AUGUSTA, Ga. — A concoction of sweaty bodies and long-lens cameras was deadlocked in the upper left-hand corner of the No. 15 grandstand at Augusta National as Rory McIlroy’s 7-foot eagle putt slid underneath the cup. At that point in the day, the phoneless Masters Tournament patrons were not unfamiliar with the sound of thousands of simultaneous groans. Hearing and participating in them repeatedly, however, was not getting any easier.

A Green Jacket stood up out of his plastic bleacher seat in a frenzy.

“I can’t take much more of this,” the gentleman uttered. He bee-lined toward the steep downward staircase, his sons close behind, fumbling to button the coat that only a select group can sport on this property.

Until it actually happened, McIlroy’s chase of the career Grand Slam and the end to his 11-year major championship drought felt more like if you took the most nauseating roller coaster on earth and increased its speed tenfold. Or stuck yourself in a blender and turned it to the highest setting, making the table shake.

An opening double bogey, a water ball into Rae’s Creek with a wedge in hand, the first sudden-death playoff in the Masters since 2017 — McIlroy gave Augusta National the show it didn’t know it wanted. The patrons on site still aren’t sure that’s what they would have signed up for. Sunday was a ticketed heart attack.

“My battle today was with myself. It wasn’t with anyone else,” McIlroy said Sunday evening, a 38 Regular green jacket slung over his shoulders. “You know, at the end there, it was with Justin (Rose), but my battle today was with my mind and staying in the present.

“I’d like to say that I did a better job of it than I did. It was a struggle, but I got it over the line.”

It might have been an internal waging of the wars for McIlroy, but all of Augusta National felt it with him. They leaned with the wayward drives, hustled to catch a glimpse of the gravity-defying escape routes, and hoped — oh, did they hope — every time the putter face made contact with the golf ball it would find a hole. Just this one, Rory.

Rotation by rotation, they held their breath.

Then, a final roar that could only mean one thing: sweet, sweet relief.

In his 1975 Masters file for Sports Illustrated, the great Dan Jenkins wrote: “There is an old saying that the real Masters doesn’t begin until the back nine on Sunday.” That was 50 Masters ago. It’s still true.

This back nine of the 89th Masters began with a semblance of something that you can never trust at the place: comfort. It is almost always a mirage.

No. 10 crushed McIlroy’s Masters dreams 14 years ago as a naive 21-year-old. Sunday morning, McIlroy opened his locker to a note from Angel Cabrera, the 2009 champion who played with McIlroy that day.

The drive on No. 10 was demonless. The ensuing birdie putt to take a four-shot lead? Electrifying. Patrons surrounded the 10th green and 11th fairway 30 deep, peering through tree branches and shuffling around aimlessly to find a gap where they could see something. Anything. Amen Corner lurked. Lest they all knew, the rug was about to be ripped out from underneath the Northern Irishman.

It all happened in a blur. A bogey on No. 11 — a number that could have been a lot bigger. A par at No. 12. A 3-wood off the tee at No. 13, McIlroy playing it safe with a four-shot lead.

There’s no tighter part of the property for patrons than Amen Corner, tens of thousands pressed together to watch as McIlroy’s ball flew through the air once, then twice. He stood with a wedge in his hands from 82 yards. If he was going to screw this all up, it wasn’t going to be here, with all of Georgia to the left side of the green. Right?

McIlroy’s ball tumbled into the creek. He bent his spine in half and threw his hands onto his knees. There had been plenty of triumphant patron responses at that point in the day. Here, in Amen Corner’s final chapter, the gasps returned. They did not stop.

First, McIlroy’s red 13 came off the nearby manual leaderboard and was replaced by a somber 11. He paused, waiting an additional moment before heading over the 14th tee, almost as if he knew it was coming. Rose suddenly had his 10 switched out for an 11.

Tie score.

No Masters champion has ever won the green jacket with four double bogeys. Is that the kind of history McIlroy was going to make?

Every time it looked as though McIlroy had thrown away the golf tournament for good, he followed it with a shot, a moment, even a bounce in his step that added up to the opposite. He looked like he was in cruise control until the emergency brakes hit. The patrons’ fists in the air were coupled with sunburned faces buried in hands. More new red numbers caused a stir. McIlroy threw another dart. Birdie-par-birdie. Triumph? No. Closing bogey. There it was. All of it would come down to this. A sudden-death playoff against his Ryder Cup teammate, Rose.

Harry Diamond, McIlroy’s caddie and best friend since age 7, looked at his player as they headed to the golf cart that would bring the pair back to the 18th tee box once again.

“Well, pal, we would have taken this on Monday morning,” he said.

The jostled Augusta National audience did not agree. The anguish was becoming unbearable, borderline exhausting, but also the best Masters of the modern era. Either way, it needed to end. McIlroy needed to put himself — and everyone else — out of their misery.

Walk through the white and gold doors of the Augusta National clubhouse, up a winding staircase and through a quaint but decadent dining room, and you’ll find yourself on a porch. It overlooks the giant oak tree, the iconic rows of green and white umbrellas, and in the distance, if you crane your neck just enough, No. 18 green.

But today that view was clouded by a sea of anxious bodies. On the ground, some proposed starting a game of “telephone” to communicate the play-by-play on the green.

Up on the porch, you can rotate 180 degrees and you’re facing a row of white window panes. They lead to a 35-inch television, the only piece of modern technology in a 100-yard radius. A strange combination of Green Jacket wearers, off-duty broadcasters and confused writers gathered around to watch the playoff. Patrick Reed dipped in to order an Azalea cocktail. The incoming USGA president showed up. Everyone was too nervous to utter a word. No one did.

A sound of this force cannot be tape-delayed.  All of Augusta National felt McIlroy’s energy release after that 4-foot birdie putt dropped. And by the look of him — collapsing onto his knees and convulsing with sobs — he felt it, too.

One of the most chaotic final rounds of recent memory ended with pure emotion, a release appropriate for the sixth man to complete the career Grand Slam, and McIlroy shut down a narrative he wondered whether he’d ever escape.

“It was all relief. There wasn’t much joy in that reaction. It was all relief,” McIlroy said after the round, laughing. “And then, you know, the joy came pretty soon after that. But that was — I’ve been coming here 17 years, and it was a decade-plus of emotion that came out of me there.”

We know, Rory. We know.

(Top photo: Harry How / Getty Images)