THE MASTERS : The Kid Played Like Old Pro

AUGUSTA, Ga. —  It is 8:30 in the Georgia morning, and a stout-hearted, stout-waisted man wearing knickerbockers leaves footprints in the dew. His name is Gene Sarazen, he was born in 1902, and as he tees up the ceremonial first ball of the Masters golf tournament, 79-year-old Sam Snead waits his turn.

Like Sherlock Holmes, a younger golfer, Lanny Wadkins, hunches over to inspect the prints left by Sarazen’s shoes. He says: “I see Gene’s gotten even heavier,” and there are laughs all around.

Dissolve now to the near-dusk 10 hours later, to the 18th tee of Augusta National, to a golfer in charcoal gray slacks and a blue shirt with a gray turned-up collar. His name is Phil Mickelson, he was born in 1970, and with a birdie on this hole he will break 70 at the Masters. He will be eligible for the Senior PGA Tour in the year 2020.

One by one, as other golfers approach this tee, their caddies carry bags bearing their name:. Jumbo Ozaki, Mark Brooks, David Frost. Mickelson’s caddie arrives. His bag reads: ARIZONA STATE.

“Go get ‘em, Mick!” a guy in the gallery yells.

Others quickly follow suit: “Nail one, Phil!” “Do it, Mick!” Until you already can feel the fan club growing. Arnie’s Army, Jack’s Pack. . . . Mick’s Clique? Almost totally ignored, staring off into space no more than five feet away, is Nick Faldo, Masters champion two years running, partnered with this college boy from San Diego, this amateur, in Thursday’s first round.

Faldo’s drive hooks into sand. He finishes the 18th hole with a bogey five, missing a five-foot putt, then trudges off the course with his 72 and his putter--and a mutter: “That’s enough for one day.”

Mickelson’s drive outdoes the Masters champion by a good 30 yards. The left-handed amateur has left himself only 120 shy of the green on a hole 405 yards long. He takes an eight-iron from his caddie, who also happens to be his college coach, Steve Loy, and knocks the ball three feet from the pin. The putt rolls in, Mickelson’s score is 69, and cries of “Yeah, Phil, yeah!” echo in the crowd.

A boyish smile. A friendly wave. He isn’t even voting age, but already Phil knows the drill. He takes a seat in a golf cart, takes a question from a guy by the scorer’s tent. The guy wants to know what Phil thought of his round.

“Awesome,” Mickelson says.

“Totally awesome?” the guy asks.

“Well, maybe not totally,” Mickelson says. “Almost totally.”

People are marking the moment, the way a player marks a putt. Maybe Phil Mickelson won’t be the player everybody seems to think he will be. Maybe Mickelson won’t be the next century’s Sarazen or Snead, doing the honors on the opening morning of the 2059 Masters, when he would be Sarazen’s age. Maybe Mickelson won’t be Nicklaus-son , the next god of golf.

But maybe he will.

This was a page for his scrapbook, his first day in a Masters, his first play in a major. He played it like a pro. Birdied the second hole. Eagled the 13th. Turned the back nine in 32. Even most of the older boys still dream of doing that.

He soaked it all in, the ride down Magnolia Lane, the quarters in the so-called “Crow’s Nest” on the golf course’s grounds that he is sharing with two other amateurs, Rolf Muntz and Michael Combs. Mickelson made the most of it, even taking time to smell the flowers.

“Awesome,” he said. “The whole course is awesome. The greens are in incredible shape. Extra fast. The fairways are perfect. The greens cut down tight. The galleries? What can I say? The galleries are very cordial. No, that’s not a good enough word. Supportive . That’s a good word.”

What Mickelson knew about the course before this week was “just what I read about it, and it was everything I read about and more.” He said he “picked the brains” of every old pro willing to give him a tip, couldn’t fathom it when Raymond Floyd would tell him how a certain green would break, couldn’t believe it when the putt broke exactly as Floyd said it would.

His style, he modeled after Arnold Palmer, whom he calls, “Mr. Palmer,” who mentioned to Mickelson that he never put an iron in his hand when a wood would do. Mickelson hit woods off the tee all day.

Jack Nicklaus was waiting when he was done. He wanted to chat about how things have changed since he was an amateur here, how much more public exposure Mickelson must handle in today’s world, how prepared for it this mature young player seems. Nicklaus patted Mickelson on the knee, told him: “Go get it, Phil. Have another nice round.”

Mickelson laughed about that and said Mr. Nicklaus said such nice things about him only because they happened to be in the same room “and he was forced to.”

It was that kind of day, a day for a kid to be respectful, yet feel free to kid his elders, same way Wadkins kidded Sarazen in the morning, and to feel like one of the boys, to feel he belongs.

“This is the ultimate competitive golfing experience, and your first time only happens once,” said Phil Mickelson, who someday can tell his grandchildren that his very first day at his very first Masters was awesome--not totally, but almost.