So the column was all set: Rory, Rory, Rory. … And in conclusion, Rory.

Who wouldn't be slobbering over Rory McIlroy's golf game and career arc? Not only did the 22-year-old from Northern Ireland with the Peter Brady haircut drop some sort of young Jedi/apprentice-slays-master job on former friend/current rival Lee Westwood in the semifinals of the Accenture Match Play in Arizona on Sunday, he was one match away from becoming No. 1 in the world rankings.

Numero Uno and a record U.S. Open win before age 23? Holy Tiger Woods, Batman.

We're talking tall cotton. The comparisons to other prodigies – Jack, Seve, the Sunday red shirt guy – only would strengthen with such a feat.

McIlroy's golf swing already has drawn more praise than Meryl Streep at the Oscars. And by knocking off Westwood in the Sunday morning match, he showed a bit of testosterone, too. After all, Lee is the guy who noted publicly after Rory's Sunday Masters meltdown that "he's got a pull hook in the bag under pressure",

A week before the Academy Awards, the PGA Tour's Hollywood stop was set to give us its own Best Picture and Best Actor seven days early.

You could call Riviera's flick: "From Pebble to Palisades: It's Philly Mick's World" or "The Tiger Slayer And More: Phil!" or "Lefty: One Man's Route to Global Domination."

Whatever the studio execs would want to call it, the story took L.A. and the golf world by storm for 72-plus holes at the golf course where Humphrey Bogart was once a member. And it was a "Here's lookin' at you, Lefty" moment when Mickelson drained a 26-footer from the fringe on 18 on Sunday afternoon to force a playoff with Bill Haas at the Northern Trust Open.

Fans at Riviera went bananas. It was "The Artist" at his finest. Forget "Moneyball"; it was "MoneyPhil." One delirious fan even rolled down the slope by 18, pounding his fist deliriously into the kikiyu grass near the fringe of the putting green. Haas, alone on the range practicing for a possible playoff, must have felt

The place: Pebble Beach.

The day: Sunday.

The pairing: Phil Mickelson and Tiger Woods.

The scores: Phil 64, Tiger 75.

Scribes and pundits, commence pontificating.

It's a deep thinker's dream, this whole scene. It's payment in spades for week after week of anonymous winners, of buzz-free golf Sundays. It's a perfect storm of intersecting career arcs, golf's two most decorated players and a Bird/Magic-like rivalry that we see too rarely.

Then again, we should be thankful we saw it at all. CBS' contractual obligation to show the end of the Michigan-Illinois foul extravaganza, er, uh, basketball game meant golf fans were denied a key stretch of golf where Mickelson eagled No. 6, and Tiger bogeyed Nos. 7 and 8.

That's OK, though. Those holes at Pebble Beach aren't very attractive and don't televise well. Besides, tectonic shifts on leaderboards and the golf power structure are overrated anyway.

And if CBS promises not to delay Tiger/Phil at Pebble any more, I promise not to write sentences

Kyle Stanley no longer owns a Baton of Pain. That, golf fans, is a remarkable thing.

The Baton of Pain tends to stick with some players like adhesive – sometimes bonded by a superglue that holds on forever.

Best I can tell, despite riches and fame, Greg Norman has a permanent spot in his locker for the 1996 Masters Baton of Pain. And setting aside his publicly cheerful face for the last 13 years, Jean van de Valde may take the 1999 British Open Baton of Pain to old age.

The Baton of Pain is a yoke, an albatross, a burden.

It's that inescapable feeling of pain, shame and nakedness that only golf can bring. It's the sensation of a blown lead on a Sunday, a championship lost, glory fleeing the other way just as you near it.

The golf gods didn't just hand the Baton of Pain to Stanley two Sundays ago at Torrey Pines: They clubbed him over the head with it. Stanley watched his chance at a first-ever PGA Tour win dissolve in agony. The five-shot lead he teed off with on Sunday was reduced to

There is no official confirmation, but sources say Tiger Woods, winging it back to the States from the United Arab Emirates, texted Kyle Stanley from 30,000 feet above the Indian Ocean to say: "Meet you at Heartbreak Hotel for a cold one. You know the address: at the end of Lonely Street, near Sunday Pain Lane."

Sunday was one of those weird days in golf. From the serene bluffs of Torrey Pines all the way to that creepy-weird, SuperFriends-esque clubhouse in Abu Dhabi shaped like a enormous concrete eagle, the day would be remembered more for its losers than its winners.

Oh, don't misinterpret, please. The Robert Rock story is magnificent, from club pro a decade ago to Tiger Slayer in 2012, a hatless wonder letting his fabulous mane blow in the desert breeze, sort of the Fabio of the European Tour. Even his name deserves our awe. Bob Rock! We haven't seen a handle like this since Jhonny Vegas won at the Bob Hope a year ago. Jhonny Vegas and Bob Rock surely are half of somebody's dream

At this rate, Mark Wilson may start hanging out with Snoop, Dre and the rest of the West Coast crew. This Wisconsin-born Cheesehead may start flashing the "W" hand sign on the golf course – for both his West Coast prowes, and his increasing number of wins.

That’s right, Mark Wilson is back, and striking fear into the golf world with his 5-foot-8, 145-pound, banjo-hitting accountant’s demeanor. Wilson’s win at the Humana Challenge in La Quinta, Calif. – formerly known as the Bob Hope Chrysler Classic – came in front of former President Bill Clinton, now the Sugar Daddy (not Suge Knight) of this event, and marked Wilson’s third win on the West Coast swing dating back to last year, when he won in Hawaii and Phoenix.

Channeling Prez No. 42, Wilson can now tell West Coast fields: Not only do I feel your pain, I am inflicting it.

Perhaps because his beloved Green Bay Packers are out of the NFL playoffs, Wilson’s mind was clear enough to make four birdies in his last eight holes. With no

Up against venerable, beloved franchises of the NFL on TV from Lambeau Field, and up against Ricky Gervais’ savage wit on the Golden Globes, the PGA Tour answered with something riveting of its own:

Johnson Wagner’s mustache.

The relatively unknown player, ranked 198th in the world when he touched down on Oahu, earned his third career win in 140 starts Sunday with a final-round 67 at the Sony Open at Waialea. Wagner – not a bomber, hits it straight, putts well – is not relatively unknown anymore. He’s now “The Guy Who Won While Sporting the ‘Tache That Called to Mind The Late Freddie Prinze, Sr.”

Hey, it beats tying for 39th.

From Tim Finchem’s perspective, it’s just as well we’re focusing on Wagner’s mustache. The 54-hole leader was a guy named Matt Every, who had the distinction of being busted last year and suspended for three months when strong smells of marijuana were found emanating from his hotel room at the John Deere Classic.

Don’t tsk-tsk. Grass might have been invented for

Not to say that the PGA Tour season-opener in Maui caused less of a ripple than a tide pool, but consider the four biggest stories from the week of golf:

1. Johnny Miller and Nick Faldo went head-to-head on The Golf Channel!

2. Hank Haney is writing a tell-all book about Tiger Woods!

3. Tiger Woods, who is the subject of a tell-all book by Hank Haney, will open his PGA Tour season at Pebble Beach!

4. Tim Tebow!

Well, Tebow doesn't play professional golf. But you know what I mean.

Nowhere on that list is actual golf from Kapalua, which doesn't speak well for the buzz created after good guy Steve (The Cheesehead Assassin) Stricker christened 2012 with a visit to the victory circle.

(First digression of 2012: I heard The Golf Channel guys saying the only thing Stricker lacked is a nickname and nearly chucked my remote at the TV. What, they can't read? I am awaiting the apology on Golf Channel letterhead.)

Back to the Cheesehead Assassin. In some ways, it was important Stricker won, since