In a fit of ignorance on Thursday morning, I decided to make a small wager on the Masters, and after searching for the most certain bet, I laid Tiger Woods on Betfair for €2. His odds to win were about 12/1 at the time. Perhaps there were many more obvious losers in the field, but I could not imagine Woods winning, and this like another rung in my painfully-incremental 50-year sports gambling plan to make a fortune by betting small amounts on sure things. (As if I have to say this, I am, by the way, a terrible sports gambler.)
I was pretty cocky going into yesterday evening only to be put through hell. Tiger's explosion on the front nine coupled with McIlroy's simultaneous implosion made for the best golf television that I can remember: it was gut-wrenching, but far more satisfying than watching the semi-stars of the Southern Hemisphere duke it out on the last holes. Tiger was immense, most memorably for me on 8: the incredible second shot followed by the big eagle putt and the 2005-vintage fist pump.
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A6SlsfaPTq8[/youtube]
I thought I was fucked, especially as McIlroy found himself in suburban Atlanta off the tee on 10. I can't tell you why Woods didn't romp home. Physically, that level of adrenaline must be impossible to sustain, and it must growing tiring over 3 hours of golf. Maybe he just started to think about arranging victory sex and got distracted. Either way, I made two euro. But as I was watching the Australians and Schwartzel finish the tournament off, I couldn't shake the feeling of anti-climax. It would have been amazing to see McIlroy win the Masters after leading for 4 days. But the spectacle and the reappearance of old Tiger seemed worthy of something more than fourth place. The green jacket ceremony would have been worth the lost evening.
