It began like any other day. Thinking back, one may say it was a day steeped in the ordinary – the sun was perched in its rightful space within the heavens, casting a warm glow upon the lush emerald expanse of Augusta National. It was not until a certain figure draped in a green jacket appeared from around the bend of the course, leaning upon a golf club like a seasoned voyageur would lean on his rod of discovery.

Who else could it be, but the “King,” Arnold Palmer himself.

I had the privilege of being Tiger’s caddy for many a tournament, and have been honoured to be in the presence of some truly legendary characters. Still, an occasion to play a round in Augusta with Palmer is an opportunity few dream of, let alone experience.

His golf bag over my shoulder, I was merely supposed to witness. Yet, Arnold, with his knowing smile and thickset fingers beckoning me, coaxed me into partaking in his unravelling tales of the Masters. The day, it seemed, could not bristle with more excitement.

The first nine holes were filled with anecdotes of nerve-wracking shots and thrilling victories, each story painting a vivid scene of his battles with Jack Nicklaus and Gary Player. Arnold would often pause, pointing to a corner of the course where a story had unfolded so many years ago – creating an eerie resonation between past and present.

One might think a man of such stature would hold himself in high regard, big note his accomplishments, yet humility shone in Palmer’s eyes. The wisdom he parted with, ‘golf is deceptively simple and endlessly complicated,’ served as more than just words. Onlookers would never see the battles Arnold waged with himself, the moments he tasted defeat, the moments that oscillate between ephemeral elation and timeless despair.

Guiding my swings and murmuring bits of wisdom, Arnold told tales of determination, courage and the frailty of human spirit. “Golf,” he told me, his hand on my shoulder, “is the closest game to the game we call life. You get bad breaks from good shots; you get good breaks from bad shots – but you have to play the ball where it lies.”

As we approached the final hole – Augusta’s formidable 18th, it no longer felt like the course of the Masters but a memory pathway of a man who has loved, lost and lived. The hazy afternoon sun was punctuated with shadows that danced upon the dew-kissed grass as Palmer shared one last story.

This was the hole where he had fought back tears as the crowd erupted in applause, marking his first Masters win. The same hole where he had backhanded away frustration and grinned in the face of defeat. The hole bore witness to a history of human struggle, of tenacity and endurance.

As we closed the round, Arnold, leaning on his golf club, looked wistfully into the distance. I saw a legend in the twilight of his journey, with a glint of victories in his eyes, a string of lessons wound around his heart and a legacy imprinted upon Augusta National’s greens. I felt not only the weight of the caddy’s bag but the weight of his stories, his wisdom, the spirit of golf itself.

That day, each drive strummed a chord resonating with a hundred untold tales of the Masters. An ordinary day, veiled with the ordinary, unfolding an extraordinary round with Palmer – an adventure worthy of being a part of the Green Jacket Chronicles. A pocket of time forever echoing with stories evoking the allure of the game, the struggle, and the resonance of the human spirit. As a lover of the game, and a caddy to the great, I found myself wanting to continue this thrilling expedition, onto the next green, the next legend, the next tale.