AUGUSTA, Ga. -- The walk always takes me back in time. From the main scoreboard, it's just 10 minutes. I do it from memory, crossing No. 1 and No. 9, cutting across the wide-open pasture, somehow still surprised at the grade of the hills, calves burning, early in the morning before the first golfers make the turn, the fairways open, the grandstands empty. A cart sits in the shade with yellow flags and white cups waiting for their turn in the spotlight, and I slip behind the 17th green and the stone fountain honoring all past champions, realizing that golf fans in the early 1960s saw the following winners in a row: Arnold Palmer, Gary Player, Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus, Jack Nicklaus. All three of those guys are just up the hill in the clubhouse right now, time disappearing as a concept here in a way that's hard to describe if you've never felt it, while here, I'm getting close, across 15, turn right, across 14, then into the tall stand of pine, cool in the shade, walking on straw and fallen leaves, past the lone magnolia until, beyond the elbow of trees: Amen Corner. So many afternoons spent here, watching the white scoreboard in front of me, waiting on Tiger to turn for home, listening for roars and groans, waiting for Phil, waiting for Arnie, afternoons in the sun. I'll wait for someone else in a few days, maybe someone familiar, maybe someone new, as he tries to leave part of himself here, his name engraved on a stone fountain and in the memories of those who saw him, becoming, in a very small way, immortal.