So Tiger has yet to make his move. Bodes ill for him and his fans and worse for us ink-stained wretches. But until he does, (and by Grabthar’s hammer, he will!) Augusta will have to make do with one of those Get Out of Here stories that not even the hackiest of Hollywood’s hack screenwriters would dare try to peddle.

And I’m talking about Trevor Immelman.

The feel-good-comeback-five-hanky story of the century. A story of tears and redemption and tortured Latin soap operas with some hot South American Erica Kane lookalike in them.

Born in Capetown, South Africa. Wins the U.S. Amateur Public Links 10 years ago at age 19. Marries his childhood sweetheart. Top-10 money list and Rookie of the Year, 2006 PGA TOUR.

Then, in December of last year, he withdraws from the South African Airways Open with discomfort around his ribcage. Doctors find a lesion on his diaphragm the size of a, wait for it… golf ball. You can’t make stuff up like this. Calcified fibrosis tumor. Benign. Now, barely four months later he’s shot 68 in the first two rounds of the Masters to take the lead.

I’m sorry. Who’s going to believe this? I doubt if he believes it. You know Frank Capra is spinning in his grave like a rotisserie chicken during a power surge. Even Norman Rockwell wouldn’t buy this flummery. And PT Barnum would be stepping back cautioning us not to push our luck. You kidding me? Then he shows up to meet the press wearing a black shirt with orange stripes down his sleeves. What are you saying here Mr. Immelman?

Who’s the Tiger now?