TIGER doesn't walk up the fairways on days as big as these.He is pulled towards each green by the sheer weight of human gravity gathered round it like a forcefield.
From the very back of the grassy knoll behind the third, hopping from foot to foot for some kind of view through bodies packed eight deep, he grows from a dot in the distance and the noise swells with him.
The gallery curves around the natural amphitheatre looking down on the pin. It extends left and right, all the way back to where he's played his second shot from.
People have parked themselves at the front of the bank from early o'clock and committed to hours and hours of nothing purely for moments like this.
Parents have brought kids too little to know what's going on just so they can remind them years from now about the day they were this close to a legend.
As he putts, the blade's barely collided with the ball before some gink in an orange-and-black-striped furry suit - hood, ears and all - shouts: "Get in the hole!"
From behind him, someone barks: "No, you get on a plane!".
As laughter rings round the crowds, another less charitable voice tells the guy to shut up, because "You know nothing about golf".
But that's the thing, this isn't ABOUT golf.
This is about celebrity. This is a mass of men, women and children with about a ten per cent chance of actually seeing the biggest name in golfing history hit a shot, but with zero per cent intention of giving up and following someone less famous just so they can get genuine value for their £65-a-day ticket.
The lucky front row get a clear look at the ball going in the hole.
The rest of us just join in the applause, because it would be rude not to.
Then the marshals come and hold back the ropes so the gladiators can leave the arena.
And you get a super-close-up insight into the true scale of the Tiger phenomenon.
For most pairings, there are maybe a dozen folk inside the ropes. You've got the players, their caddies, a match referee, someone holding the scoreboard, maybe a radio or telly crew and a couple of reporters issued with gold-dust armbands that allow access to the inner sanctum.
As Woods strode up the hill and off that third green, there were another THIRTY-ONE bodies around him. Thirty-one.
A gaggle of burly security guards surrounded him, three TV crews ran ahead of him, sound men with giant aerials sticking out of their backpacks followed on, THEN the scorer and the ref and the caddies and the rest.
If there had been an official poet and a portrait painter tagging along too you wouldn't have batted an eyelid.
And as the hordes followed on to the fourth tee, you were left wondering: Will there ever be a day when Tiger WON'T be the most hunted man on the links?
The thought springs to mind because maybe just 20 minutes earlier, a couple of us had stood all but alone by the side of the 18th fairway and watched first Padraig Harrington and then Sandy Lyle - two wonderful champions - stroll towards the end of their campaign with barely a shout of their names to be heard.
Two-thirds-empty stands. No TV bods, no radio commentator whispering conspiratorially into the mike. Just two guys who used to be big news, going through the motions to pay the bills for another week.
Can you ever imagine that being Tiger? His powers waned, his glory days long gone? His magnetism all rubbed off onto some newer, younger, corporate-logoed buck?
The short answer is: No.
He surely isn't the kind to keep plodding along like a Nicklaus or a Player, wheeled out as relics of a bygone age until finally they hobble into the sunset to one final tidal wave of teary cheers. He won't be a Faldo - half- competitor, half-ambassador and full-time telly pundit once he misses the cut.
My reckoning is that he'll see the day coming when he's no longer a threat to the engraver and he'll be gone.
Because once you've been at the epicentre of this quite unprecedented level of adulation and fascination, anything else would surely be a crushing anti-climax.
Is he as good as he was? Probably not. Does he still produce those couple of rabbit-from-a-hat shots that set him apart from the pack? Very rarely.
But is he still THE box office draw? Yesterday's galleries scream Yes.
For two long, hot days, this tournament had been everything you could wish for in terms of skill, thrills, ecstasy and agony.
Yet it felt like only now - just around 3.30 on Saturday afternoon with the name Woods newly at the top of the leaderboard - was Muirfield truly Open for business. Suddenly, it felt less like the contenders were jockeying for position and more like they were sharpening their elbows to kick for home. Suddenly, you saw ten, 12, more, with a chance of lifting the jug.
Who will it be? Don't ask me, because this one could go right down to the final putt on the final green and possibly beyond into a play-off.
And after Murray, the Lions and more, wouldn't that just cap an incredible summer of sport?
The only other question for those of us outside the ropes is... well, where to watch it all unfold.
See, golf is hellishly hard to follow at ground level. Take that third green yesterday - while Tiger waited to hit his approach, our own Martin Laird was putting as I reached the top of the hill.
When the ball went in, I clapped along with the rest.
It was only back in the media tent that someone told me the poor sod had been holing out for a nine. And that's the dilemma of being at The Open.
You really need to be out there with the stars to feel the tension, hear the pistol-crack of the drive and fully appreciate the grace of the ball's flight.
But then, you also need to be sat in front of the telly to see where the bloody thing lands...
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