Rory McIlroy finally got his green jacket.
I watched the entire final round of The Masters golf tournament yesterday, all the way through to the clinching putt on the first playoff hole, and I must say it was riveting television. Rory was up by as many as four, then lost the lead, got it back, had a chance to win it on the 18th hole in regulation but missed a par putt, then went back to the 18th for the first playoff hole against Justin Rose and repeated the great drive, but had a much better approach shot that left him with maybe a 3 1/2-footer for birdie.
Rose missed his birdie attempt, Rory made his, and the pent-up emotion just poured out of him, right there on the green and all the way to Butler Cabin, in front of the masses gathered there and a world-wide television audience. It was a great moment—an athlete at the pinnacle of his sport, finally achieving what had been an elusive goal since early in his career. Pure catharsis, pure joy.
For a few shining moments, it made me forget about the spray-tanned dumpster fire that normally dominates the headlines.
3 Cents' 