Tiger Woods is on the brink after rollercoaster round at The Open, but his aura shows no sign of fading as fans clamour to get a touch of greatness

It was 2.26pm when Tiger Woods strode onto the practice putting green and, immediately, a theme of Open week was back in your mind.

The past few days, of course, have been littered with debate about what the future holds for Woods, sparked by brutally honest comments from Colin Montgomerie. The man who grew up a flicked sand wedge from Royal Troon had wondered why his old foe has not retired.

‘I hope people remember the passion and charismatic aura around him,’ Montgomerie added. ‘There is none of that now.’

Wrong. We will come to Woods the player shortly but let’s address the observation about aura. If that were true, the viewing gallery to the side of the clubhouse would not have had 100 people squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder behind blue railings, all with phones out to record the moment.

He took 21 putts in his last, brief warm-up, from a variety of distances, just trying to warm his hands. As he went through his routine, concentrating so hard his eyes were almost robotic, there was the kind of reverential hush that only comes in the presence of greatness.

Who cared that he was a 175-1 outsider? Nobody. When the best there has ever been is a few feet from you, rolling balls smoothly into a target, you savour each second and appreciate the good fortune of being in his orbit.

‘Show these young fellas what’s good!’ one enthusiastic fan hollered as Woods made his way to the first tee. That’s the thing about charisma and aura in sport — it never stops those to whom you have given so many wonderful memories dreaming.

And dream they did. Up he stepped onto the first tee, his drive into the wind splitting the fairway. Down he marched, hands in pockets, no trace of expression on his face. In his mind, he was here to collect his 16th major on Sunday. ‘Prove Monty wrong!’ came a cry from the stands.

For an hour, those who followed him as closely as Hansel and Gretel followed their breadcrumbs were fully invested in that notion, too. Woods played the first beautifully, his second shot landing on the green with two putts securing a comfortable par.

Hole two was negotiated with similar proficiency. His drive ended up in the rough to the left of the fairway. A club hacker would groan and think ‘triple bogey’, but Woods swished one of his magic wands and landed 25 feet from the flag. Another par.

Then came the third. Suddenly you looked around and the galleries either side of the ropes had started to swell. Was something stirring? With the greatest respect to Xander Schauffele and Patrick Cantlay, they may as well have been invisible — these people only had eyes for one man.

Could he give them what they wanted? You bet. Another tee shot into Position A, a second shot to the back of the green. When he got there, Woods walked around, studying the contours before nudging forward his putt from around 18 feet.

Straightaway, you could tell where it was going. The closer it got to the hole, the louder the noise became until the roar — 3.40pm on Thursday felt like 5.30pm on Sunday, the eruption as definitive as a putt on the back stretch. 

How he loved it, his fists pumping like pistons. ‘Come on Tiger!’ one man screamed. Here, again, was sport urging you to take the bait and hook onto the prospect of fantasy.

The problem in this realm, though, is as soon as you have a bite, the prize can wriggle away just as quickly. What followed was the reality of where 48-year-old Woods is now. That beautiful birdie was quickly given back at the par-five fourth with three putts and he was plunged into the red straight after, a double-bogey at the par-three fifth, leaving him banging his club on the ground in frustration as he played out sideways from a bunker.

A birdie putt was squandered at the sixth, the seventh was pockmarked by another three putts before the Postage Stamp bore its teeth and took another shot away from him; 6, 5, 5, 5, 4. How quickly the mood had changed.

Reaching the turn in 40, your mind was racing to think about the possibility of this usurping the 81 he carded at Muirfield in 2002 as his worst round at the Open. A nightmare on 11, when he threatened to find the train tracks, heightened it all. Again Montgomerie came to mind.

‘He’s coming to Troon and he won’t enjoy it,’ the irascible Scot had claimed — and there looked to be some truth to that, Woods’ face long and shoulders slumped.

He didn’t give in and chiselled out some pars, plus a birdie on 13, but a round that stretched towards five hours took a physical toll. He was moving gingerly at the end and a bogey at the last meant he signed for a 79.

‘I didn’t do a whole lot of things right,’ Woods conceded. ‘I need to shoot something in the mid-60s tomorrow to get something going on the weekend. I need to do a lot more work in the gym.’

Another missed cut looks likely, but so what if that’s the case? It won’t stain his reputation. On a wet and windy day on Scotland’s West Coast, the affection Woods was afforded showed his aura will never be lost.