Now this is my kind of Masters champion.
A guy who cried so much you thought for a minute they were going to have to order his green jacket from the Men's Tissuehouse.
A guy who hugged everyone except the parking lot attendant, and I wouldn't take bets on that.
A guy who, in his acceptance speech, even thanked the locker room attendants. And whose last hole, the second in a playoff with Louis Oosthuizen, went like this: Driver, GPS, magic wand, green jacket.
Nobody hits the shot Bubba Watson hit with the Masters on the line, a lefty hook with a wedge from deep in the trees toward a blind green. The thing went under a bunch of branches, rose obediently, hooked even more obediently, then dropped, spun right and stopped 12 feet from the cup.
An armadillo could have two-putted from there. Which is all Watson needed to do after Oosthuizen's par putt slid past.
It was the kind of finish you watch the Masters to see, because it was all about someone going out and winning it rather than someone losing it. You always want to see the signature moment at Augusta, and Watson's Miracle From The Black Forest gave us that.
So, here he was, a guy who plays with a pink driver and wore all-white this week to raise money for children with birth defects, and who three weeks ago, after four years of trying, welcomed home an adopted baby boy with his wife, Angie.
No wonder the guy was a puddle.
No wonder the rest of us were thinking: Tiger? Who's Tiger?