Rory Mcilroy won the Masters, finally. Ruggiti told the story

Auguta, Ga.-Untrial of sweaty bodies and length cameras for a long time was blocked in the upper left corner of the court n. 15 to Augusta National while Rory Mcilroy’s seven feet Eagle slipped under the cup. At that point of the day, the Masters Phoneless were not familiar to the sound of thousands of simultaneous moans. Listen and participate repeatedly, however, it has not become easier.

A green jacket raised out of its plastic gradatory seat in frenzy.

“I can’t take it much more,” the gentleman pronounced. He flanked himself towards the steep staircase down, his children close behind, foaming to sketch the coat that only a selected group can show off on this property.

Until it really happened, the chase of Mcilroy of the Grand Slam of career and the end of his 11 -year -old league drought seemed more similar if I had taken the most nauseating Russian mountains on Earth and increased the speed of ten times. Or you blocked yourself into a blender and transformed it into a higher setting, making the table tremble.

A double opening bogey, a water ball in the Rae stream with a wedge in hand, the first sudden playoff in the masters since 2017-Mcilroy gave Augusta National the show he didn’t know he wanted. Customers on site are not yet sure that they would be registered for. Sunday was a paid heart attack.

“My battle was today with myself. It wasn’t with anyone else,” Mcilroy said on Sunday evening, a normal green jacket 38 launched himself on his shoulders. “You know, in the end there, it was with Justin (Rose), but my battle today was with my mind and remain in the present.

“I would like to say that I did a better job than me. It was a fight, but I passed it.”

It may have been an internal turning point of the wars for Mcilroy, but all the Augusta National felt him with him. They bent over with the rebellious units, they hurried to glimpse the escape routes that challenge the gravity and hoped-Oh, hoped-talks about the face of the Putter, contacted with the golf ball found a hole. Only this, Rory.

Rotation by rotation, they retained their breath.

So, a final roar that could only mean one thing: sweet, sweet relief.

In his 1975 Masters file for Sports Illustrated, the great Dan Jenkins wrote: “There is an old saying that the real masters do not start up to the nine rear of Sunday”. They were 50 masters ago. It is still true.

This retro nine of the 89th Masters began with a semblance of something you can never trust the place: comfort. It is almost always a mirage.

The n. 10 crushed Mcilroy Masters Dreams 14 years ago as a naive 21 year old. Sunday morning, Mcilroy opened his locker to a note from Angel Cabrera, the 2009 champion who played with Mcilroy that day.

Customers surrounded Mcilroy all day. (Richard Heathcote / Getty Images)

The disc on n. 10 He was without demon. The newly bird Putt to take an advantage of four shots? Electrifying. The customers surrounded the tenth green and eleventh fairing 30 deep, scrutinizing the branches of the trees and mixing aimlessly to find a gap in which they could see something. Nothing. Amen Corner hid. In order not to know everyone, the carpet was about to be torn from under the northern Irishman.

It all happened in a blur. A bogey at n. 11 – A number that could have been much larger. A par to n. 12. A 3-Bosco off the tee at n. 13, Mcilroy plays him safely with an advantage of four shots.

There is no closer part of the property for Amen Corner customers, tens of thousands have pressed together to watch while Mcilroy’s ball flown up in the air once, then twice. He remained standing with a wedge in his hands of 82 IARDE. If it would have ruined all this, it would not have been here, with all Georgia on the left side of the greenery. Right?

Mcilroy’s ball fell into the stream. He folded the backbone in half and threw his hands on his knees. At that point there were many responses of triumphant patron. Here, in the last chapter of Amen Corner, the jolts are back. They didn’t stop.

First of all, Red 13 of Mcilroy came out of the nearby manual ranking and was replaced by a gloomy 11. He took a break, waiting for an extra moment before going to the 14th Tee, almost as if he knew he was coming. Rose suddenly his 10 came out for a 11.

Draw game.

No Masters sample has ever won the green jacket with four double trolleys. Is this the type of story that Mcilroy would have done?

Every time it seemed that Mcilroy had thrown away the golf tournament forever, he followed him with a shot, a moment, even a rebound in his passage that was added on the contrary. It seemed that it was in controlling the cruise speed until the emergency brakes hit. The punches of the patron were coupled with the hands buried in faces burned by the sun. More new red numbers have caused a sensation. Mcilroy threw another dart. Birdie-Par-Birdie. Triumph? No. Closing Bogey. There he is. All this would be this. A sudden playoff with his death against his Ryder Cup teammate, Rose.

Harry Diamond, the cart and Mcilroy’s best friend from the age of 7, looked at his player while heading towards the golf cart who would have brought the couple back to the 18th Tee Box again.

“Well, friend, we would have taken this Monday morning,” he said.

The national public of Augusta Spinta did not agree. The anguish was becoming unbearable, exhausting borderline, but also the best masters of the modern era. However, it had to end. Mcilroy needed to put himself – and all the others – out of their misery.

It crosses the white and golden doors of the national clubhouse in Augusta, on a tortuous scale and through a characteristic but at the same time decadent dining room and you will find yourself on a porch. It overlooks the giant oak, the iconic rows of green and white umbrellas and, in the distance, if you crush your neck, n. 18 green.

But today that vision was clouded by a sea of ​​anxious bodies. On the ground, some proposed to start a “phone” game to communicate the play-by-play on the greenery.

On the porch, you can rotate 180 degrees and you are facing a row of white glass. They lead to a 35 -inch television, the only piece of modern technology within a hundred yard radius. A strange combination of green curve, out of service broadcasters and confused writers gathered to look at the playoff. Patrick Reed immersed himself to order a cocktail from Azalea. The president Usga arrival showed up. Everyone was too nervous to pronounce a word. Nobody did it.

A sound of this force cannot be delayed. All the Augusta National has heard McLroy’s release of energy after that four -foot birds putt has fallen. And from his expression – collapsing on his knees and convulsive with sobs – he also felt it.

One of the most chaotic final rounds of recent memory ended with pure emotion, an appropriate release of the sixth man to complete the great career Grand Slam and Mcilroy closed a narrative that was asked if he would ever escape.

“It was all relief. There was not much joy in that reaction. It was all relief,” Mcilroy said after the round, laughing. “And then, you know, the joy came very soon. But I was 17 years old, and a decade of emotion passed that came out there.”

We know, Rory. We know.

(Superior Photo of Rory Mcilroy: Harry How / Getty Images)