I am of the same belief as the long ago comedian Groucho Marx, who said, “I’d never want to join a club that would have me as a member.”

For that reason I’m very happy that Augusta National either never sent me an invitation to join, or it was tragically lost in the mail. I’m quite sure it was the latter.

Mind you, when it came to a pecking order for membership in one of the world’s most exclusive golf clubs I was on the list somewhere behind Ted Bundy and Charles Manson.

My non-membership status at Augusta National rears its ugly head every year about this time when the Masters Golf Tournament is played.

I covered the tournament about a half dozen times and unlike almost any other sports event that I have covered, called, or even just attended, the Masters is the one that I love — and I hate.

The city of Augusta, Georgia, is largely a military town and a middle class, blue collar city. The last time I was there the most luxurious hotel in town was the Holiday Inn.

Amongst the dining A-list are the Frog Hollow Tavern and Abel Brown Southern Kitchen. It’s an early-to-bed, early-to-rise community. It’s only a guess on my part but the number of locals who have ever so much as driven the lane from the street to the golf course, could probably fit in the bar at Frog Hollow.

The reasons are simple. No guests are allowed on the property unless invited by a member any time during the year except during Masters week. But even then you must be in possession of a ticket or a badge.

I did the Championships at Wimbledon for 15 years, and in terms of prestige, the two are similar. But at Wimbledon the community is allowed to, at the very least, get a grounds pass that may not get them on center court, but allows them to absorb the ambience of one of the world’s great events. At Augusta the public is not only on the outside, but can’t even look in. Mark that on the “hate” side of the Masters for me.

Here’s another comparison of the Masters to Wimbledon. I worked with Arthur Ashe as my color analyst every year at the tournament and I once asked him what the easiest way to get membership in the All-England Club was. Like the Augusta National, there are roughly 300 members. “Well, the easiest way to join the club,” Arthur mused, “is to win the tournament.”

And so it is in Augusta.

Members there must be invited. There are no applications. And, if you dare ask “what are my chances?” the answer is: zero. Augusta National has come kicking and screaming into the 21st century. The first African-American member was invited in 1990, and the first woman in 2012. The very first step I took at the meticulously manicured entrance to the club, my mind was screaming, “Welcome to the last plantation.”

And there you have the “hate” part of my conundrum.

The love part requires some rationalization that this stodgy old establishment has crept slowly, if defiantly, into an inclusive world that includes people of color and women. They still have about 50 years to go, but hey, progress is progress.

Unlike every other golf tournament, the Masters is composed of only 95 players. About 15 have an actual chance to win the tournament.

The fairways at Augusta National are so pristine, it’s like walking on a carpet at a Designer’s Showcase. A writer (or perhaps an over-writer), said that the greens at the Masters “loom over their fiefdoms like 18 brooding Gods of conflicting temperament.” I have no idea what that means, but I know you can’t make a putt on them. (I hasten to inform my loyal readers that I can’t make a putt in the clown’s mouth at a mini-golf layout either)

Spectator rules include no jeans, no coolers, no phones, no tank tops, no running and no cameras. I didn’t read anything about nudity.

But, it’s the oddly quaint adherence to those rules that sets the Masters apart. It’s like dinner at grandma’s house. There’s stuff on your plate you’ve never seen before, but when it’s over you say “That was good.”

Strolling the course at Augusta is like walking through a 365-acre arboretum. There are plenty of patrons who don’t know Scheffler from McIlroy, but I assure you they know dogwoods, jasmine, camellias and azaleas which frame virtually every inch of the grounds like a Monet painting.

There’s nothing like it in sports. You can’t help but love it.

And hate it, too.

Warriors stumble while Giants surge

Before we get out of Dodge this week, a couple of words about the W’s and the G’s.

A tough loss to be sure for the Warriors Wednesday night to the San Antonio Spurs. The bad news is the younger Spurs were the fresher team down the stretch at the end of back-to-back games for both teams. The good news is, there are no back-to-back games in the playoffs.

It’s all about positioning right now for the postseason. The Warriors are on the cusp of a play-in or playoff. They have two more games before the postseason. One at Portland and one home against the Los Angeles Clippers. It would be a good idea to win both.

As it stands right now, the Warriors are on a tight rope. They’ll be in the dance, but they might not get to boogie with the prom queen.

And a final note about your San Francisco Giants.

I truly believe Wednesday’s come-from-behind win would not have happened last year. I’m not naive enough to say that this is a championship team, but as a spectator, you can go to the park with the thought that they can win every game. And you just haven’t been able to say that for the last few years.

Now it’s on to Yankee Stadium — for better or worse.

Barry Tompkins is a 40-year network television sportscaster and a San Francisco native. Email him at barrytompkins1@gmail.com.