It was early on a brilliant Sunday morning in 1996 and I was minutes away from opening my weekly CNN golf show live from under the old oak tree behind Augusta National’s clubhouse. I had my opening down, some bluster about how surely even Greg Norman could hold this big a lead, finally winning here after so many disappointments, etc., etc.

As the clock ticked toward 7:30 and my cue, suddenly, inexplicably, a curious, almost frighteningly thick cloud of fog began to move quickly up the hill from Amen Corner. Within seconds, we were going from crystal clear blue skies to a gray soup. Where before I could see to the top of the first fairway, suddenly I was having a hard time finding my camera.

My mind raced. I had to somehow find words to describe for a live national audience what they were (or were not) seeing. I got the toss and I began to put Augusta National and the Masters in trite but heartfelt perspective.

That this sudden fog (which in the end would last just minutes) was so thick, one could imagine the ghosts, that surely Bobby Jones was somewhere amidst it. You get that sense anyway, fog or not, choosing to hear the whispers of the past through the tips of the rustling old pines.

We got into the show, the fog cleared, I finished without injury, successfully filling the required time. I sat for a moment on my stool, unhooking my microphone and earpiece, breathing deeply, trying to figure out what had just happened.

“Hey, Huber!”

The words were drawled, the “r” was lost and so it came out “Hubah”.

I look around and then up. A dormer window above one wing of the clubhouse was open and an old unfamiliar head was hanging out, smiling.

“I just saw your show,” he said. “Good job but how the hail did you do that?”

“Thanks but, do what?”

“Get ol’ Bob to walk behind you like that.”

I shook my head. “Dunno what you mean.”

“Well, hail, boy, it worked damn good.”

And with a loud laugh, he left.

I look at my cameraman, who had no clue. I talked to my producer who was in a large satellite truck in the parking lot.

“Tony, you see anything funny, wait, let me rephrase that, you see anything unusual during the show?”

“Sorta, but you gotta come out and see for yourself. I’ll rack the tape for you.”

And there it was. As I was in the opening stages of my explanation for the fog and the talk of ghosts, an ancient, stooped man dressed in a tweed driving cap, green jacket and tie, hobbled behind me, a cane barely holding him up. He went from the left side of the screen to the right and then disappeared, as if on perfect cue. One of the ghosts of Augusta National. I scoured the grounds for him, asked if anyone recognized the description. No one did. Like the fog, he had dissolved.

I have always imagined that, within the courtly confines of this magnificent acreage, they come from time to time to relive the good times. To sip a bit of whiskey, smoke a cigarette and tell long tales. Maybe even hit a ball or two.

Just imagination, certainly, the ramblings of a simple mind.

Uh-huh.