Tiger chasing his tail at Pebble Beach

This is not a morality piece. This is not about defending that which is already tried and found guilty. The virgin-police call it the indefensible. This is celebrating the purity of a well-hit eight iron, into the teeth of a threatening wind, with more bite than a Liederkranz cheese, and landing it unerringly on the proverbial quarter.

The still mind and even stiller hands that navigate a curve, a slope, and the faintest of upslopes on a putt. This is not about adultery and it is not about being a role model.

This is about what it takes to define a great athlete.

Is there a touch of redemption in Tiger’s third round 66? If there is, then the believers will give thanks to a forgiving God. The ever practical atheists will comfort themselves with the nobility of man’s indomitable spirit.

And hackers like you and I will dream on the 19th hole.

It takes one good shot to redeem an otherwise lamentable round in the company of mates. It takes around 66 shots on a savage and hauntingly difficult Pebble strewn beach.

It stretched the bounds of mortal credulity to see Tiger’s putt go in on the 17th in his defining third round. But as Tiger said later: ”Whether it was into the wind or downwind I was landing the ball on my numbers.”

This is the zone elite sportsmen speak of: where you can do no wrong.

The sound of leather on willow or felt on string has a sweet and unforced symphony about it. And so, too, the Nike bazooka unleashing on the unsuspecting dimples.

The 18th at Pebble Beach is all Pacific Ocean on the left and two Cypress trees bang in the middle of the fairway. And countless gleeful bunkers strategically placed.

Tiger hit a perfect tee shot and stood bemused staring at the two sentinels daring him to go over or around.

He bent it like Beckham and fist-pumped the cut all the way to a potential eagle. The ocean and the spectators hushed as he lined up the putt.

“Get in the hole,” they shouted as the ocean rumbled and the putt stopped short. Not enough adrenalin: the cursory birdie signing off an emphatic 66 and Tiger would be lurking 5 shots off the lead going into Sunday.

Ernie “The Big Easy” Els, a two time US Open winner, was quick off the tee and by the sixth hole had joint possession of the lead. Something for the languishing Bafana Bafana to cheer about.

Dustin Johnson was crumbling like aged Stilton and McDowell wished he could have a double nip of his home brew. Tiger was going backwards and still five behind Els.

Did he have his customary charge left?

With three holes to play, Tiger was four behind a faltering McDowell who had 5 to play. Tiger was one behind Mickleson and two behind Els. The Tiger charge had to come now or never, to paraphrase Elvis.

That McDowell held his nerve to win his first major is history.

That no one broke par for the championship is testament to the course being victorious. There is a message here for cricket curators and administrators: make the pitches more sporting and give the grass some teeth.

As Els, said Pebble Beach “was like a links course on steroids.”

In the end no one, except Tiger, had the courage to consistently take on the course.

That Tiger could not prevail, despite attacking, shows he has some way to go before reclaiming his preeminence .He still has some demons to conquer and they reside inside his troubled mind.