Once growling Tiger reduced to a purr

Augusta Growl! Go-time! Make it happen!

The exhortations flung at Tiger Woods were as daft as they were futile.

Augusta's pleasantly intoxicated patrons hoped that he, of all people, could help tip them into a full-blown stupor, but their idol proved sadly incapable of obliging. The time-honoured certainties around Woods are dissolving.

No longer can he mesmerise a crowd by the audacity of his shot-making. He cannot even, if the latest conjecture over his commercial value is to be trusted, rely on his image to shift shirts and Tiger-patented golf clubs. His assets as an ambassador are toxic and his standing as a force on the course is, on Thursday's evidence, heading south almost as quickly.

Where is the swagger? Where is the preternatural gift for shaping the ball in ways no rival could visualise? His cheerleaders affect shock that Woods has slipped to as low as sixth in the world rankings when, technically, he could barely scrape into the top 60 on recent form. His round of 71 here was no artwork, but no disgrace either. It was remarkable solely for its mundanity.

The "Tiger roar" had all the menace of a purr. His disciples did their best to rouse him, especially when unhappy news filtered through that Ross Fisher was leading the Masters.

"Who's that?" one woman asked, looking askance at the board. "One of those English dudes, I forget," her slovenly husband replied.

More peaceful

At least the world of Woods was a more peaceful place than the maelstrom he encountered 12 months ago. There were no whispers about waitresses and no biplanes trailing banners that asked "Sex addict? Yeah, me too".

On the first tee at 10.49am, there was only the hush of the forest under a cerulean Georgia sky. Absorbing the serenity, he flushed a tee-shot to pierce the swathes of Augusta's pristine first fairway. So far, so promising. Woods' mood lifted instantly, and he strode to his ball in beaming conversation with Graeme McDowell. It was at the green where the old frustrations resurfaced. From 15 feet, he watched his putt graze the hole's left edge for the first in a catalogue of fractional misses. The margins were tiny, but Woods's looks with the putter were not stared down with the dead-eyed confidence of old.