“And they have never changed into something real.”
I’m fully awake and can see the perfect sky being torn apart.”
– Natalie Imbroglia, supposedly singing about Rory McIlroy
I can’t stand this anymore. I am pleased to Matt FitzpatrickAnd I know you are, and I’m happy with golf. But I sit here alone, on another gloomy Sunday night, watching fireflies outside the window, I can’t escape the truth of them. In fact, I dreamed of something different this weekend. something more. I’m talking about real dreams, Rory, not like the night when I have nightmares of chasing wolf cats in the face of Terrell Hutton.
I dreamed that you were winning in the light of day and why not? Your lead shot has been taken after the first round. Your lead shot has been taken after the second round. Maybe I’m a hopeless romantic, the real Dustin Johnson kind, but I believed in that again. I believe you. Maybe you like the firefly, Rory. She shone very brightly, amazingly, but for such a short time. Also like a firefly, I suppose you don’t want to be captured in a urn.
Now that the sun has set in another discipline, I have to ask a tough question: What has changed? What is different this week from Southern Hills and the PGA, where I advanced right after the first round? Or the Masters, where you drew one of your patented Sunday fees when it was too late to win? And that was only this year. How long have we been doing this? Since when do you keep giving me false hope, only to shove it away over and over again, as when my so-called high school friend offers me a ride home, then advances a few feet the moment I get to the passenger door, and again until I start chasing him in anger Blind, just to take a lesson many dogs have learned long ago, that you can’t catch a car on foot, and even if you do, it’s basically impervious?
How many years have you made excuses? How many times have you told everyone, ‘Yeah, he hasn’t won a major in a while, but look at all those yellow finishes in the top 10 on Wikipedia? You just don’t understand it like I do.”
My parents said I was an idiot. “Why are you wasting your time with him?” They said. “Find yourself someone young and hot, like Colin Morikawa, or maybe a nice stable guy like Zach Johnson. Did you know he’d be the captain of the Ryder Cup? And go to church!”
Oh, I will defend you. Sometimes fiercely. “Remember 2014?!” I would scream. “Do you remember Valhalla?! Do you remember Liverpool?! How Sergio Garcia, Phil Mickelson, and Ricky Fowler faced off and stood apart from the game like Colossus?! Do you remember that, you *$% & $*ing #$ (& # $s??! Like a giant) !”
But these are memories now. Memories of an entire decade. Do you know what else happened a decade ago? I have no idea. Enron thing? Something with Yugoslavia? no one knows. How long can a relationship last on memories? On what was, rather than what is and what will be? How long do I have to pretend we’re still the innocent little kids we were back then, cocky and cool, you’re out there winning golf tournaments, and I’m sitting watching you win golf tournaments? How long can I pretend this The truth about our relationship, not the ‘dull old couple sighing at each other during 4:30 p.m. dinner’ the slump that has settled since then?
As harsh as this sounds, when I look at you on big Sundays now, I find myself asking, “Do I really feel anything about this person anymore? Do I even know him? Do you really know him, or is this just a socially weird relationship that will end up writing a breakup letter?” Even stranger to a man who doesn’t know my name if I yell at him 10 times in a row, which I did once in a Tour Championship, and I apologize for that, to you, to Golf Digest, and to all my readers, for I hold myself to a higher standard as a journalist, and there head into the deep left field by Castellanos, and I’m not sure I’m going to post on these pages again?”
Sure, I can still feel the fire. Sometimes. Players Championship. Couple Tour Championships. Match play. We had some good times in Dubai. HSBC Bank. Wells Fargo. CJ Cup, I think? And yes, until last week, when you defended the honor of the PGA Tour by winning the Canadian Open and planting a flag for the good guys. Even then, the fire was blazing, and it’s hard to make a metaphorical fire in Canada. or real. I was told a lot of snow.
But the man is exhausted. Hope fading, faith waning. And who are we really now? If I’m being honest with myself, I’m someone who has wasted nearly a decade of my life waiting for a turnaround. And you’re someone who’s used to winning majors. used to.
Oh my God it’s hard to write these words. I know why people stay together – it’s because of an investment of time, it’s because of fear of the unknown, it’s because of the deadly force of habit. But that’s also because there was something real out there, someday. Do you remember how crazy Phil Mickelson was in Valhalla, when you pushed your way to playing in the dark? That was one of the best days of my life. Then, after a few months in the Ryder Cup, I made fun of him about the FBI. You don’t piss off Phil Mickelson anymore, Rory. It’s a little thing, but sometimes it’s the little things that keep us going. I’m not saying you need to piss off Phil Mickelson all the time, but is it really going to kill you once or twice a year?
There is no way around this, Rory. I can’t keep doing this. Time for me to see other golfers. someone like…
… Well, if you put me on the spot, I wouldn’t be able to shout a name. this is not fair. I’m not Roddy Roddy here, I’m just shouting names. Sure, this is a really dated and sad reference, but it’s a metaphor for what we had. sad. on the date. I’ll always wish you luck, and I’ll smile a sad nostalgic smile when you win, but that’s not good for either of us.
I know what you’re thinking: “You said you’d leave before. You’ll come back, just like always, you’re creeping in. You’re a pathetic loser. It was your fat aging.”
First, there is no need for these kinds of insults. This is a tough time for all of us, but come on, man. This is a personal right.
Second, there is nothing that can bring me back. Not this time. dug into the stone.
(Unless you, of course, do anything he promises you before, during, or even after the Open Championships in St. Andrews. Literally anything. So? You’re back, all in, ready to catch Rory’s fever, baby!)
In conclusion, we are done.