The golf world was all over the map last week: World No. 1 Lee Westwood won again, in an event nobody has heard of. A Monday qualifier won on the Nationwide Tour, raising hopes for everyone who has ever been picked last in a playground pick-up game. A 16-year-old girl nearly made history the right way, and a future Hall of Fame pitcher nearly made history the wrong way.

And, of course, nobody can survive without a Tiger Woods update.

Tiger reported a knee injury will sideline him for this week's Wells Fargo Championship at Quail Hollow in Charlotte, N.C., and also derailing anyone who thinks Woods will be back to winning form anytime soon. As if unbothered by any such speculation, Tiger then tweeted over the weekend about being a "big winner" at the Vegas tables with singer and noted skirt-chaser John Mayer. Good thing Tiger is single or all sorts of speculation could have broken out about the relative nature of being a "big winner" when rolling with Mayer. But now that he is single,

I'd open this week's column by asking if anybody remembers the late-1970's TV show "In Search Of," but I'm the same guy who opened a post-Masters column with a reference to Mel Brooks' 1987 vehicle "Spaceballs," so I probably shouldn't, in the name of dated cultural references.

Whoops. Too late.

So, somebody go find Leonard Nimoy. He used to narrate those weekly unsolvable mysteries, like UFOs, the Loch Ness Monster and, of course, the granddaddy of them all, Bigfoot. We need to sic Nimoy and his crew on another unsolvable mystery: In Search of the World's No. 1 Golfer.

After this weekend's action, ranging from Indonesia to the shores of South Carolina, we're as baffled as ever. Lee Westwood is back to No. 1 again, in case you hadn't noticed, which I'm sure you hadn't. That's only because Luke Donald nearly was No. 1. And only because Martin Kaymer doesn't play like he wants to be No. 1.

As the great Vinnie Barbarino once said: "I'm so confused." (Thus completing my "Spaceballs"/"In

For Rory McIlroy's next trick, he'll stand by as a good-looking guy takes his best gal for a spin on the dance floor, he'll let a stranger cut in front of him at a buffet to take the last piece of chocolate cake and he'll have a neighbor blow leaves onto his lawn.

I mean, can a guy have any more experience living Doris Day's old lament, "Que sera, sera," in one eight-day span?

First, McIlroy had his guts surgically removed and placed, slowly, through a shredder on international TV last Sunday at the Masters. Next, McIlroy boarded a private plane to fly from Georgia to Malaysia – a tidy 30-hour journey – only to see Masters winner Charl Schwartzel on the tiny exclusive bird, sporting the green jacket McIlroy thought was his for 63 of the 72 holes.

As if that weren't painful enough, McIlroy's clubs were briefly lost en route. The good news was, when McIlroy recovered them, he stared the golf gods down, storming to the 36-hole lead in the European Tour's Malaysian Open after a

It was the great Augusta National member Mel Brooks who foreshadowed this wildly entertaining Masters. You remember, way back when he made the "Star Wars" spoof, "Spaceballs," Brooks told us years ago: "May the Schwartzel be with you!"

OK. Who opens a Masters column with a dated "Spaceballs" reference? That's a two-stroke penalty on yours truly. Plus, I think Brooks gave up his ANGC membership in the Martha Burk kerfluffle, if memory serves correctly.

Either way: Schwartzel! Who knew?

Playing behind Tiger Woods, Charl Schwartzel heard the roars but still posted a back nine that rivaled Jack Nicklaus' in 1986.
(Charlie Riedel/AP)

Making birdie on Holes 15-16-17-18 to win the green jacket by two strokes is legendary stuff, unprecedented in Masters lore. And the "down the stretch they come!" feel to the back nine was awesome theater, one of the best Masters races in years.

Too bad Schwartzel, an agreeable 26-year-old South African with a controlled swing and game to match, posted a win

Let me state, with as much solemnity and understatement as I can, on this, the beginning of Masters Week 2011.

OK, here we go. Ahem. Clear the throat.

PHILLY MICK!

Yes, he deserves all-caps. Yes, he deserves the exclamation point. Yes, he deserves his own paragraph.

In a year in which we golf writers have been spinning plates trying to justify our interest in winners like Johnny Vegas and Gary Woodland and Aaron Baddeley and Mark Wilson; in a year in which we've searched for a dominant storyline like we search for lost car keys (in the sofa cushions? under a pillow?); in a year aching for a moment, Lefty delivered.

The sheepish, spaced-out, indecipherable grin has never been more welcome.

It may have been only the Shell Houston Open. And it may be overlooked by some on Final Four weekend, and on baseball Opening Day weekend, and while many of the game's top players packed their bags for the cathedral of pines down Augusta way, but Phil Mickelson gave us the jolt we all needed.

After

Arnold Palmer's Bay Hill Invitational had all the trimmings to make it feel like a big-time party, full of anticipatory pre-Masters buzz, like a pre-Augusta kegger: great weather, Tiger, Simmerin' Spencer Levin, U.S. Open-like bloodshed, Tiger, Steve Marino pain, a Euro winner not named Lee, Martin, Ian, Rory or Graeme, 'last channel' remote-control function giving us Shaka Smart magic on hardwood, Johnny Miller cracking wise on NBC (he called Marino a "walking lip-out," yes he did), Tiger and, of course, the King himself.

When Arnold is in the house – deeply-tanned, sweater draped over his shoulders on the NBC broadcast, exuding Arnie-ness – all is right with the golf world.

And let's be honest: This coming week's Shell Houston Open is window dressing, the golf equivalent of the final weekend of baseball spring training, when bags are packed and all anybody can do is look forward to blowing out of town.

In baseball, that means teams splitting from Florida and Arizona for Opening Day.

Let's call this week's quandary "The Gary Woodland Question."

In other words, does a win by Woodland at Innisbrook intrigue you, the golf fan? Maybe you're interested in a young American (26) who has barely played on Tour (33 starts), who hits it roughly 6,000 miles off the tee (eighth in driving distance) and who carries an unusual back story (college basketball player whose dream day was a nonconference game in Kansas' Allen Fieldhouse).

Or, maybe you're like my two sports fan friends with whom I conversed this weekend. As we channel-surfed and the notion of a Woodland-Webb Simpson duel on Sunday was broached, they balked. To them, the idea of watching Gary Woodland play golf was as appealing as a time-share pitch from a neighbor over dinner.

"Dude, I haven't paid attention to golf since Tiger started slumping," said one.

"I'm out until Tiger is back, also," said the other.

In other words, they answered the Woodland Question, and their answer was pretty much, "Sorry, Charlie."

This

Look! Up in the sky! That green thing – is it … a flare from Augusta National Golf Club?

Now, don't worry. The Green Jackets aren't sending up emergency signals for more petty cash. Nor are they announcing to the world that, after careful consideration, they've accepted Martha Burk as a member. (Early '00s trivia for all you old fogeys out there, like me.)

Rather, it's a sign from the cathedral of pines that, three weeks away from the ceremonial first tee shot, the first pimento sandwich served and a Pinkerton nudging a boozed-up, napping spectator in the ribs on Six Hill, they are beginning to feel the vibe.

The World Golf Championships event at Doral did more than just add another layer of scar tissue to Dustin Johnson's scar tissue-laden psyche, it also gave us our first official blast of pre-Masters hype, our first leaderboard close enough to April and chock full of enough contenders to say: Yes, yes, that's what the Masters will look like.

With all due respect to Mark (Two Scoops)