Nothing in life worth having comes easy. Unless of course you were a lad who used to buy his weed in bitcoin off the dark web, forgot all about it, and woke up in a daze ten years later to a leftover balance in the millions. For most of us though, that old adage rings true and for none more so than Rory McIlroy who, after a decade of trying, has 18-holes standing in the way of an immortalising career grand slam.
Written off after Thursday’s wobble, McIlroy goes into the final round at Augusta leading by two after a pair of 66s, with last year’s U.S. Open foe, Bryson DeChambeau, breathing down his neck.
For McIlroy to show up again so soon after his Pinehurst humiliation takes courage. His willingness to be vulnerable won’t be applauded, but it should be. He’ll tell the media it’s only golf. That his perspective remains intact and that there’s a lot more harrowing things that life could throw his way than a wardrobe without a green jacket. But make no mistake, right now, this is McIlroy’s everything. His Everest is the summit of a grand slam mountain that has buried him in an avalanche of self doubt for ten years and counting.
I tried to put myself in McIlroy’s shoes as he prepared his approach to the 15th green on Saturday. How he can forget the heartache and silence the hope as a sea of patrons burst the banks of the grandstand with a mix of expectation and dread? You’d wonder how anyone could swing a club, much less hit a ball, and then you see this six iron soar into the sky. Stars colliding, and McIlroy walking after it cock-sure of it landing as the rest of us wonder if the tracer will ever come down.
There was a bounce in McIlroy’s step after that alright, but much more noticeable was the expression on his face. It was pure arousal. Biting his lip. Practically drooling. Fancying himself for the first time in forever. Nick Faldo spotted it on commentary. Of course he did. If anyone knows anything about self-admiration, it’s Faldo. Me on the other hand, yeah, I’ve seen that face, but on lads peeling the lid off a taco cheese fries at 3am on Harcourt Street.
With McIlroy not just hungry for the occasion but devouring it whole, I caught myself as he stretched four clear, suddenly wondering if I was ready for it all to end. Not just the major drought but this hunt for golfing greatness.
Observing my excitement this morning, my partner asked me if I had money on him. And I don’t, not a penny. As if I haven’t already invested enough. Ten years of hope, hopelessness and a heap in between. Penning obituaries and tales of resurrection. As close to a priest scribbling sermons at Easter as I’ll get. Trying to come up with new ways to say the same thing. Trying to make sense of it all.
I can’t imagine how he feels…
And still, for how badly I want this for him, I couldn’t help but laugh as Bryson buried that putt on 18 to get within two. Because how much sweeter will it be to do it without an asterisk, so to speak. As if coasting home by six could somehow minimise the achievement.
No, this one will be decided in the blood and the mud and the mire on golf’s hallowed ground. Against DeChambeau of all people, the man who had McIlroy’s number less than a year ago and who’ll command a good chunk of the home gallery gunning to get McIlroy beat.
The stage could not be better set. It is everything any golf fan could wish for. It’s prime Mickelson v Tiger. Hell, it’s even better than that. It’s Ali versus Frazier, golf’s two heaviest hitters, in-form and flushing. Only instead of Madison Square Garden, we’re slugging it out in Augusta Georgia with McIlroy odds on to land the knockout blow.
Ring the damn bell already. I’m ready to rumble.
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