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As we walked the 18th fairway and reached the green, I looked skyward and gave a wink. I lost my dad last summer and one more time wished he were here to enjoy the moment.

Dad had always dreamed of going to Augusta National Golf Club, and I thought if I were ever to share the experience it would be while attending the Masters Tournament. But actually playing the course? I may as well have put flying to the moon on my bucket list.

So just weeks after my friend Steve called with the impossible invite, there I was turning down Magnolia Lane toward the course, the hair on my arms turning up just the same.

The tunnel of ancient magnolias leading to the clubhouse hung over me like all the giants of golf that then crossed my mind — Hogan to Hagen and Snead to Sarazen, Palmer and Nicklaus. They all turned down this tiny little strip of road in search of one of golf’s biggest prizes.

Steve and I began our day at the driving range, where we were introduced to our caddies. We each had our own, a fact I was reminded of later in the day when I asked Steve’s for a shot’s yardage.

Franco, a two-decade veteran of the club decked out in the traditional white coveralls, stood behind and watched me hit balls with different clubs. Caddies do that so they can judge how to club you for the day. I’m not sure I helped Franco much, but I found him to be a bit of a character, professional but not stuffy, so at least it got me loose.

We walked over to the Par 3 course, where every hole looked postcard beautiful. Most of them have water, and they are all short, designed to be a good warm-up for the players before they embark on playing the main course. We finished the Par 3 course in about an hour, had lunch, then proceeded to the hallowed grounds of the main course.

What struck me as we teed off on No. 1 is how wide open the course lay. I now understand why so many had said John Daly, after winning the PGA Championship in 1991, would someday earn several green jackets.

It’s a bomber’s delight. Though its fast greens beg for patience. I three-putted a few holes and felt OK with it.

As a bogey golfer I was pleased with the 46 I shot on the front nine. How about a 46 to open my round at Augusta, Dad?

Now, if you’re of a certain age, you realize that the Masters didn’t televise the first eight holes until 1993. So, when we hit Amen Corner, with Nos. 11, 12 and 13, it all started to look familiar.

On No. 12 I hit my tee shot over Rae’s Creek and somehow landed on a strip of green about as wide as a one-car driveway. Franco gave me a perfect read, and I cozied up a putt for a kick-in par.

We stopped on the straw on 13, where Mickelson hit his miraculous shot last year, and again on 15, where Gene Sarazen notched a double eagle in 1935.

I love the history of it all. And it was on No. 16 where I added another moment to my mental highlight reel.

We teed off from the Masters tees, about 170 yards. They had the Sunday pins in, so the cup was on the bottom of the green. My tee shot was perfect, landing on the top of the green about in the middle. Franco knew it was good as he starting running up the fairway for a better look. Sure enough, the ball started slowly trickling down the hill then disappeared.

I could not tell if it had gone in because the bottom of the green dips below eye level. When I reached the green I saw my ball. It just missed the cup and rested about four feet below the hole. I calmly knocked in the birdie putt, Franco gave me a fist bump, and my day was made.

On the 18th green, you can turn 360 degrees and see a lot of the course. You can see the clubhouse, the hole on No. 9 and the first tee. There I had the warmest feeling come over me.

I thought of my name and where I came from and how I got to this point.

I think Dad was with me every step that day. He always wanted to go to Augusta.

(Johnny Goode is an advertising executive at Arkansas Business Publishing Group, when he’s not sneaking out for a local round.)