The war within

The leaderboard lied to all of us, first off. Fed us a straight-up, top-of-the-line stretcher.

See those names up there? J. Rose and L. Aberg and, hell, even B. DeChambeau for a time?

They weren't the ones chasing R. McIlroy through the sunlight and shadow of Augusta National Sunday afternoon. 

They weren't the ones bringing the heat, breathing down his neck, turning his knees to jelly and his nerves to marmalade.

The guy who did that was R. McIlroy himself. And it was one almighty struggle.

R. McIlroy, first name Rory, came to Sunday with a two-shot lead and the green jacket and career Grand Slam in sight, and he got both. But not before Himself put him on the rack and tortured him a bit, just for the fun of it.

It was Rory, see, who radared irons into the greens, and feathered a seeing-eye draw on 15 that was the shot of the Masters, and built a four-stroke lead with eight holes to play. And it was Himself who kept finding water and beachfront and sliding spitting-distance putts past the cup, blowing the lead and then regaining it and then blowing it again and then regaining it again.

Any number of times yesterday, Rory could have ended it. He had it in his hip pocket after back-to-back birds at 9 and 10 -- he led J. Rose, first name Justin, by four strokes at that point -- but then Himself seized the wheel.

Bogey at 11. Double-bogey at 13. Another bogey at 14.

That's four strokes lost in four holes, if you're keeping score at home. You could practically hear the beep-beep-beep as Rory backed up to the field.

But wait, there's more!

At 15, Rory took back the wheel and hit that spooky-good draw.

Then Himself yakked the extremely makeable putt for eagle that would have essentially ended it.

Then Rory dropped the comeback birdie to draw even with Rose again, dropped another iron in the bucket to birdie 17 and retake the lead, and came to 18 needing only a par to finish it.

Himself promptly hit a popup into a greenside bunker.

After which Rory blasted out to within whispering distance of the jacket and the Slam. After which Himself -- again! -- put a faint-hearted stroke on the putt for par, trundling it wide right and forcing R. McIlroy into a playoff with J. Rose.

And then ...

And then, Rory grabbed the wheel one last time.

After Rose dropped his approach within a legit birdie putt of the pin, Rory did him one better. He dropped his approach so close to the jar he could have knocked in the birdie putt with a garden hose, and after Rose's birdie try missed, McIlroy tapped in for the green jacket, the career Slam, the whole damned thing.

Rarely has a man won a golf tournament who tried so hard to lose it.

Rarely have we seen the war within every pro golfer more starkly play out, nor seen its toll so openly expressed.

You've seen the video now, no doubt: How Rory flung his putter skyward as the ball dived into the cup, then dropped to his knees, put his head down and wept into the grass, shoulders shaking. Then he was up and screaming at the sky. and grabbing his caddy, and making the long stroll to the clubhouse, his features arranging and re-arranging as he cried and then laughed and then cried some more.

It was the look one of the greatest golfers of his generation wears when he's finally achieved immortality, after years of wrenching misses.

It was the look of a man who once again went toe-to-toe with his cruelest nemesis, and finally, finally took him down.

R. McIlroy 1. Himself 0.

Put that up on the scoreboard.