This Masters is over. As much as I’m pulling for the player I picked, he doesn’t have a snowball’s chance at steamy Augusta National. Not this way against this guy.
I picked Phil Mickelson by default. I figured Tiger Woods would get steamed over Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer saying a Masters victory wouldn’t qualify him for a legitimate Grand Slam. Being virtually human, Woods would try making an early splash and wind up in Rae’s Creek.
He would throw fits, throw away shots, throw open the door. He would make a double and triple bogey, as he did in last year’s first round. He would begin to wonder if this course had his over-par number.
Right, and I am Tiger Woods.
Instead, he has avoided danger as amazingly as James Bond. For once Woods’ greatness has eluded the golf-dumb, Tiger-crazed masses. He has done nothing beyond belief except “plod along”–his words–and lead the Masters by one after three rounds. He has hit no balls in the water, made nothing worse than a three-putt bogey. Little gambling or scrambling.
Woods is winning by not losing. Here is unbeatably harnessed power and emotion–atomic Zen. Physical and mental maturity. Rare shot-planning and shot-making. Incomprehensible distance and distance control. So far, so straight. Too good.
Said Chris DiMarco, who witnessed firsthand Woods’ ho-hum 68 Saturday: “He hits it so far that, literally, par is 68.”
Don’t look now, but if Woods shoots another shrugging 66, he ties the tournament record of 18 under he set with his runaway 1997 win. Imagine plodding to the Masters record. God help this field if Woods’ putter had gone fist-raising hot. He’s tied for 39th in Masters putting.
“I didn’t do anything great,” Woods said. “Basically that’s how I’ve played all week. I hit some bad ones, but granted they weren’t that bad.”
Which brings us to Mickelson, who leads the tournament in great and bad. He charges, collapses and charges against all odds. But now the guy who has had more lives than a cat finds himself looking into the eye of the baddest cat on the planet. Forget it, Phil.
Mickelson could have outbirdied Mark Calcavecchia, Ernie Els and David Duval in Sunday’s final round. The world’s second most gifted player could have won his first major if Tiger had fallen out of contention the way he did the last three Masters. Now it’s over.
Mickelson can ooze sincerity all he wants about how, at 30, he’s mentally tough enough and fundamentally sound enough to stare down Woods in Sunday’s final twosome. Dream on, Phil. Yes, he beat Woods twice last year, but didn’t play with him either time. Neither tournament was the Masters, with Woods oozing defiant pride about what he calls a Grand Slam.
Mickelson needed hometown advantage to beat Woods in San Diego. He needed to catch a worn-out Woods in the final tournament of the year, the Tour Championship. This is a whole new ballgame.
This is Mickelson, who has won 18 times on the PGA Tour but hasn’t won once in 34 majors. This is a near-great who wants “desperately” to win a green jacket, who has dreamed of this day “since I was little kid picking up range balls so I’d have enough to practice with.”
I’m pulling for him, but I don’t trust him. For all his length and touch, Mickelson’s mind-set can still go as soft as his doughy body. While Woods operates in a blank-faced bubble of relentless concentration, Mickelson’s system goes down two or three times a round. He leads this Masters in birdies with 19 and inexplicable screwups. “Lefty” still has a loose wire, connected to his brain or nerves.
Though he and Woods were raised in Southern California, only Mickelson qualifies as laid-back. Woods can be what he called himself after a bad shot at last year’s U.S. Open. Printable version: a jerk. Mickelson is still too much the nice young man with the perfect wife, now pregnant with their second child. He’s a contradiction of frat-boy cockiness and fear. He’s an all-time great putter who can gag the short ones.
Wealth and acclaim have come so easy for Mickelson you wonder if he can match killer instinct with Woods. Is he driven to be much more than a very successful player and great dad? He wears a watch while he plays, as if he doesn’t want to be late for dinner. If only he had a little more Palmer or Trevino in him–a little street fighter.
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Congratulations, Mr. Woods.