Culture
Rory McIlroy won the Masters, finally. The roars told the story
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.
Patrons surrounded Rory McIlroy all day. (Richard Heathcote / Getty Images)
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)
Now that we’ve memorized the first half of our poem, let’s learn a little more about the man who wrote it. (Haven’t memorized anything yet? Click here to start at the beginning.)
For most of his life, Wystan Hugh Auden (1907-73) was a star. He was widely read, quoted, argued over and gossiped about, achieving a level of fame that few writers now — and not many then — could contemplate. His New York Times obituary did not hesitate to call him “the foremost poet of his generation.”
Celebrity of that kind is ephemeral, but Auden’s words have continued to circulate in the half century since his death. Maybe you’ve heard some of them before. In the 1994 film “Four Weddings and a Funeral,” his poem “Funeral Blues” is recited by Matthew (John Hannah) over the casket of his lover, Gareth (Simon Callow).
In the Gen-X touchstone “Before Sunrise” (1995), Jesse (Ethan Hawke) regales Celine (Julie Delpy) with an impression of Dylan Thomas reading Auden’s “As I Walked Out One Evening.”
In both these scenes, the characters use Auden’s poetry to give voice to a longing for which they otherwise might not have words. Auden’s poetry is often useful in that way. It speaks to recognizable human occasions, and it isn’t always all about him.
“The More Loving One” might not be something you’d quote at a funeral or on a date, but it is almost effortlessly quotable — the perfect expression of a thought you never knew you had:
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Ken Burns, filmmaker
The word “I” occurs five times in this stanza, but we don’t know much about the person speaking. His personality is camouflaged and revealed by craft.
Auden, born in the northern English cathedral city of York, began practicing that craft as a schoolboy, and honed it at Oxford. Not long after graduating in 1928, he was anointed by critics and readers as the great hope of modern English poetry. A charismatic, divisive figure, he gathered acolytes, imitators and haters.
He swam in the intellectual and ideological crosscurrents of the 1930s, drawing Marxism, psychoanalysis and mystical nationalism into his writing. Assimilating a daunting array of literary influences — Old English and Ancient Greek, French chansons and Icelandic sagas — he forged a poetic personality that was bold, confiding and seductive.
His love poems of that era were candid, discreet dispatches from a calendar of feverish entanglements, wrenching breakups and one-night stands, usually with other men. He also wrote about the feverish politics of the time — class conflict; the rise of fascism; the Spanish Civil War — in ringing rhetoric he later disavowed.
In 1939 Auden moved to America, acquiring U.S. citizenship after World War II. In New York he fell in love with Chester Kallman, a young American writer who became his life partner.
It was a complicated relationship, starting as a passionate affair and enduring through decades of domestic companionship and creative collaboration. Kallman’s refusal to be sexually exclusive wounded Auden, a dynamic that poignantly shades this poem’s most memorable couplet:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Yiyun Li, writer
In America, Auden distanced himself from the radical politics of his earlier career and embraced Anglican Christianity. His intellectual preoccupations shifted toward religion and existentialism — to the kinds of big questions we think about late at night, or when we look to the sky.
Making the leap from wunderkind to grand old man without seeming to stop in middle age, he became a mentor for several generations of younger poets. He was a prolific and punctual contributor of reviews and essays to various publications, including this one, for which he wrote a rave of J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Fellowship of the Ring” in 1954.
Through it all, Auden devoted fanatical attention to the finer points of poetic technique. His notebooks are full of numbers, word lists and markings that show just how deep this commitment went. He counted every syllable, measured every stress.
He gathered rhymes and other words with a lexicographer’s zeal and a crossword puzzler’s precision.
The third stanza of “The More Loving One” is a miniature showcase of Auden’s skill. Of the four epigrams arrayed before us, it may be the most technically perfect.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
W.H. Auden, poet
The rhythm is flawless, without an extra syllable or an accent out of place. The grammar is also fastidious. Here is a single sentence, springloaded with equivocation, beginning with one idea and sliding toward its opposite.
This quatrain is the poem’s ideal formal representation of itself, a kind of proof of concept: four lines of impeccable iambic tetrameter in an AABB rhyme scheme. The by-the-book regularity of this stanza should give you a leg up in memorizing it, and you can test yourself below!
But the rest of the poem is an argument against perfection, just as it is a celebration of uncertainty and humility — as we’ll see tomorrow.
Play a game to learn it by heart. Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite our poem.
Question 1/6
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.Your first task: Learn the first two lines!
Let’s start with the first couplet in this stanza. Fill in the rhyming words.
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
PERMANENCE, by Sophie Mackintosh
Sophie Mackintosh’s novels are always speculative in some way, with either the author or her characters forging a world governed by its own logic and rules. In their boldness and their ability to convey the violence of patriarchy, they recall the work of Jacqueline Harpman — not only the cherished “I Who Have Never Known Men,” but also “Orlanda,” her wild riff on Virginia Woolf’s “Orlando.”
Like Harpman, Mackintosh has a spare and confident hand. Her work is sometimes described as dreamlike; certainly, its contours are sketched with rapidity and confidence and relatively little detail. Her prose operates according to the same principle, at once lyrical and precise, like this from her second novel, “Blue Ticket”: “On the ground was a dead rabbit, disemboweled. Still fresh, the dark loops of its insides glistening like jam.”
When Mackintosh writes about masculine power, she does so in a way that articulates both its seductions and its terrors. Her newest novel, “Permanence,” is less explicitly concerned with the structure of patriarchy, but it has the same erotic charge as her earlier work, the same preoccupation with social prohibitions and the thrill that comes from breaking them.
Like “Blue Ticket,” “Permanence” turns on a highly pronounced binary. In “Blue Ticket,” adolescent girls are issued either a blue or white ticket on the day of their first period. A white ticket denotes a future of marriage and children, a blue ticket one of work — even, it seems, a career. The divide is stark and self-evidently faulty, its coarseness an expression of the brutalizing regime the characters are trapped in.
“Permanence” features a similar opposition, neatly delineated. Clara and Francis are conducting an illicit affair. One morning, they wake up in an alternate reality where they are openly living together. The novel shuttles between these two worlds, one ordinary and familiar, the other a curdled paradise for adulterers.
The thinness of this “city of impermanence” — “fluid, cohesive and yet disparate” — emerges at once. The sky is “uncannily blue,” the newspaper bears no date, the edge of the city is marked by “a slick ring of water, as far as the eye could see.”
Still, a boundary cannot keep the other world from seeping in. Initially, elegantly, this is a problem in the structure of desire. Having been provided the life they dreamed of, in which their longing for each other is fully met, Clara and Francis begin to experience, to their uneasy surprise, boredom and discontent.
Without absence, the intensity of their desire for each other wanes. They even begin, or at least Francis does, to long for the relief of their ordinary life: “Another day ahead of them of petting, giggling, lying around. It seemed insubstantial suddenly, though only the day before he had felt he could do it forever.”
Soon enough, it becomes clear that the problem between Francis and Clara doesn’t lie in the outside impediments of the world they live in, but in their relationship itself. Francis remains troublingly himself — a married father of a small child, reluctant to leave his family, however much he is in love with Clara: “He did love her, and he did want to be with her. … But he already had reality elsewhere, reality which he sometimes felt trapped by, he would admit, but which he could not truly imagine cutting loose.”
“Permanence” might seem like an outlier in the current array of articles and books about open marriages and polyamory, and at first glance the line of distinction between the two worlds, much like the division between blue and white tickets, seems almost old-fashioned. But as Mackintosh persuasively illustrates, the familiar emotions of jealousy, infatuation and eventually indifference — these persist and can flourish in any relationship, however free of prohibition.
“You want this,” Clara tells herself, and then, “You no longer want this,” as it occurs to her that “maybe it was in absence that they loved each other best, and most honestly.”
In her work, Mackintosh devises scenarios that are bold and almost aggressively simplified. But her terrain is complexity and contradiction, and in her hands these oppositions twist and turn in on themselves.
It’s hardly a surprise when the central character in “Blue Ticket” decides to eschew her designation and have a child, declaring, “True and false were no longer opposing binaries. My body was speaking to me in a language I had not heard before.” Nor is it especially startling when discontent chases Clara and Francis from one world to the other, unraveling their relationship.
What is more disquieting is the surreptitious ease with which Mackintosh’s speculative worlds start to align with our own, allowing the reader to see how so many of the old prohibitions and conventions — around choice, around marriage — remain, somehow, firmly in place.
That moment of recognition, in a landscape that is startlingly alien, is the source of Mackintosh’s power as a writer.
PERMANENCE | By Sophie Mackintosh | Avid Reader Press | 240 pp. | $28
Maybe you woke up this morning haunted by the first four lines of W.H. Auden’s “The More Loving One” — or tickled by its tongue-in-cheek handling of existential dread. (Not ringing any bells? Click here to begin the Poetry Challenge).
This is a love poem. Perhaps that seems like an obvious thing to say about a poem with “Loving” in its title, but there isn’t much romance in the opening stanza.
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
Ada Limón, poet
Nonetheless, the poem soon makes clear that love is very much on its mind.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
David Sedaris, writer
The polished informality gives the impression of a decidedly cerebral speaker — someone who’s looking at love philosophically, thinking about how it works and what it means.
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Reginald Dwayne Betts, poet
Musing this way — arguing in this fashion — he stands in a long line of playful, thoughtful poetic lovers going back at least to the 16th century. He sounds a bit like Christopher Marlowe’s passionate shepherd:
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
Auden’s poem, like Marlowe’s, is written in four-beat lines:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Josh Radnor, actor
And it features strong end rhymes:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Samantha Harvey, writer
These tetrameter couplets represent a long-established poetic love language. Not too serious or sappy, but with room for both earnestness and whimsy. And even for professions of the opposite of love, as in this nursery rhyme, adapted from a 17th-century epigram:
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell
The reason why I cannot tell.
But this I know and know full well
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.
There is some of this anti-love spirit in Auden’s poem too, but it mainly follows a general rule of love poetry: The person speaking is usually the more loving one.
This makes sense. To write a poem requires effort, art, inspiration. To speak in verse is to tease, to cajole, to seduce, all actions that suggest an excess of desire. That’s why it’s conventional to refer to the “I” in a poem like this as the Lover and the “you” as the Beloved. The line “Let the more loving one be me” could summarize a lot of the love poetry of the last few thousand years.
But who, in this case, is the beloved? This isn’t a poem to the stars, but about them. Or maybe a poem that uses the stars as a conceit and our complicated feelings about them as a screen for other difficult emotions.
What the stars have to do with love is a tricky question. The answer may just be that the poem assumes a relationship and then plays with the implications of its assumption.
This kind of play also has a long history. Since love is both abstract and susceptible to cliché, poets are eager to liken it to everything else under the sun: birds, bees, planets, stars, the movement of the tides and the cycle of the seasons. Andrew Marvell’s “Definition of Love,” from the 1600s, wraps its ardor in math:
As lines, so loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet;
But ours so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
The literary term for this is wit. The formidable 18th-century English wordsmith Samuel Johnson defined a type of wit as “a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently unlike.” “The most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by violence together,” he wrote; that kind of conceptual discord defines “The More Loving One.”
The second stanza is, when you think about it, a perfect non sequitur. A hypothetical, general question is asked:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Mary Roach, writer
The answer is a personal declaration that is moving because it doesn’t seem to apply only or primarily to stars:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Tim Egan, writer
Does this disjunction make it easier or harder to remember? Either way, these couplets start to reveal just how curious this poem is. We might find ourselves curious about who wrote them, and whom he might have loved. Tomorrow we’ll get to know Auden and his work a little better.
Play a game to learn it by heart. Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite our poem.
Question 1/6
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.
Your task today: Learn the second stanza!
Let’s start with the first couplet in this stanza. Fill in the rhyming words.
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
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