“May you get what you wish for.”
—The third Chinese curse

When Rory McIlroy settled down in front of the media in the aftermath of his great, chaotic, cathartic victory at the Masters, he began his opening statement with a joke: “What are we all going to talk about next year?”

It landed. Everyone laughed, and he laughed, too. As far as I could tell, his tone was congenial, and McIlroy of all people—subject of unbearable scrutiny here and at every other major for a decade and more—had earned the good-natured dig. Behind it, though, as the night went on and I tossed the words around, I detected some deeper, more uncomfortable truth. And the truth felt ominous, and it kept me awake.

Because, actually…what are we going to talk about?

Don’t mistake me—I don’t regret McIlroy’s win. Not even a little.

There’s a rule in sketch comedy that within a scene, you never, ever solve the problem. The comedy comes from tension, so you play the problem, you prolong the conflict, and when you’ve extracted all the humor you can, you bail out. Resolution is not funny—it cuts the tension, and it’s unsatisfying for the audience. Take the famous SNL cowbell sketch as an example. Imagine if, after a minute, one of the band members had successfully stopped Will Ferrell from playing the cowbell. Party’s over, right? The two critical ingredients of that sketch are that one, the bandmates must want him to stop playing the cowbell, and two, he must never stop playing the cowbell. Whatever it takes, including the intervention of Christopher Walken’s weirdo producer, that conflict must be preserved. Extrapolate from there to the narratives of professional golf, and you could argue that McIlroy needed to keep losing majors in order to heighten the tension and prolong the action. Resolution, in the form of him winning a major, meant we would lose the story for good.

But sketch comedy is called “short form” for a reason, and in longform drama (or whatever combination of drama and comedy real life represents), delaying the resolution eventually hits a point of diminishing returns. This weekend at Augusta, that time had come; there was only one satisfying end to the long saga of Rory McIlroy’s 11-year sojourn in the desert of major championship golf:

Victory had been deferred as long as possible, and, admittedly, to great dramatic effect. Just when you thought we had run out of ways to see his heart break in the most public forum possible, fate delivered: he blew the fairytale ending at the Home of Golf, he missed the unmissable putt at Pinehurst, twice. Each loss, importantly, was an escalation on the one that came before, a dramatic heightening, and that itself is a key ingredient of a great story.

To lose at Augusta, as he threatened to do at least half a dozen times on Sunday, would have been just as unbearable, but—critical difference—it would have been unbearable in a way that undermined the journey. Pinehurst had been the absolute limit of a decade of escalations; at this point, he had been hurt a little too much. Heartbreak at Augusta would look less like an interesting setback, and more like celestial sadism.

“There’s something cruel in this,” my friend Chris said to me as we watched McIlroy dump his undumpable pitch into the water on 13. He put the words to what we all felt, and that’s when the epiphany hit: there was no longer anything interesting about Rory blowing a major. It would be a dark farce, but also a tedious one, a gratuitous one, and it would pay off emotionally only for those who enjoyed suffering for its own sake.

Whoever is writing the Rory saga seemed to get it. A decade of losses got us to where we are today, but one more loss would, paradoxically, undermine the carefully built tension. The win that transpired, on the other hand, unleashed a staggering catharsis, emphasizing the incredible competitive resilience of the “eternal optimist” whose greatness was a static fact and whose ultimate triumph came from a heroic refusal to stop trying. He was Odysseus, hellbent on getting home no matter how the gods tried to break him, until even the gods began to love him again.

McIlroy became great with the early wins, but he became heroic through his failures, and he became larger than life through his suffering. If you wanted him to win on Sunday, as I did, it wasn’t because of his real-life personal qualities, or the deficiencies of his opponents, but because you couldn’t bear to see this kind of extended suffering go unrewarded. Whatever you think of him, whatever complications you see in his actions, hadn’t he earned this? Didn’t he deserve it?

There was no better ending than Augusta. No better ending than a thousand obstacles at the threshold, convincing you he might be eternally cursed. No better ending than unbearable tension and agonizing delays right until the very end, until finally, can you ****ing believe it, victory. He’s the greatest story in sports, and I am in awe of the author who stuck the landing.

So despite a certain melancholy attached to passing time, I’m not upset that the story had to end. The string had played out. After Pinehurst, another journalist told me that golf would get a lot less interesting if McIlroy ever actually won, and I took his point, but yesterday the alternative looked even less appetizing. It was time for a series finale.

But now, to attempt to answer that original question, what are we going to talk about next?

If McIlroy’s journey had a heroic quality to it—and again, the comparison to Odysseus is too obvious not to reuse—the conclusion to that journey leaves me with a certain cynicism about what comes next. Look around, and what you see seems less like a clean slate and more like a vacuum.

What if Rory wins more majors? He might—he probably will—but none will carry the same weight. Not even close.

What if other players emerge and go on great runs? They have, and they will, but do any of them connect like McIlroy, for good and bad? Each passing generation becomes more media-trained, more single-minded, and—outside of the golf course but perhaps on it too—so much less interesting. How can they inspire anything close to the same strong feelings?

What about stories off the course? Sure, there will be plenty of those, but have you enjoyed what you’ve seen lately? Are you excited for more years of the endless PGA Tour-LIV power struggle, or the hyper-injections of money that steadily rob professional golf of it soul? Is that what we have to look forward to?

What about Jordan Spieth? OK, fair point.

Aside from a few flickering torches, though, it’s a dark landscape, and while people like me will always find something worth spending words on, what will tug on the heartstrings of the average fan?

In 1992, in the years immediately after the end of the Cold War, Francis Fukayama wrote a book called ‘The End of History and the Last Man,’ in which he argued that, to quote the simplified summary on Wikipedia, we had reached “the end-point of mankind’s ideological evolution and the universalization of Western liberal democracy as the final form of human government.” Fukayama is often mocked for being very wrong about this, and the implication of my argument, that we have seen the last of professional golf’s great heroic epics, may look equally short-sighted with time. I may be a victim of the moment, influenced by a certain fatigue with the world in 2025. I’m not afraid to tell you it has happened before.

But it feels like professional golf had two great, mythic cards to play in the last decade, and it played both cards to perfection at the most mythic battlefield in the sport, Augusta National, in 2019 and 2025. What remains in the wake feels faint and ineffectual, just a shadow of the spectacle we were lucky enough to witness on Sunday.

To answer McIlroy’s question literally, there will be plenty to talk about. There always is. But to stare into the abyss of the subtext, I’m not sure it will be quite like this ever again. Even as the players get better, the stories get worse, and I can’t shake the feeling we are in the twilight of the gods.