It was a tragic shot, a perfectly launched 70-yard pitch that nearly landed in the cup for an eagle on the par-5 15th hole at Augusta National but instead bounced off the flagstick and into the water hazard that fronts the green. Tiger Woods looked away in disgust, his chances of a fifth Masters green jacket dimmed by golf’s cruelty on a course where he has more often crafted some of the game’s sweetest magic.

When the world’s No. 1 ranked golfer walked off the course during the second round of the Honda Classic March 1, critics pounced. Rory McIlroy had faced fevered international scrutiny before, especially after his final round collapse at the Masters in 2011. But this was different. Headlines dubbed him “petulant” and mocked his supposed toothache as “teething,” a not-so-veiled charge of immaturity.

In the run-up to the 2004 NBA draft, Dwight Howard, who would be selected first overall by the Orlando Magic, spoke of his intent to alter the NBA’s culture and reputation by way of personal evangelism. He imagined a league run “by the standards of God.” But within three years, it appeared the culture of the NBA had affected Howard more than the other way around. The superstar athlete fathered a child out of wedlock with Magic dance team member Royce Reed.

In 1927, Babe Ruth played hardball, demanding a contract that would pay him at least six figures. New York’s Daily Mirror speculated that any such deal would only stretch over a single season, because “the Yanks found out from past experience that Babe doesn’t do his best stuff when protected by a long-term contract.” The paper got it wrong—on two counts: Ruth got his money, inking with the Yankees for $210,000 over three years; and the team got production, to the tune of 60 home runs the first year and eye-popping slugging for many seasons thereafter.

Football is a dangerous game—too dangerous, say increasing numbers of commentators and former players. Longtime Dallas Cowboys quarterback Troy Aikman, whose Hall-of-Fame career was cut short by a rash of concussions, has suggested he would not encourage any son of his to play such a violent game. And last year, economists and sports prognosticators Tyler Cowen and Kevin Grier imagined a scenario in which football could fall into the cultural scrap heap due to public outcry over serious head injuries.

In a day of college football cover-ups, secret mistresses for a golfing superstar, and stubborn denials of steroid use among baseball’s best, the prospect of confession from one of the biggest names in sports might seem a welcome reprieve—a refreshing note of truth amid a chorus of lies. But news of Lance Armstrong’s admission of guilt received no such welcome. After a decade of insisting on his innocence with such brazen vigor as to sue his accusers, the disgraced cyclist finally acknowledged that reports of his doping are true. His confession met mostly scorn.

After three years of declines, attendance figures for NFL football games have climbed for the second consecutive season. Hand-wringing over high ticket prices and the watch-from-home appeal brought by high definition televisions have given way to high fives for league executives as they watch both attendance and television ratings surge.