Afternoon:
10°c
The most lip-smacking, saliva gland-stimulating Masters in memory begins tomorrow in Georgia, and as we await the initial stream of gibberish from Peter Alliss some tantalising questions present themselves. Is it conceivable that Rory McIlroy - less a baby in golfing terms, at just 19, than a foetus - will become the youngest winner? Will the holder of that distinction, Tiger Woods, snaffle his 15th major? Might our own Paul Casey, fresh from his maiden pro victory on US soil, take his first? Or can Padraig Harrington win his third in a row and stand within June's US Open of achieving the so-called "Paddy Slam"?
There are many others in the hunt for that monumentally hideous Green Jacket, of course, but it is this quartet that intrigues us on the eve of the most florally picturesque sporting event known to humanity.
Propriety demands that we start with Woods. Only he could be away on the sick for the better part of a year, thanks to that horrible knee injury, and cement his status as the planet's greatest sporting star. Now that his chum Roger Federer is unmistakably in terminal decline, any lingering dispute has evaporated.
There wasn't too much doubt before, in truth, because his achievement in winning the 2008 US Open, wincing in excruciation after every drive, beggared belief. Any hopes his old enemy Phil Mickelson and the rest may have had that he'd return diminished were battered a fortnight ago when he won the Arnold Palmer Invitational.
He did it from five shots off the lead, but the only flaw in his record remains that not one of his major victories has come when trailing after three rounds. Perhaps this is the week for him to lay that curiously persistent ghost. If not, the formbook points towards Casey, whose victory in Texas on Sunday raised him to sixth in the rankings. It is 13 years since an Englishman, Nick Faldo, won the Masters, and interpret that as you please. The fear of 13 stems from the number of diners at the Last Supper, and tomorrow being the anniversary of that meal could be an omen that Casey will be crucified by those quick greens. Then again, I had a nice touch on 13 black at the roulette table this very week, so his Ascension to the golfing paradise may well be imminent. Swings and roundabouts there.
As for Harrington, he took advantage of Woods's absence to collect back-to- back Open and US PGA titles last summer, a stunning achievement that establishes him as mentally the second strongest golfer of the age. Although three in a row would verge on a miracle, by no means can the affable Irishman be discounted.
And then, from the other side of the Emerald Isle, there is McIlroy, the Belfast prodigy whom many believe to be even better than Woods was at 19. Whether he has the icy temperament to match his godly swing, we won't learn until he is contention for a major with nine holes to play . . . that moment when raw talent ceases to matter and mastery of nerves is everything.
If he does, and if he lops two years off Woods's record, Andy Murray and Lewis Hamilton will have to bow before an even younger kid on the block, and the Sports Personality of the Year will be decided in April.
I'd give at least one body part (not my own, of course, but certainly one of Peter Alliss's) to see Rory mumbling his Kevin the Teenager version of "Oh mum, no way are you making me wear this" on being slipped into that vile verdant jacket.
Yet history teaches us not to look beyond Woods at Augusta and at a tempting 7-2 my money is on him. At 33 - the very age at which Jesus died and was reborn - he is entering his prime.
What more fitting day could there be for him to complete his resurrection from the injury that threatened his career than Easter Sunday?
