The week of The Masters is the best week in golf for me. For one thing, the weather is usually decent. For another thing, the grass on golf courses is turning green. The dogwood trees are blooming. And in Augusta, the azaleas are glorious.

But it's the golf that really gets my blood pumping. With apologies to the so-called world championships, the Arnold Palmer Invitational at Bay Hill, and all the other tournaments that have already been held, this is the first one that really makes a difference on a player's resume.

It's Green Jacket time. It's time for interviews under the big oak behind the Augusta National Golf Club; time for a par-3 contest that none of us would even watch anywhere else.

It's a week when guys will drive 500 miles just to watch one day of the pros playing practice rounds.

It's The Masters.

Because of deadline restrictions, I'm writing this column on Thursday, early, as in 7 a.m. early, before the first ball has been struck in The Masters that counts. But I'm feeling the anticipation.

Masters week is the only time that I'd rather be watching golf on television than playing it myself. I really enjoy covering the eGolf Tour that's making its second appearance in the Sandhills, but I have to admit that I'm a little irked that I'll have to miss The Masters coverage on Friday.

Oh well, they do show a lot of highlights on the Golf Channel, don't they?

One of the things I love about The Masters is that something special always seems to happen. The first one I covered, in 1971, had a surprise winner in Charles Coody. I was a huge Jack Nicklaus fan at that time and have to admit that I was disappointed. But in retrospect, I'm glad that Coody won. Can you imagine what that Green Jacket means to him?

In all, I covered 21 Masters. I'm proud of that, because every one of them has a special place in my heart. I always drove to Augusta on the Wednesday morning before the tournament began, arriving in time for the interviews we were granted that day. I would usually check my credentials three or four times during the four-hour drive, just to make sure I hadn't forgotten them.

I can't tell you how many times I had nightmares of having lost those precious credentials in the days leading up to The Masters. The mere thought of having to face "Tiny," the mammoth security guard at the media headquarters door, without proper credentials was enough to make me break out in a cold sweat.

My favorite Masters of all time came in 1976, the year Fayetteville native Raymond Floyd tamed Augusta National with a 5-wood. I had known Raymond since he was growing up in Fayetteville, and seeing him win was one of the highlights of my journalism career.

The lowlights for me came when Floyd lost a playoff to Nick Faldo a few years later, pulling his approach shot on the 11th hole into the pond left of the green, and when Greg Norman blew that six-stroke lead to Faldo in 1996.

I had covered Norman's debut at Augusta National and become a big fan of the swashbuckling Aussie. Heck, I even went out and bought one of those neat hats he still wears.

I loved watching legends such as Gene Sarazen and Sam Snead hit those ceremonial drives off the first tee. I loved standing under the big oak and watching everybody who was anybody in the game of golf mingling.

The last Masters I covered was in 1997, the first win for a kid named Tiger. That was pretty much the coming out party for The Chosen One and golf has been forever changed.

Augusta National has been changed, too. And it's not all for the good. I can pause now and recall those roars coming from Amen Corner. That was good stuff. That was The Masters.

It's still the best thing out there. With apologies to the U.S. Open and the other majors, there is just something special about The Masters.

I'm writing this on Thursday and now it's Sunday. I can't wait till next April.