A Joyous Scream

He emerged from the crowd as he headed to 18 green, a man striding directly to a coronation, to a throne reserved for golfing gods.

In my mind's eye I could see Arnie's army enveloping him with love,  I could feel Tiger's magical triumphant turn in 2019. The adulation almost physically swallowing up Phil at the doddering old age of 50.

After a year where first golf disappeared, like so much in our universe, and then returned with tentative steps, a wobbly toddler, here it was again in full force, fists pumped, as strong and resolute as it had ever been.  

And here we announced the swagger was back in our own game, the recent difficulties, the nightmare, now receded and the sun once more shining bright.

Today was much more than the sum of its parts. Not merely the last round of a major. Not merely the resurrection of a star whose light had dimmed. Not merely an emotional crescendo, an aria sung by the gathered thousands, reminding us of how it once was and informing us what it once more could be, would be. 

Today was all of this. A testament to one man's strength, to one game's strength, to our own strength. Today was an exclamation point. Today was a joyous scream of survival.