Rory.

Rory McIlroy finally did it.

I mean, how could you possibly put that into words?

On Sunday night the world watched on with jaws collectively on the floor. A runaway train across the back nine at Augusta National with one man and one man only steering its path of utter destruction.

There was pain, there was relief, there was ecstasy. Some of the greatest shots you’ll ever see quickly followed by some of the worst. At the same time both unpredictable and entirely predictable. Equal parts believable and unbelievable.

This was the Rory show in its entirety, all its beauty and ugliness — but this time, somehow, he did it. He finally f*cking did it. After so long, he is Masters champion. He finished the story that had haunted him since 2011 and kept viewers hooked to every chapter and verse since. All those demons lifted, a 400-pound Gorilla that had sank its claws deeper and deeper into his back finally squashed and defeated.

"It's my 17th time here and I started to wonder if it would ever be my time.” Seventeenth.

And we were all there with him. WhatsApp groups exploded at every stroke, every tumble into the sand, that unforgiveable drop into the water at 13, the missed putts. Hold on, Rose is coming up fast here. Don’t write off Åberg yet. DeChambeau is fading fast. Rory’s got this, just par through the remainder and we’re golden.

Of course he didn’t par through the remainder and of course he made it the most excruciating, exhilarating, watch-behind-your-fingers type of sports drama that anyone had ever seen. Sweaty palms. Excessive pacing around living rooms. Mugs of tea going cold out of the utter anxiety in the pit of stomachs.

As he double-bogeyed at 13, Justin Rose had climbed within a shot of the lead with an astonishing 10-birdie afternoon. He was playing lights out golf and was hurtling up the leaderboard. Then McIlroy bogeyed again on 14. The impossible had somehow transpired — McIlroy had relinquished his lead again and he and Rose were now level — and the demons were once again leaning heavily on each shoulder of the Down man. But it was possible, anything is possible when it comes to Rory.

But something was different. All weekend, after every setback, McIlroy would rally back. Before the tournament he described the psychology of accepting heart break.

“Once you go through those heartbreaks or disappointments, you get to a place where you remember how it feels and you wake up the next day and you’re like: ‘Yeah, life goes on, it’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be.”

Except take the microcosm of heartbreak and apply it to every second shot. His “self-preservation mechanism” was working in overdrive. And somehow, with three dropped shots in two holes, he hit quite possibly the greatest shot of his life on the 15th. Following a tee drive that travelled too true for his liking, and with trees obstructing direct path to the green, he blew right around them with an arc that will be included in golfing montages and highlight reels forevermore. Where Woods had that chip in on the 16th hole in 2005, McIlroy will have that shot on the 15th. An iconic strike that will follow him to his grave.

And then on the green, in typical Rory, he missed the putt for eagle. A birdie put him back in the lead but his body language showed of a man who had just thrown it all away. He knew he’d need that cushion down the line.

At this stage, my mother texts me looking for an update. She wasn’t aware of the calamity at 13 — “Rory’s looking good!” — NO! HE’S NOT! AAAGGGGHHH!!!

An improbable birdie putt from Justin Rose on the 18th keeps him engaged for a potential play-off. He had been there before, when Sergio Garcia claimed his green jacket, another (once) likeable figure that the public were willing on to success. Rose forever the bridesmaid, but a classy one at that.

I get a text from a friend — “Rory will birdie 17. It’s done” — he does birdie 17th, delightfully so, with one of the most beautiful approach shots all weekend, taking him with a couple of feet of the hole, but in typical Rory it’s not done. Why should it be?!

The 18th. Rory needs at least par to become the sixth ever Grand Slam champion. But he finds the bunker, because of course. It’s Rory. The same texter returns — “It’s not the worse lie, up and in for par”. He escapes the sand nicely but can’t find the par putt from about five feet because OF COURSE.

Excruciating. And to a play-off we go. What a journey.

And back to the 18th. But this time, he doesn’t find the bunker. He lasers to within two feet of the hole. It was gorgeous. How he found the composure to land that shot after everything that had happened on the back nine I will never know. Rose is further away, a difficult putt to make in one, and he screws it agonisingly right.

And back to Rory and his putter. This putt is easier than the first go-around. He bounds into it fast and confident. Over a decade of majors pain pounding through his every heartbeat. Even longer suffering around the unrelenting Augusta terrains that has terrorised and entrapped his soul. One putt to exorcise it all once and for all.

He shoots. Time stops. It lands. Finally. Rory McIlroy — Masters Champion.

The relief is intoxicating. It’s approaching 1am in Ireland and I’m on my feet in my living room silently fist pumping the air. For some reason I’ve a feeling I’m not alone. The sheer, utter relief.

The most mental stretches of sport I’ve ever watched. WhatsApp is blowing up. My mother has heard the news before I had a chance to update and sends a celebration emoji. Simple and to the point.

It could only be Rory. In the interview afterwards he jokes “what are we all going to talk about next year?!” and he’s dead right. The greatest ongoing soap opera in world sport has been put to bed. Rory is our Masters champion, we’ve lived and watched on helplessly through the suffering and the heartbreak.

And that’s what makes this one is just so, so sweet. He finally did it.

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