My Masters hangover is finally subsiding. It felt a little like going into a deep hibernation with only a TV/online broadcast and Twitter to pass the time. I wasn't asleep, but part of the time I felt like I was in a dream state. To say I was singularly focused Sunday afternoon would be an understatement.

Well, I was certainly multi-tasking, but everything I did centered around Augusta National. Few sporting events ever live up to expectations, but the Masters - as it does nearly every year - met every expectation I had, predictions aside.

The Masters is one of the only tournaments all year that is worth every second of your time, every thought in your brain. It's an amalgamation where the past and present welcome the future of golf, but doesn't cede control to it.

It's the best of what PGA Tour golf has to offer. It leaves you wanting more, not quite satisfied even though you've had your fill. In a cliched world, it's the gift that keeps on giving and it can giveth and taketh away.

It's been three days since Charl Schwartzel ripped off four-straight birdies to close out the Masters and get his first green jacket; since Tiger Woods conquered the first nine and fell flat on the second; since Rory McIlroy shot an 80 and found himself amongst the cabins after his tee shot on No. 10...

It's been three days, and I still can't get over it. You ride the Masters high and then you suffer the Masters hangover. During a major championship, especially the Masters, a stranger will ask you who's on top of the leaderboard.

Happened to me on Saturday as I was standing in line in the men's bathroom at U.S. Cellular Field during a White Sox game. I was minding my business, as everyone should in the men's room, when the guy next to me tapped me on the shoulder and said,

"Hey, I figure since you're wearing a TaylorMade hat, you probly know what's going on at the Master's... where's Tiger at?"

Yes, in fact, I did know what was going on at the Masters. At that point, McIlroy was still crushing the field and Woods was playing rather average. I gave him the news, and he was none too pleased.

"I hate it when Tiger sucks," the man said. "I could care less about all these other golfers, and I wouldn't even care if it wasn't the Masters."

I nodded my head, understanding where he was coming from. It's the kind of thing you hear a lot in golf conversations these days. Tiger spoiled us, and we want our favorite golf toy back.

I exited the men's room and was stopped again, this time by a woman in here late-20s.

"Do you know how Rickie and Rory are doing?" she asked.

I opened my phone again and gave her their scores.

"Thank you so much, I love them," she said.

Fair enough, I thought. That pretty much epitomizes the state of the golf world right now. You're either extremely excited about the future, annoyed at Tiger's struggles, a Phil Mickelson fan, or a little bit of each (that's where I'm at).

The thing is, there's never been a bigger draw to the PGA Tour than right now, and the Masters proved that. The young talent is great, the European players are always challenging to win, Tiger is close to being back, and Phil is still showing signs of greatness.

Major championships bring people together four times a year like no other event can. Maybe it's the magnitude of the tournaments. Maybe it's the history. All I know is any other day I walk around in my blue TaylorMade hat, no one is asking me to check the leaderboard for them.

I left the game thinking about something that I never had thought of while exiting a ballgame before. I had golf on my mind. Partially because of people asking me to check the leaderboard, partially because I have a sick obsession with major championships. The golf conversation happened in the men's room with a stranger, next to a hot dog stand with a late-20s woman, and also in the bleachers amongst the group of guys I was with.

It felt ironic, but it also felt good. I went home and watched the Round 3 highlights and got excited for the final round. McIlroy had a commanding lead, Woods had faltered and it seemed like pretty much everything was set in stone and ready to uneventfully play out on Sunday.

Another poor prediction on my part. Maybe the fact that I woke up early to watch "Yes Sir! Jack Nickalaus at the '86 Masters" to get me ready for the final round was an omen that something crazy was going to happen.

McIlroy fell apart. Tiger charged, then faded. Schwartzel birdied. Australians made a run at the green jacket. Old and new clashed. Phil didn't win his fourth, Westwood didn't win his first.

In the evening, after Schwartzel got his jacket, I finally turned the TV off, closed Twitter and made some food. The Masters still had me on a high, but I knew it wasn't going to last.

It never does. But, it always comes back, year-after-year, and that's why it's a "tradition unlike any other."