AUGUSTA, Ga. — Twenty years ago I came to this place for the first time and after three rounds expected to chronicle a coronation.
Greg Norman, whose swashbuckling game was made for the Masters, had a six-shot lead. No one had ever surrendered a lead so big in the history of majors.
As the legendary British golf writer Peter Dobereiner, courage reinforced by a gin and tonic or two, told the Shark as they stood next to each other at the urinal that Saturday night, “not even you can f— this up, Greg."
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And yet I would write about a crucifixion instead of a coronation as the Shark imploded like a Zeppelin, capitulating so painfully and publicly to Englishman Nick Faldo.