I've had my Phil! '04 was a snore
By CONNELL BARRETT

My opponent ranks 2004 as one of golf's greatest seasons -- right up there with 1960 and 1977. Corky, in the immortal words of Herbert Warren Wind, "Have you got Rock-Flites in your head?"

Does Duel in the Sun ring a bell? It should. It's the name of the book you wrote on Jack Nicklaus and Tom Watson's immortal battle in the '77 British Open. And '60 was only the year a chain-smoking, pants-hitching Arnold Palmer charged at Cherry Hills to become golf's King.

Sorry, but unlike Tiger Woods, you're not close.

Yes, this was a feel-good season, highlighted by likable (if charisma-challenged) Todd Hamilton's neat trick at Troon and Phil Mickelson's Masters (points off for the worst jump since the Agony of Defeat). But a great Masters does not a great year make.

In a truly great year, the game's dominant players step up. Paging Mr. Woods! He pulled a D.B. Cooper and grabbed a load of cash while plummeting out of sight, finishing no better than ninth in a major. We needed Woods in the hunt at Shinnecock. Instead of goose bumps we got Goosen. As Retief himself admitted after his win, "I'm about as exciting as plumb-bobbing."

All right, I made that up. He'd never say something so non-boring.

This year wasn't even the best of the past 10. That honor goes to underrated 1999. Flash back: Greg Norman's last gasp at Augusta, Payne Stewart's emotional win at Pinehurst, Jean Van de Velde's Carnoustie collapse, Woods and Sergio Garcia's PGA duel at Medinah. (Phil, for a lesson in leaping, let's go to that videotape.)

Bottom line: Goosen? Groan. Hamilton? He's nice, but so is Ovaltine. Vijay could put you to sleep with a 63. And no Tiger= No-Doz. I'd go on, but I'm feeling drowsy. How long until The Masters?

It was a season for the Ages
By MICHAEL CORCORAN

The 21st Century has yet to deliver on its promise. We still languish in a world without flying cars or talking toasters. But in 2004, we witnessed an action-packed season to rival 1960 and 1977 as the most exciting year of the GOLF MAGAZINE era.

At The Masters, we exhaled after a decade watching Phil Mickelson's major mishaps. After playing it safe for three days, Phil the Thrill returned on the final nine. His clinching putt was a dagger in Ernie Els's ample heart, the exclamation point on the most scintillating Masters since Jack Nicklaus won in 1986.

Easy seemed ready for redemption Sunday morning at Shinnecock, the crown jewel of American golf. But the Utterly Sadistic Golf Association booby-trapped the U.S. Open course, which made Easy queasy. Ernie shot 80 that day as Retief Goosen put on a putting clinic. Palmer he's not, but Goosen helped make great theater.

Cagey Todd Hamilton's British Open playoff win over Els was the culmination of a lifelong quest. Ernie's par from waist-high gorse on 11 was Homeric, and his pathetic stab of a putt to win on the 72nd hole made weekend warriors ache with empathy. Unlike one-hit-wonder Ben Curtis, it won't be his only major.

Then came The Drive. In the first playoff hole of the PGA Championship, Vijay Singh smote cautious Chris DiMarco and Justin Leonard with a mighty lash, nearly reaching the green on Whistling Straits's 361-yard 10th. We hadn't seen such a major blast since 1970, when Jack Nicklaus shed his sweater and undressed Doug Sanders at St. Andrews. Singh had delivered a knockout blow to his pursuers -- a fitting finish to a terrific year in golf.