New Delhi, April 26 -- If I rise on tiptoe, and crane my neck, and turn my shoulder slightly, and peek through the daylight between the heads of strangers, I can glimpse it.

The fluttering yellow flag on the 18th green of the Masters.

Then people shift and my view is blocked.

It's a few Sundays ago in Augusta and Rory McIlroy is somewhere on this green trying to win the Masters with a four-foot putt in the play-off. Four feet is nothing, he'll do this blindfolded tomorrow. Four feet is everything because to cross that distance successfully carries the promise of history, relief, satisfaction, redemption, vindication, immortality.

The crowd has that particular stillness which comes with the anticipation of the extraordinary. No one wan...