"What the Hell Happened?"

Even the personification of perfection fails. Sometimes.

Here's a testament to Tiger Woods's singular place in American sports culture: as he stood over his second shot on the par-five 13th today, I was sitting on my couch with a sense of dread, convinced that by trying to get the ball to the green in two, he would put the ball in the water. But then he flew the ball to the green and it agonizingly hung up on a ridge too far toward the back of the putting surface before rolling back and stopping about ten feet from the hole. I couldn't help myself--I screamed out with excitement. Three times. The enormity of the moment, the realization that he could eagle 13 and be within two shots of the lead with a par-five and four more holes to go, was too much. I jumped up with a delicious anxiety. He was on the precipice of something awesome.

As he walked toward the green and measured his putt for what felt like an hour, I was pacing back and forth in front of my television. He was four strokes behind Masters leader Zach Johnson; he had been playing like shit all week; his swing was so shaky on Sunday that there wasn't one moment when I trusted that he would land a ball where he wanted to; and he was about to functionally end the Tournament. It was amazing.

I don't get that way unless Michigan is playing football and the game is in doubt. It just doesn't happen. I don't commonly delight in the dramatic unknown as I watch sports, for all manner of reasons. How often is something really unknown? How often is the competition and uncertainty so enjoyable that it outweighs the comfort that comes with the preferred outcome? How often am I really that invested? Only one man has that sort of influence, and it's why I can't help but eat up all things Tiger. He's just so compelling, a figure made all that more engaging given the unique nature of his sport and his unique place within both its contemporary landscape and historical framework.

Another testament to his greatness is that in the wake of his failures, there is usually a void of logic that demands to be filled. It is nearly incomprehensible when Tiger Woods doesn't win on a Sunday when he's in contention. Especially at a major. How did that happen? At this year's Masters, he just never seemed comfortable. Every shot required more mental energy than it should have, and nothing came easily. He was off, and not even his Herculean efforts could overcome the ineffable forces repelling him. The paradox of Woods is that for all of his preternatural ability, he is ultimately the game's best grinder, it's hardest worker. If the first act of his career was marked by the ease with which he revolutionized his sport, this second act has been a study in maintaining power now that the paradigm has shifted. It's hard, hard work staying so far ahead of the field when it's equipment and training and ability has changed to mimic yours. Sunday was a bad day from a bad week at the office. And, of course, he still had a lead on the front nine and was only down two strokes as he stood over a birdie putt on 16.

He didn't convert that putt, 17 was an adventure, and no miracle came on 18. So Woods left Augusta without another green jacket. But just as was the case last year--when his 33 Sunday putts doomed his effort and allowed someone else to win with what, for Woods, would have been the routine but for an opponent was defining--this year, Tiger's failure emerges as a secondary story only nominally. For as great as everyone feels about Zach Johnson, that even the most cynical are helplessly moved to anxious living room ambling is just one more measure of how much Tiger Woods means and how great he remains.

As Red Hot Lover Tone once said, "It's hard bein' the number one player." And, sometimes, even harder being his number one fan.