or inside the ropes at pretty much every event you’re asked to cover.

Except one.

The Masters.

At this golf tournament, no one is allowed inside the ropes. Not the bloody . Not Sports Illustrated or that company’s world-famous photographers. Not even the Augusta Chronicle newspaper, which covers the first major of the PGA Tour season as well as anyone.

If you want to go watch the event in person and away from the safety of the media auditorium, you’ve got to stand on your tiptoes and strain to see what’s going on just like everybody else. You don’t have to pay to walk through Bobby Jones’ backyard, as most folks do, but in the eyes of the men with the green jackets, you’re another face in the crowd.

With that said, hanging out with the patrons for four days can be a lot of fun. Most of them know golf better than you do. They play it, live it, breathe it. Some are a half-shot away from being a professional themselves.

Others have an 18 handicap, but almost all of them tee it up whenever they can.

Like members of the media, they have to wear a badge that allows them access to this prestigious event. Unlike members of the media, their names and the outlet they work for are not listed.

So when they see you, they don’t have any problem asking you questions, especially if your badge is a media company someone recognizes or if you work in Hawaii.

"Long way from home." "What time is it there?" "Does everybody go to the beach every day?" "One of the best times of my life was the week I spent on Maui … Oahu … the Big Island … Kauai." "The golf courses there are wonderful." "Do you play every day?" "It’s the one place in the world where the people are as friendly as we are."

It goes on and on.

MOST WHO COME to golf’s cathedral have southern accents. They drive from Florida, North Carolina, South Carolina, all parts of Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi. Once a mother or father of a family gets tickets, they remain on the list until both of them die. The tickets are not passed on to the siblings. As long as mom or dad are still kicking, the kids can use the four-day passes. This year, the face value of the tickets was $125 a day or $500 for four days. If you want to sell them, they are worth what someone is willing to pay for them. Which is usually … a lot.

On Sunday, a couple talked about leaving the grounds and watching the rest of the tournament on TV. The wife couldn’t see anything because she wasn’t tall enough. But the husband wasn’t about to leave just yet. He told her, "We didn’t spend six grand to watch it at the hotel."

This is just a snippet of some of the things you hear when you walk the grounds with everyone else. They’ll tell you why Phil Mickelson’s shot at the par-3 fourth hit the grandstands and landed in the bamboo patch, effectively knocking him out of the tournament on Sunday.

"He came out of his shoes too soon and blocked it to the left." Another guy says, "No. No. No. His hips came through his swing too quickly and the club face didn’t get square. He does it all the time." Another guy with six Masters glasses — emptied of the $1.50 of beer they each came with — has another opinion. He just can’t get it out coherently enough for anyone but his buddies to understand.

SUNDAY AT THE first tee, reporter Karen Crouse was explaining to one golf fan why she was uncomfortable covering this event. She loved the place, loved the history, but didn’t like the politics.

The guy she was talking to nodded his head at all the right moments, but when Phil Mickelson walked from the practice green to the first tee — they could have reached out and touched him on the shoulder — he forgot all about Ms. Crouse and yelled, "Go Phil!" Mickelson doffed his cap and smiled that goofy smile, then shook hands with a couple of guys wearing the green jackets before starting his round. I then said to Ms. Crouse, "Would you really want to belong to a club that would have us as a member?"

EARLIER THAT DAY, some of us watched Tiger Woods play the first few holes to see if he would go crazy low. He and Rory McIlroy — the heavy favorites coming into this event — eventually finished tied … for 40th, but at this very moment, Tiger was walking down the fifth fairway when some guy among thousands of fans, said, "Go Tiger. It’s time to make your move."

We were all standing in the walkway that crossed the fifth hole, with Woods no more than 20 feet away when he looked up at the guy who had just shouted his name. He knew him. You could tell. He doffed his cap and looked right at him. The man said, "See honey, I told you he’d recognize my voice." Nobody knew who he was, but Woods definitely did. No move was forthcoming, but it was still a nice moment for those folks nearby.

ANOTHER GOOD ONE happened near the 14th green on Saturday. Two guys from Augusta who have been coming to the tournament for 30-something years were standing in one of those dead ends you learn about with experience. It’s near the 14th green and the 15th fairway, but if you’re a novice, you don’t know it dead-ends, forcing you to turn around and retrace your steps for at least 100 yards.

"We’ve been coming here for years," said one Augusta native, who was near the tipping point with the $1.50 beer. "Everybody crosses over the 15th down there or comes up the other side of the fairway and watches the 14th green from the grandstands. A long time ago, they used to let you stand where that pine tree is over there."

When you first look, there are about 50 pine trees where he’s pointing, but after a while, you just play along.

"Anyway, Phil is right there," he continues. "And he’s maybe 18 inches off the green. This is his second Masters and he’s got a wedge out and he’s hitting the grass near the ball. Practicing. THWOP. THWOP. THWOP …" All the while this guy is saying THWOP, he’s staring at you intently, begging you to say, "What was he doing?" He answers without the question being asked, "He’s practicing that flop shot of his. Second year here. I want to say, ‘Hey Phil, putt it man. Putt it. The hole is right there.’ But no. THWOP. THWOP. THWOP. And then he hits that flop shot of his and it goes in the hole for a birdie. I saw the flop in its infancy."

IF YOU REALLY want to have some fun, go over to Amen Corner and just stand there all day. The grandstand is filled to capacity as soon as the curtain goes up. Down near the 11th green, people have chairs set up where they sit all day and smoke cigars and drink beer and make business deals. Behind this sitting area and in front of the grandstand, another mass of people just stands there and watches group after group hit their approaches into 11, tee it up at the par-3 12th and then watch the drives come at them from the par-5 13th.

"You from Hawaii. Are you going to talk to Tiger later today? Tell him, he should have never left Mr. Haney. Tell him his swing is so messed up, it doesn’t even look right. Hey, tell him it’s not too late to catch Jack, but that Foley guy has really messed him up bad. Will you tell him?"

First chance I get. I promise.

"HOW LONG YOU been standing here," a reporter from New Jersey asks. We met at the exact same spot on Friday and have now seen each other three straight days among the masses. The odds of that are about as long as Bubba Watson winning the Masters. But somehow, both things come true.

"Too long. Remind me to tell Tiger his swing is all messed up."

His response, "I want to be there when you say that."

It goes on like this for hours.

"I like your Aloha shirt." "Do people actually wear those to work?" "Can I get a job there?" "Have you ever caught Island Fever? Is there a vaccine for it?" "Do the women wear hula skirts all the time?" "Does milk really cost $10 a gallon?" "I went there once and every street had nothing but vowels and K’s and W’s. I was lost for 10 days."

I’ve been lost for 20 years.

IT’S LATE SUNDAY and Phil is coming up to the 15th green. Everybody who has a ticket, and it’s probably nearly 40,000, is between the 15th tee and the 18th green. The back nine is packed solid. Mickelson hits his approach into the green and there’s no way you can see a thing from ground level except the back of somebody’s head. As Mickelson’s ball finds the putting surface, the reaction is fairly receptive, but it’s not that near to the hole.

A guys says to his buddy: "Sounds like a 20-foot roar to me." I catch a glimpse at where the ball has landed and say to him, "How did you know?" He laughs and says, "I know all the roars out here by heart."

From there, a lot of us head to the 18th to see what Bubba and Louis Oosthuizen are up to. You can’t move anybody with a pitchfork, and if you have a touch of claustrophobia, this is not where you want to be. It takes a while before the playoff begins and it’s just impossible to see anything at the 18th, so off to the 10th we go … just in case.

Both golfers hit nervous drives, but it’s Bubba who eventually wins. That suits most of these southern boys and girls just fine. He’s one of them. And Louis, well, he’s got a last name nobody out here can pronounce. When you tell them it’s "West-high-zen, they scrunch up their noses and say, "REALLY?? Is that a Ha-Waiian name?"

"Oh yeah."

And call it a day before the lack of access sends you to the concession barn for good.