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There comes a point when Tiger Woods’ famous bloody-mindedness starts to look like flat-out masochism. The moment arrived precisely seven holes into his rain-lashed third round, when, swaddled against the elements in a body warmer, galoshes and a beanie, he turned over his tee-shot at the short 16th and watched the ball splash pitifully into the greenside lake. Pained, exhausted, he limped towards the drop zone, his Masters experience having long ceased to be a pleasure, and more some ritualisti