In sports, everyone is a winner—some people just win better than others. Like Phil Mickelson, who won his third Masters without even having to cheat on his cancer-stricken wife. Days like this make a sportswriter's job real easy.
There weren't a lot of dry eyes in the house on Sunday as Mickelson reached the 18th green at Augusta two shots ahead of the field. His wife, weakened by chemotherapy treatments, had rushed to the course in the waning moments, like a less depressing Adrian Balboa, to greet him with ultra-emotional hugs. It doesn't take much to connect the dots between her and the wife who was noticeably absent, because her man is kind of a jerk.
Meanwhile, nearby, a petulant Tiger Woods continued to flagellate himself over a pretty respectable fourth-place finish. He swore and bitched and moaned and didn't seem very grateful to be there or for the fans who lustily supported him. (And I'll just go ahead and say it, if you were one of those fans, you're kind of a tool.) He's the villain now and Phil, the former choke artist turned daring "gambler", is the good guy. And the good guy won. The morality play writes itself.