Masters Countdown: The Pinkertons

The famed spring fling known as the Masters, annually the most popular televised event in golf, begins April 10. Yet to absorb the complete spectacle of the place, nothing replaces wandering the grounds and soaking up the atmosphere. As an appetizer for those who have never crashed the Augusta National gates, we offer a few crumbs upon which to nibble until the opening round begins.

Over the nine days leading up to the event, we will be providing inside snapshots detailing what makes the event so special for those who have played in, won or attended the storied little invitational at the private club on Washington Road. Included are intimate places where access is extremely limited, as viewed by the players and past champions themselves.

If you have watched enough westerns, the name conjures images of guys with handlebar mustaches, black bowler hats and pinstriped vests containing pocket watches, not to mention shiny six-shooters strapped to their legs. They were usually trailing train robbers, horse thieves and other law-breaking varmints.

When making their rounds at Augusta National, the modern-day Pinkerton security agents aren't quite as flashy but are just as effective when it comes to corralling the scofflaws and ne'er-do-wells who defy the occasionally arcane rules at the historic club.

For those who have attended the tournament, many have run across -- if not afoul of -- an overly judicious Pinkerton man, who take their jobs as seriously as TSA agents screening incoming passengers from Baghdad. Except that the Pinkerton men smile less frequently and have more power.

Every year, they stoically man the Augusta National clubhouse doors, patrol its gallery ropes, monitor the parking lots ... and keep the great unwashed from trodding in its flower garden?

Former Masters champion Sandy Lyle said he almost got tossed by the Pinkertons a few years back for attempting to take a picture on Magnolia Lane, in the circular driveway where the club flagpole is located, surrounded by flowers shaped like the famed green-and-golf club logo. "It was on an afternoon when there was virtually nobody around, we thought, but we almost got caught and manhandled off ... they wouldn't allow any pictures to be taken," Lyle recalled. "That's the only time I was almost littered off, carried off the grounds."

The notoriously steely eyed Vijay Singh, the 2000 Masters champ, used to work as a bouncer, but he has nothing on these guys when it comes to radiating authority. The history of the private security force, which has sometimes crossed the line into mercenary and thuggish behavior, traces to 1850, when a Scot named Allan Pinkerton formed the agency that was later used to quash strikes and labor unrest through questionable means. Some accused the Pinkertons of inciting union riots and busting heads to justify their presence on corporate payrolls as the country transformed into a manufacturing power.

Hey, it was good for business.

These days, the Pinkerton force is still keeping hordes from running roughshod over high-rent, sanctified ground. Oops, we mean the patrons, as they have been euphemistically termed at the Masters.

Ever seen a young fan running along the ropes at Augusta National, anxious to get a good look at a top player's next shot? Didn't think so. By the time their second sneaker hits the ground, a Pinkerton is barking, "No running is allowed at Augusta, son, or else." No, we're not kidding. Running is expressly forbidden.

On a similar front, ever see anybody but the players and caddies inside the ropes? Therein lies a first-person tale. Two years ago, after yet another offseason redesign, the course had stretched the first tee box so far back that it nearly dovetailed into the practice putting green. Spotting golf architect Tom Fazio on the other side of the first tee box, I was faced with two choices -- circle around the entire practice putting green and risk losing sight of Fazio, who I wanted to interview, or cut across the short, roped-off walkway connecting the practice green and back of the first tee.

For credentialed media covering an event anywhere else on the planet, the answer would have been obvious. Since the width of the roped area was perhaps five feet, I quickly ducked under the cord and trailed after Fazio. Therein began an impromptu parade of sorts.

A stubborn Pinkerton (redundancy alert) trailed me 100 yards to the bottom of the hill, put the arm on me just before I reached Fazio and firmly demanded that I return to where I had crossed the rope line. He threatened to yank my press credential if I didn't comply.

So, like a chastened 3-year-old, I was forced to climb the hill, then duck back under the ropes that I had crossed without permission. By then, of course, Fazio had high-tailed it to parts unknown.

The Pinkerton smiled smugly, his eyes squinting, sort of like Clint Eastwood in those old spaghetti westerns. After 160 years of chasing bad guys, another law-breaker had been brought to justice.

The age-old Pinkerton motto is, "We never sleep." Heck, they never so much as relax.