Picture this. It's the 2010 Masters. One golfer, a few months removed from family issues and swirling media attention, somehow manages to find his stroke on the links once again, proving to everyone his greatness as a player and as a human being. Great story, right? And it happened to the man no one saw it coming from.
Philip Alfred Mickelson. Lefty. No animal−themed nicknames here — just Masters greatness.
On Sunday, Mickelson held off Lee Westwood and fired a 5−under 67 in the final round, winning the Masters by three strokes and capturing his third green jacket. Vintage Mickelson was on display, as he made an incredible shot on the par−5 13th hole between a pair of towering Georgia pines with a 6−iron that landed neatly on the green, three feet from the cup.
In a sense, that's what Mickelson's life has been about these past few months. When faced with a nearly impossible situation to overcome, he somehow finds a way to get his golf ball past those overhanging branches and rough terrain.
With most of the crowd rendered teary−eyed by the moment on the 18th green, Mickelson's wife, Amy, emerged from behind the pack at the first tournament she has attended since she was diagnosed with cancer before last year's Players Championship. Though Amy stayed in bed for most of the week, she made it out onto the course for the final moment, to watch her husband do the unthinkable.
Additionally, Mickelson's mother, Mary, has breast cancer. In short, it's been a tumultuous year for the world−renowned golfer, one few of us can even imagine. But you'd never be able to tell from the way Mickelson happily carried himself at Augusta.
The made−for−TV movie practically writes itself at this point, even without the unbelievable golf Mickelson played. He sandwiched a 71 in the second round with three 67s, only bogeying six holes in the entire tournament. Westwood, for reference, had 10, including three in the final round, while that guy named Tiger had 14.
On the note of Tiger, it would have been a fantastic story had he won. The word "redemption" and "comeback" would have bombarded media publications. His Thanksgiving transgressions would have taken a backseat to arguably the biggest return since Lance Armstrong won the Tour de France fresh off of a bout with cancer. (And no, I did not just compare cheating on your wife to getting cancer, only the level of public attention to each story.)
But it would also have been a great story — at least, for the media — had Tiger flamed out and missed the cut. We would have had a field day discussing the reason for the poor performance. Did Tiger finally crack under the pressure? Were there more family issues we don't know about? Or was he simply not ready to return? (Incidentally, Tiger's curt responses to media questions and continued cursing throughout the tournament showed us that maybe, at the core, he hasn't really changed. But that's not relevant, because this is about Phil.)
Most importantly, Tiger didn't win, finishing in fourth instead. He struggled with the fourth hole the entire weekend, setting off a few inconsistent rounds that ultimately spelled doom. Had, for instance, Tiger won and Mickelson come in second, 95 percent of the media attention would have gone to the former. Unfortunately, when faced with two redemptive stories — Tiger from infidelity and Mickelson from his family's illnesses — sex will always sell better than cancer. It's stupid, but whatever.
Thankfully, it didn't turn out that way. Because I would much rather have it this way. Give me good golf from a fan favorite willing to sign autographs and relate to the common man rather than from some elitist golfer who somehow feels entitled to cheat on his wife. There were no paparazzi necessary to catch anyone coming out of sex rehab. No mysterious late−night car crashes, just unbridled devotion to family and to the game of golf.
Chalk one up for the good guys. Finally.
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Alex Prewitt is a sophomore majoring in English and religion. He can be reached at Alexander.Prewitt@tufts.edu
