THEY always say write about what you know. But I believe, dear reader, that one (and it is only one) does not want to read about a dodgy prostate. Well, not again.

So I am going to follow this column’s well-trodden path into the rough of ignorance, into the whin of uncultivated thought, into the butcher’s of unadulterated mince and address the golf. Not knowing much about hitting gobstoppers with sticks has never held me back from wandering on to championship courses and asking a steward: “Who’s playing? And what way are they shooting?”

It also has not stopped me writing a six-part television series, silently naming all the American states and texting the four Gospels in Sanskrit to my mate while Jason Day prepares for his next shot. His preparation is routinely interrupted by choruses of Happy Birthday as the entire gallery takes turns to celebrate their individual big days.

But this lack of knowledge of golf is accompanied by a great affection. I love the golf. And I love the Masters. First, I love how a dignified game can make me so angry. The Masters was once so racist and misogynist that one suspected it was called Trump Augusta.

It was also full of rich, white men behaving badly. And not all of them were in the press tent. The wonderful Billy Payne, chairman of Augusta National, once caused me to heave with uncontrollable laughter as he embarked on a sermon of such egregious hypocrisy that the Rev IM Jolly should have been moved to sue. Mr Payne, one may remember, was criticising Tiger Woods in a written statement to a TV camera. Yup, Mr Woods was apparently the first leading golfer to have cheated on his wife and had to be upbraided publicly for this personal failing. It made one relieved that no previous champion had ever been known to have been unfaithful to his missus.

But what I love most is that the Masters invariably delivers in terms of drama, the aforementioned Mr Woods being a leader player in those scenarios. It was always on council telly so it was marvellous to sit down on a Sunday and listen to Peter Alliss not knowing somebody had just won the Claret Jacket or the Green Jug or whatever. It was also oddly comforting to have those pictures of brooks, bridges, wildlife and fauna, and expect to hear David Attenborough whisper: “The azalea is the most beautiful but deceptive killer in the natural world.”

But, instead, we have the golf and it has proved more than enough. Highlights for me include the year Jack Nicklaus won when he stopped in Georgia en route to the post office for his bus pass, the time Charl Schwartzel triumphed with a dramatic suddenness that suggested he was like the marathon runner who hides in the bushes and jumps out a mile from home and any glimpse of Angel Cabrera, the most inspiring sports figure for those of us whose idea of an aerobic workout is to tie our laces.

However, Tiger was the most compelling figure. They even changed the course to limit his powers. He would be home in fewer shots than in a pacifist gunfight. He was young, driven and spectacular. He could chip in when he should have by all reasoning knocked his ball into the water. He could destroy a revered course and demoralise seasoned competitors. He was a phenomenon. The tense is past. His era has passed.

He is highly unlikely to play at Augusta next week but the sadder truth is he is almost certain never to contest on a Sunday at a major. This is the sort of sweeping statement that is called a Banquo, because it can come back to haunt one. But Tiger is undeniably diminished in power, confidence and perhaps even spirit.

One of the joys of reading a book by his one-time caddy, Steve Williams, is to note just how many times the New Zealand bag carrier triumphed at a grand slam (my favourite? ‘’My top wins: 1999 PGA Championship, my first major”). But if one can question the precise contribution of a caddy to a golfer’s success, one cannot argue about Williams’s proximity to Tiger in moments of victory, stress, joy, pain, anger and genuine distress.

There are occasional scores settled, cards finally marked, by Williams but the enduring impression of Tiger is of dissatisfaction, even unhappiness. He is a singular man, created to win rather than to live. Many of the observations of Tiger tally with the words of Hank Haney, the champion’s former coach, in his book, though the Big Miss is far superior to Williams’s Out of the Rough.

But in all his obvious flaws Tiger really was something, to lapse into Americanese. The Masters does need his presence but it was undoubtedly enhanced by it. Augusta in April will endure and prosper without him. But one wonders how Tiger will survive. There are stories almost willing him to tee it up next week. But these are akin to a form of cruelty. It is as if his admirers cannot accept his sporting mortality and have to continually poke his moribund greatness with a stick. Or, sorry, a golf club. I never know which.

Out of the Rough: The Caddy’s Story by Steve Williams is published by Yellow Jersey at £14.99