Phil Mickelson Wins the Masters
I don't even like Phil Mickelson.
Let's get that much out of the way, before I get all blubbery: I don't like Phil Mickelson. Never have, probably never will. Call it a bias against lefties. Or a grudge against man boobs.
In any event, Phil isn't exactly my cup of tea.
Which made it all the more discomfiting to find myself in tears when he won his first Masters.
It was the redemption motif, I guess the idea that a guy could struggle for so long and then finally get the monkey off his back. It probably didn't hurt that it was Easter Sunday, and a rainy Easter Sunday at that...but there I was, weeping away, with the pompous cherubic bastard frolicking on the green.
The best thing about "We Are Marshall" Moments is that you have no control over them. They transcend rational judgment, and logical thought. They take you out of yourself, is the thing...and once you're free, there's no telling what might happen.
You might even find yourself sobbing for Phil Mickelson.
And that, I suppose, is well worth the price of admission.
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