Rory McIlroy's home club had been supping the magic of the Masters for three days and 63 holes until their young hero came a cropper on the last day, writes DAN KEENANNorthern News Editor in Holywood
IT ALL starts with the back nine at Augusta on Sunday. That’s what they say about the real magic of the Masters.
However, there was a different view of this from the bar of Holywood Golf Club.
Rory McIlroy’s home club had been drinking down the magic of the Masters for the first three days and 63 holes.
It was like the best nights of Hurricane Higgins, Barry McGuigan, grand slams or whatever you’re having yourself – all rolled into one.
Big screens, booze and the local lad out to complete a smash and grab job at the most elite level of golf.
The sense of anticipation was huge. Not many young golfers complete post-to-post victories in the Masters – only guys like Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer.
Around the sloping fairways of Holywood they’ve known for years that Rory McIlroy is a bit special. That jaunty walk of his, as if he’s out for a quiet nine holes on a Saturday evening, disguises both his raw talent and special nerve, and also the coaching and years spent on the amateur circuit.
Last night was shaping up to be something different, however. McIlroy’s photographs beam broadly from the clubhouse walls winning amateur titles and European tour events. But a first major title is something else altogether.
For the first three days of this championship, Rory McIlroy had epitomised sporting maturity, calmness, tactical astuteness and nerve.
The 75th Masters was his to lose. Four ahead after three rounds of impeccable iron shots and with some of the biggest names in golf displaying human levels of frailty, Holywood was giddy with anticipation for one of their own.
That nervousness was born of an understanding that this was more than standing on the cusp of a big win. This was the cusp of golfing greatness.
Then came the back nine when, old sages say, the Masters really gets going. The BBC’s own voice of Golf Peter Alliss declared himself “saddened and stunned”.
The four-shot lead had gone to a succession of missed putts, bunkers and fluffed chips.
Tiger Woods advanced spectacularly and then fell back before South African Charl Schwartzel seized the day to win by two clear shots.
The tenth saw the hitherto unflappable McIlroy in trouble having ricocheted off a tree. Then came another pulled shot and yet another ricochet. The crowd groaned in Augusta. Holywood groaned painfully too. A triple bogey – the sort of score your average club duffer falls victim to.
“It’s not over yet,” shouted an in-house commentator at the TV. But in truth it felt like it was and some people left.
A missed birdie putt at the next and a four-putt on the picture postcard 12th and the dream died.
The clubhouse crowd winced at having to watch this cruel and unusual punishment. McIlroy, the pretender, suddenly looked young, broken and vulnerable. His shirt tail hung out a little.
“We’ll not be singing tonight boys,” roared the bar commentator. “Maybe we’ll get drunk and start the singing anyway ...”
It was a forlorn quip rather than an accurate forecast.
Beware the back nine at Augusta. Holywood now knows not to party too soon.