PHILIP REIDwatched spellbound as the world's leading lefty eagled his way around Amen Corner

FOR MERE mortals, the entrance to Augusta National Golf Club – unlike those blessed with golfing gifts who make the grand entry down Magnolia Lane – is off Berckman’s Road. On Saturday, just as every other day, the nondescript Gate 6 provided access into the grounds; but the mishmash of society on the footpaths outside offered a sense of foreboding, seeking retribution for someone’s sins.

A black van with the words “God Is Angry” drove up and down the road, while on the corner across from the entrance gate a gentlemen dressed in denim shorts, baseball cap and sunglasses shouted incessantly of the need to cleanse the soul and wondering whose blood was on God’s hands.

It was, for sure, a strange introduction to the day’s golf. And, for the most part, people – most armed with folding chairs – ignored the warnings of the self-styled prophet. For them, on this day, the Masters was their calling and they would not be disappointed.

For Saturday’s third round of the tournament was a quite extraordinary one which Lee Westwood, for one, would later describe as “one of those great days in golf.”

For sure, it was a day when the main players in the drama found redemption around Amen Corner rather than being scourged for misdemeanours; and it was a day when Lefty himself, Phil Mickelson, produced a run of eagle-eagle-near eagle from the 13th to the 15th holes, having left that holy arena that made the place feel as if an earthquake high on the Richter scale had hit the hallowed grounds.

I’d found a safe haven on the media stand beside the 12th tee for much of the late-morning, early-afternoon as a series of good golfers offered the appetiser before the main course was delivered. Good golfers, like former Masters champions Zach Johnson and Mike Weir, Steve Stricker, Robert Karlsson and Charl Schwartzel.

At one point, John Feinstein, author of the best-selling book A Good Walk Spoiled, clamoured into the stand nestled in this corner of golfing paradise. It was to be a brief visit.

“Hey, John, two of the great underachievers in golf,” someone said, pointing at the two golfers on the 12th tee.

“That’s why I’m here,” replied Feinstein, raising his notepad to indicate a piece on Sergio Garcia and Adam Scott was in the offing.

On this day, the likes of Garcia – the forgotten man of major golf since being inflicted with psychological wounds by his destruction at the hands of Pádraig Harrington in the play-off for the 2007 British Open at Carnoustie and who had salt poured into his wounds by the same player in the 2008 USPGA at Oakland Hills – and Scott were to be just bit players in a drama as compelling and spine-tingling as any which has unfolded in the penultimate round of any Masters.

Amen Corner got is name from the American sportswriter Herbert Warren Wind in a magazine article back in 1958: it takes in the approach shot to the 11th green, all of the 12th hole, and the tee shot to the par five 13th, all of which require shots of skill and which are liable to attract a measure of disaster with water hazards, trees, foliage and bunkers all offering challenges of one kind or another.

Mickelson negotiated this particular stretch with the minimum of fuss, barely providing a hint of what was to unfurl in the 35 minutes of golf that would lie ahead of him as he approached his tee shot in the middle of the 13th fairway.

With 195 yards to the flag, Mickelson chose to hit a hard seven-iron. It finished eight feet from the hole, and the putt evoked a seismic roar. It was nothing compared to what would follow.

On the 14th, a par four of 440 yards lined by trees on either side, Mickelson was left with 141 yards to the pin, opted to use a wedge and, wouldn’t you believe it of a man who is syrupy sweet and all things nice, holed out for back-to-back eagles.

If the roar from the first eagle made the hair on the back of the neck stand up, this one required ear-muffs. It was deafening, and it was spine-tingling . . . . and it left you in no doubt why the Masters is the most special major experience of them all.

And, you know, the man darn near did it again on the 15th. As the crowds flocked to worship Mickelson, Lefty was left with a third shot from 87 yards on the par five and his lob wedge approach for the all the world looked to him as if it had somehow found the hole. Instead, it rolled across the back of the hole and settled inches away for a tap-in birdie.

Five under par for three holes, Mickelson had played his way into the thick of it. What’s more, you’d have thought the man could walk on water across to the 15th green if it were required.

It was one of those special days in major golf, and Mickelson acknowledged afterwards with that twinkle in his eye and sly grin that he had taken sinful pleasure from his part in it all.

“There were roars going up all over the place, you couldn’t figure out who was doing what because there were roars happening simultaneously throughout the course.”

He was right. Kenny Perry had two eagles inside half and hours and Fred Couples, in his golf-cum-street shoes, also fashioned one. But nobody, not even Tiger, gets folk hollering like Mickelson when he produces his magic. This was indeed a magical day and, although green jackets are never won on a Saturday, this was definitely the next best thing.

And, on the way out Gate 6, the man in the denim shorts and sneakers was still expounding his theory on life and sin. And everyone passed him by with a smile on their face with not a care in the world. Thanks, Phil.