“Are you watching the golf tonight?” My response to them all was consistent. “What golf? I don’t know what you are talking about.” This was not entirely honest. Actually, on reflection, it was brazenly dishonest. I was well aware of what was going on at Augusta and Rory McIlroy’s pursuit of sporting immortality, but I had absolutely no intention of allowing myself to be sucked down this particular rabbit hole. I have been bitten too many times before. I don’t subscribe to Sky Sports, but I do have the app which allows me to buy it in when there is something I want to see. I had done so for the 2022 Open, the 2023 US Open, the 2024 US Open, each time confident of a McIlroy victory; each time I ended up heartbroken. It’s like watching the Irish men’s rugby team at the World Cup. The higher the hopes, the loftier the expectation, the further you have to fall and the longer the recovery time. No thank you, not this time. To my mind, by refusing to watch or even acknowledge McIlroy’s Masters challenge, I was doing my bit to help him win the coveted grand slam. I could only hope he would reciprocate with equal determination and effort. And so, at around the same time that Northern Ireland’s most famous sporting star was on the first tee at Augusta, I was sitting down to watch a movie with my wife and son. My apparent dedication to this precious family time was underlined by the fact that I had put my mobiles onto silent and had baked chocolate buns. I fully and absolutely intended to ignore any sporting matters, thereby likely ensuring that McIlroy would win by about eight strokes. We watched the move Venom. Alas, I found it close to impossible to concentrate on the plot and I can relate here nothing about it more detailed than that it featured a large black monster with sharp teeth. However, it was another horror which was demanding my attention. Silently, but ominously, I could see my phones, resting on the nearby table, lighting up over and over, giving off tiny vibrations each time a message was received. Why couldn’t they leave me alone? I tried desperately to ignore them, I focused hard on the movie, later I closed my eyes and actually pretended to be asleep. I reminded myself about the perils of checking the latest messages. It would not do. Inevitably, I soon cracked. I grabbed a phone and opened the first message. It said: “McIlroy, double bogey at the first.” And then: “DeChambeau, ahead at the second.” I threw the phone down, wept salt tears and cried bitterly at what I had done, cursing my weakness. I needed to find a way out of this bunker. Unwilling to risk further disaster by taking out the driver and buying Sky Sports for the night, I choose a middle ground. I turned on the radio and, much to the bemusement of my family, walked about the house pretending I was not listening to it. However, I quickly learnt that golf on the radio is an even more tortuous experience than on the telly. A shot is struck and then there is an ominous silence which, without any visual aid, allows me to imagine McIlroy has shanked it off the course entirely and to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, before the commentator returns and informs the ball is safely in the middle of the fairway. Thankfully McIlroy was now showing more composure than I was. A string of birdies had left him five ahead entering the back nine. Playing the easy(ish!) par five 13th hole, he was still three in front and a long, straight drive left a short approach before what seemed to be a certain birdie. I relaxed slightly. My phone started to buzz again. I read some messages. “He’s got this in the bag.” “Start measuring him up for the green jacket.” I considered my response carefully. I told myself several times that it was not over. But then again, the radio commentators said he had a glorious lie and this was his simplest shot of the day. I typed out a quick message. “It’s looking good.” I hit the send button just as Rory was halfway through his backswing. Immediately he shanked the ball into the water and saw his handsome advantage on the leaderboard disappear. I was aghast. The next few holes passed in a blur of wonderful shots, bad mistakes and me biting chunks off the tops of my fingers. As McIlroy strode up the 18th fairway, the messages kept coming. With the last vestiges of my stamina and sanity, I sent one last text which read “Just one par to win” just in time for the Co Down golfer to dump the ball into a bunker and drop another shot. As McIlroy and Justin Rose were beginning the ensuing sudden death playoff, my wife discovered me walking in circles in the back garden in the dark, mumbling semi-coherently: "It’s nothing to do with me….I don’t care who wins…why are you asking me?” She led me back inside just in time to hear McIlroy strike his iron to within four feet of the pin on the 18th green. I ran upstairs and hid in bed, pulling the duvet tight around my head. I stayed like this until I was certain the hole must be completed. Then I gingerly lifted my phone where the push alerts were lighting up the homescreen. “Rory McIlroy has won the US Masters, becoming only the sixth male golfer to complete the career grand slam.” My head slumped back onto my pillow. I scanned the new messages from friends and siblings celebrating Rory’s victory. I sent a common response. “Never in doubt.”