LIFE PROMISES you a few things. Cary Grant's fly won't ever be unzipped. Dobermans won't ever go vegetarian. And Tiger Woods won't ever cough up the lead on a major Sunday.
On Sunday, in Augusta, Alaska, where the temperature never broke 70 and neither did most of the golfers, the spike-shoed god Eldrick Woods charged to the lead all by himself and then ... and then ... blew it?
"This feels weird," said Woods's agent, Mark Steinberg, standing around after the Masters wondering what to do with himself. "We should be waiting for him to finish out at the putting green [for the green jacket ceremony], with some vodka cranberries lined up and me calling the jet [to say there will be a delay]."
You tell me, before last week, when's the last time you saw Tiger...
... have the lead on Sunday in a major and not win? (Never—not once in his 12 major wins.)
... not emblazoned in his lucky Sunday red? (Never—but this time he didn't pack any red sweaters, not realizing Augusta would be colder than the smile on a DMV clerk, so he had to wear a black one over his red shirt.)
... not break par in any of his four rounds at Augusta? (Never—playing as a pro in the Masters.)
You kept wanting to duck under the ropes, walk up to him and say, "Sir, I need to see some I.D."
Woods was in the last group, wasn't he? The dozen other times he started a major in the final group, he ended up winning. Not this time.