The Day-ly Fruit

Well well well. What a woofing start to the match play. Pointless useless picks. The all-conquering Aussie Adam couldn't quite muster it, even to get through the group stages. Neither could Matsuyama. Or Willett. Or Wiesberger. What a bunch of nonsense ridiculous uselessness. Also, not one of my multiples on the matches throughout the days came in. I probably wasted a further £40 on that balls.
But then I decided to stop woofing about with terrible bets, and to be a hero. I had £5 on Day at 11.00, who seemed to have gotten over his early back problems. Then I had £10 on him at 10.5. Then, after a shaky start, Casey retired after 6 holes, so I had another £20 at 8.8.

Further woofery followed and Day found himself against Mcilroy (as expected), in his first game of the final day. I unfortunately found myself a little worse for wear, (unusually), following a serious night out whilst midway through a course of antibiotics. A thundering chundering hangover had me bowing my head at work.
By the time the golf started I still didn't really feel any better, and when I was watching it, that didn't help either. Rory, previously described by yours truly as a boring golfist, was turning in to the reckoning force that he should have been for years. He was putting well, and driving like an accuracy obsessed distance demon.

Day looked the weaker of the two for the whole of the front nine. It was only Rory's inability to hammer in the nails of the coffin that meant Day was only one down. Finally a glimmer of hope. Although Day hadn't completed the back nine in the tournament thus far, he was fearsome on the way back in.

Day was able to devastate all of his previous opponents on the back half of the course and I was hoping that he would be able to do the same here. It was at this point that my brain, still addled by carafe after carafe of Long Island Ice Tea, decided against a final lump to slump. Jason was now 7/2 to win, and serious consideration was given to chunking £100, but I didn't. Woof.

As if by premonition, Day picked up the hammer and started hitting Rory around the chops. An excellent 3 on the 10th levelled things up.

On 11, Rory really threw his hammer away. Day was off the green, and made par. Mcilroy had a seven and a half footer for the hole but couldn't make it. Day would have felt like he was two up by stealing a half here, and so did I.

Day proceeded to steal the next two holes to give me a raging headache from all the blood rush. It was at this point I opted to consume a medicinal burrito, and sup on the nectar of British sparkling water, which is third to French and Italian. The cure had been found. Rory stole one back. The cure stopped working.
From that point on, it was only the most exquisite short game in the world that kept Day from losing the next two holes and swinging me in to a deep decline. Day could have forced Rory to putt on 17, a two foot eight incher that I fancied he might miss, but he gave it to him, and they progressed to 18.

Two bad irons to the right. Day in the rough, Mcilroy in the sand. Day put his left of the green. Mcilroy missed his perfect spot by eighteen inches. A shot that would have fed right back to the hole, giving him an easy putt to win the hole, and force a play-off.

Day would play first and was taking his time. He used his trademark genius and put it to 12 feet. Mcilroy seemed to duff his shot and I jumped up and down. I then wanted to jump up and down on my own head as his ball started to roll down the hill on the line he wanted his second to take.

Woofing gravity got him inside of Day, and the man from down under had to putt first. Day had been putting awesomely all week. Putts from thirty or forty feet had been burning the edges all week. He stood up to his thirteen footer, and battered it in to the little cup. I almost fainted. I felt as though I'd won all my bets.

I quickly felt better, and was able to leave work, getting home for a nice cup of tea and some Easter eggs before the start of the final.

Father dearest was concerned however. He thought Oosthuizen had the ability to beat our man in the final round. I did not. I stated that I wouldn't even be worried if our man was 2 or 3 down going in to the back 9. I also did not think that was possible. King Louis' crown was not to be his today. He had beaten Dustin Johnson and Jordan Spieth en route to the final, and he was beat. Whereas Day was always able to find another gear. He was technically already World Number 1, and I knew he would want to cement his position with back to back wins running up to the Masters.

And he did. My money was never in doubt. I checked my cashouts on BetFair a couple of times but it was pointless. I was never going to take them. I felt at peace.

It was like I was dreaming. There is no such thing as an easy win in golf, and whilst Mcilroy had provided the difficulty, Day had fended him off. Now was simply a time to watch the master at work. I relaxed, had some more tea, and watched the world go by.

Winnings cruised in to my account, and were swiftly withdrawn.

Happy Days.