"I do." Rarely, outside the vows of matrimony, have those words carried such profundity. That Tiger Woods was even being asked if he believed he could win his sixth Masters, just 14 months after his car plunged into a Los Angeles ravine, stretched credulity. But the factthat he answered in the affirmative redrew the parameters of a sporting renaissance. It was a reminder of how, even at 46 and with his mobility impaired by a reconstructed right leg, he had lost none of his gift for theatre.
The press auditorium here at Augusta, all mahogany panels and green leather-bound chairs, can sometimes feel a prim and stilted setting. And yet on this auspicious Georgia day, it crackled with electricity.
Tiger was back, not just to sample some miso-glazed cod with Hideki Matsuyama at the champions' dinner, or to be paraded as a ceremonial golfer, but to contend. Even by his Lazarus-like standards, it was improbable to the point of outrageous.
To understand how vanishingly unlikely it is that Woods is playing, let alone sizing up the green jacket, it helps to reflect how little lead-up there has been to this moment. In the 406 days since he struck a central reservation near Ranchos Palos Verdes at 87mph, he has been virtually invisible, preoccupied only with rehabilitating a leg that contains screws, pins and a metal rod.
Tiger Woods' crash scene in February 2021. Photo / AP
Not until last November did he post a three-second video of himself hitting balls on his Florida range. His competitive activity has been confined to one hit-and-giggle with his son Charlie in Orlando. In last month's induction speech at the World Golf Hall of Fame, he spoke of his career largely in the past tense, kindling scant hope for the future. Now, after a couple of tentative practice rounds, he is talking about conquering Augusta afresh. For sheer chutzpah, we have never seen a golfing quest quite like it.
It is manifestly an exercise fraught with discomfort. "There is physical pain each and every day," he said, offering a rare glimpse of his vulnerabilities. There was a time when Woods revelled in being the indestructible Nike android, launching into his shots with a ferocity that defied the usual laws of biomechanics. But after repeated surgeries on his neck, back and leg, he is less coy about revealing the agonies he goes through simply to set foot on the course.
Even in 2019, long before the crash that reshaped his life, Woods woke up at 3.40am on a storm-affected Masters Sunday to make sure he activated his back muscles. Today, he gives the impression that every step he takes is enough to make him wince. For most, the walk around Amen Corner is merely undulating. For Woods, it is positively Himalayan. Pressed on whether he found uphill, downhill or side-hill lies the most challenging in his condition, he shot back: "All of them."
Woods never imagined that his athletic capabilities would be so dramatically reduced. But somehow, in his mid-40s, he has become more relatable than he ever was in his 20s. Then, he reached a peak of conditioning impossible for the average hacker to aspire to, never mind attain. Now, he battles many of the same aches and anxieties that assail less feted golfers in their fifth decade. "Any time it's cold, my body doesn't feel very good," he smiled, ruefully. "Anyone in this room who's older than me can probably attest to that."
It was once unthinkable that Woods would ever refer to himself as a faded force. Even when he was battling back injuries, he would dwell obsessively on his reps in the gym. Traces of the old Tiger remain, not least when he says he will wait until "game-time" before committing definitively to his 23rd Masters, as if he were a basketball player sweating on a final fitness check. But his recent agonies have also brought an unusual readiness to share his struggles with the world.
The giant gallery of patrons following five-time Masters champion Tiger Woods at Augusta, for Monday practice. Photo / AP
This change of persona has humanised him in the eyes of the Augusta galleries. This week, he has been received with a warmth to eclipse even the fervour of his early-Noughties pomp. Even as the world's 973rd-ranked golfer, he projects such intoxicating stardom that Rory McIlroy and Justin Thomas can complete their practice rounds essentially alone. Among the patrons, there is a palpable sense of gratitude that Woods has turned up at all. The thought that he could win is, to judge by the volume of their cheering, almost too much to compute.
When Woods embraced his children beside the 18th green three years ago, Sir Nick Faldo encouraged everybody watching to drink it all in, depicting the scene as a return to glory that could never be repeated. In a sense, he was right, with Woods' victory standing as an emphatic rebuke to the idea that his arrest for driving under the influence of prescription drugs signalled the end of the road. By itself, that day represented a perfect bookend to the soap opera of his story. It is testament to Woods' peerless obstinacy, though, that he is still hell-bent on scripting the most implausible encore of all.
