My souvenir, purchased at the Oak Hill pro shop in August 2012.

Good luck, best golfers in the world.

You’re taking on Oak Hill for real starting this morning.

I played the beautiful beast in Rochester a year ago this week, when the horde of professionals were gathering in Kiawah Island. The PGA of America already had an advance crew collected in an office on the stately grounds of what truly must be one of the magnificent private clubs in … well, anywhere.

Most eye-catching and breath-taking I’ve ever experienced, and I’ve played Congressional in Washington, D.C., in 1980, in advance of the Kemper Open, and walked along the ropes at the 1995 U.S. Open at Shinnecock Hills on the east end of Long Island.

The PGA of America people invited media to enter the pristine grounds, listen to a talk about the upcoming PGA Tournament, eat a sandwich from a tray, change to golf shoes in the parking lot — discretely, please, read a sign outside the pool house that housed the PGA of America’s office — and play the course.

Chris Wagner, a longtime and respected golf writer for the big daily in Syracuse (and a frequent partner of mine on less prestigious but always pretty courses around these parts) invited me along for the thrill, along with sports writer Donna Ditota, no stranger to writing about golf, and advertising veteran Dave Junod, the big stick of our bunch.

They let us warm up on the manicured practice range. All the balls you can whack in 15 minutes collected and waiting. They allowed us to putt on a sweeping practice green. Tap the putt and watch it rooooooooolllllllllll past the cup. Fast is too tame a description.

On the shotgun start, we were sent to the lovely, little, par-three 15th hole. Our first shot at Oak Hill would be downhill, to a green bordered by a pond on the right. I predictably sent a weak iron severely left of the green. (Here’s where I must admit that I’m capable of breaking 90 on a great day on a not-so-great course, breaking 100 on a good day on a not-so-good course, and topping 150 at Oak Hill except for their graceful and practical rule that everybody must pick their ball up once two strokes past par on every hole. Pace of play, you know.)

I chipped back, uphill and toward the pond on the other side. The kind, wise and friendly college golfer/forecaddy assigned to our foursome started earning his tip by stopping my ball from rolling over the border and into the water with his golf shoe. Hacker, onward.

The rest of the day was spent enjoying the splendor of our surroundings, cheering each other’s good shots, cursing Junod under our breaths for another drive that approached 300 yards. Wagner hit a bunch of good drives and very nice approach shots. Ditota found fairways and followed the forecaddy’s reads on the greens perfectly. The shot I remember most was my approach on No. 18, a purely hit five-iron that flew over the ravine, climbed to the raised green, and settled sweetly on the right side of the green. Alas, it was already my third swing on the par-four. The pin was severely left. I three-putted, earning my double-bogey.

But oh, the condition of this Oak Hill course, with fairways that looked like greens and greens that looked like heaven. The rough is more gnarly than the backyard of the stubborn guy who refuses to mow his lawn. The trees are thicker than the for-sale section of your neighborhood nursery. And tall, wide, full of leaves. Hills roll, with elevation changes that pop your ears. Creeks wind, strips of water placed where your ball wants to settle.

I was able to appreciate it all.

Have fun these four days chasing the last major title of 2013, best golfers in the world. Sure, there are birdies out there, maybe even eagles for the taking by your considerable length and talents. But somewhere, some hole, somehow, Oak Hill is gonna get you. And you can’t pick up after reaching double-bogey.

My TV is already tuned to the pre coverage on The Golf Channel.