The first thing you notice walking through the gates of Augusta National Golf Club is what isn’t there. A disturbingly noticeable lack of signage. It’s strange. There are no advertising tie- ins. No promotional partnerships. And no flashing anything. You won’t be forced to detour around a roped-off, immense SUV which is proud of being the official assault vehicle of the 73rd Masters. There are no giant blimp sized inflatable bottles of beer being ridden like a bucking bronco by a cartoon dog greeting you on the 10th fairway. Neither can you expect a flurry of plastic flapping streamers adorned with soft drink logos outlining the concession area, one of which has snapped loose and is wrapping around your neck like a fiendishly sentient piece of alien ivy. No wind puppets, or rooftop billboards, or white plastic cardboard tables featuring free sweepstake entries for lifetime memberships to a 24-hour spa. Not a single balloon or pennant or neon arrow in sight. You will be blown backwards by no onslaught of marketing blasts. I’m not saying there aren’t signs. Indeed there are. “Restrooms.” “Concessions.” “Clubhouse.” “14th Tee.” “Golf Shop.” All in green (of course) paint. Thin capital letters. Slightly italicized. Sans serif. In a Helvetica like font. With the first letter of every word about 20% larger. And that’s it. It’s unnerving. This place harkens back to that time when not everything and everyone was for sale. You remember. Yesterday.