Bill Lyon: Rory McIlroy, golf's golden boy

And comes now the bagpiper, with that music so mournful, so achingly familiar, so haunting in its melancholy beauty. Has any lyricist ever penned its equal?

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,

Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow,

Yes, I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow . . .

Comes now Rory Boy, freckled of face, curly of hair, determined of jaw, purposeful of stride, eyes set on the far horizon at a goal only he can see.

He is, as they say, The Next Big Thing, at once precocious and poised. A flogger of ludicrously long tee balls, with irons parachuting in from somewhere over the rainbow, and a putter's touch as delicate and deft as a concert pianist - or a safecracker. And trouble? Sand or water, thigh-high rough, two fairways over, the salad bar in the clubhouse, uphill, downhill side hill - no matter, he is an adroit escapist.

And here is the kicker: Rory McIlroy is all of 23. Twenty-three. Some among us have socks older than that.

At 23, you are surprised when every putt doesn't fall. It is a young man's unthinking certitude.

Or, as he said last week after winning back-to-back and three out of four tournaments: "The more you win and the more you pick up trophies, it becomes normal and it feels like this is what you're supposed to do."

There you have it - a young man's sense of his manifest destiny. Powerful mojo.

One who has played with Rory Boy offers this assessment: "The game of golf is in great hands with him, and he's here to stay."

The speaker is none other than Eldrick Woods, a man sparing in his choice of compliments and not given to effusive bursts, but here he is not only endorsing Rory Boy but anointing him as next in the line of succession to the throne.

On the course, the other players like to joke, Tiger is usually reserved to the point of no more conversation than "You're away." But with Rory Boy he is a regular Chatty Cathy, almost as though he is the older brother. Or a favorite uncle.

Or maybe, maybe, he sees what used to be him.

Last week at the BMW Championship, Tiger came to the media tent to perform the requisite autopsy on his round. As he stepped to the podium, he adjusted the microphone.

Up.

"Has Rory been here?" he asked, grinning.

As a matter of fact, he had. After posting another blazing round, too, so take that, Eldrick.

But Tiger's zinger was tinged with affection. With others, he wouldn't have even bothered.

"We just seemed to hit it off," said Rory Boy. "We seem to have a good time. We talk about anything. When you get to play alongside your hero and then compete against him, well, not many people get to do that."

Rory Boy was cheeky enough to playfully land a barb about looking forward to "kicking Tiger's ass" at the Ryder Cup.

The Cup is at Medinah Country Club, outside Chicago. It's length is punishing, and there was a time, and not that long ago, that a long layout would be meat for Tiger. (He won the 1999 PGA there.)

Ah, but Tiger is no longer Top Gun on the tee. He has been overtaken by a gaggle of Young Guns, who with a sneer blow tee balls past him, and none are as jaw-droppingly long as those launched from Rory Boy's thermonuclear driver. (Let it be on the record that Tiger has not exactly been reduced to just a pop gun and has managed to win three times on tour this season, thank you very much.)

The Ryder Cup will be the last week of September, when, as the song laments - "the days dwindle down to a precious few." (Sorry, it's my day for great music.)

And the week before the Ryder is another biggie, the FedEx Cup's Tour Championship, which among other incentives offers $10 million to the winner. What's left over isn't chump change, so there is a boatload of swag waiting to be plucked in the next two weeks, along with, probably, the resolution of who's No. 1.

In the world.

At the moment, Rory Boy is, having shot his last four tournaments in a blistering 54-under par.

And in an idle moment, he let something slip that, like a tin can tied to a cat's tail, is apt to rattle along behind him for a while, a nuisance not easily disposed of. He wondered, out loud, about perhaps representing Britain, and not Ireland, in the next Olympics.

Rory Boy is of the Emerald Isle born, in Holywood in County Down, in Northern Ireland. That makes him, as my grandmother, Maude Murphy, used to say, as Irish as Paddy's pig.

No matter which he chooses, someone is going to take offense. If it's Ireland, he risks angering Britain and if it's Britain he risks alienating Ireland. Either way, it's a deep bunker into which he has, innocently nonetheless, plunged himself.

It will make a testy little up-and-down.