There were no real surprises in the NBA playoffs either, unless you count the Lakers’ flirtation with elimination against Sacramento on the way to a three-peat. Nor did the Stanley Cup shock: Detroit confirmed its status as Hockeytown, U.S.A. And it sure looks like the Yankees are grinding and buying their inexorable way to a fourth World Series title in the past five years, a dynasty of historic proportions but for one rare Mariano Rivera blown save. The cycling press is so desperate to find drama in this year’s Tour de France that they go wild when Lance Armstrong finishes second in a time trial. Yet no one doubts that Lance will be wearing the yellow jersey. And because it isn’t an Olympic year, nobody in America is likely to have noticed that Marion Jones never ever loses a race.

Which bring us to the supposed high drama of Thursday’s British Open. Tiger Woods may talk all he wants about how the only person he ever plays against is himself. But as that becomes literally true, these majors become a far less enticing entertainment. No matter how historic his accomplishments (and they are epic) if Tiger rolls into this weekend with a three-stroke or bigger lead, I’m going to surf the tube for a little bass fishing or perhaps even a replay of baseball’s All-Star Game. There’s a lot of talk about how Muirfeld isn’t quite the Tiger gimme that Augusta and Bethpage Black were. It’s shorter than most “major” courses, so other contenders won’t require a driver and a five-iron just to reach the fairway. But that’s likely to prove little more than a footnote. These days, every course is designed perfectly for Tiger’s game and the Phils, Davids, Ernies and Sergios are all just pretenders.

I don’t blame Tiger for this sorry state of affairs. Indeed I revere his competitive mindset, the most singular in sports today. But I just don’t particularly enjoy watching a golf major with all the suspense of the Killer Kowalski wrestling matches of my youth. At least with a Harlem Globetrotters game there’s “Sweeet Georgia Brown” and a few laughs. (I’m a sucker for when they throw the shredded paper on the fan who thinks he’s about to be doused with a bucket of water.)

But this drama drought is hardly golf’s problem alone. Virtually all the suspense in sports seems to have disappeared overnight. Looking forward to tennis’ U.S. Open? Pray tell me exactly who is going to spare us another Williams-sisters final. While the ladies put on a jolly good show at Wimbledon, this sister rivalry just isn’t the stuff of, say, Connors-McEnroe. It’s sad when the most suspense one can unearth, so to speak, on the sports pages is about whether Ted Williams will wind up on ice or as food for the fishies.

Suspense can’t be overrated. Look how well it has worked for the NFL in recent years. There’s a reason that the Patriots’ Super Bowl season is NFL Film’s biggest-selling video in history, and it’s more than just Tom Brady’s cover-boy looks. Fans were enchanted by a fairy tale that, right down to the final seconds, didn’t seem preordained-or even possible. Even the prospect of a far less charming outcome, as long as it’s surprising, has significant allure. Everyone knew Mike Tyson was hopelessly overmatched against Lennox Lewis. But Tyson sold the fight with an “I am a madman capable of anything” act (or, sadly, nonact). And the fans popped big bucks to see what atrocity that might turn out to be. Remarkably it proved only to be sucking up to Lewis and begging for a rematch. And, still, we waited breathlessly until that end.

I wouldn’t think of asking Ernie Els to emote just a wee bit. Or Sergio Garcia to wield his golf club with any feigned menace. Or David Duval to glower at Tiger any more than he already glowers at the world. Or Phil Mickelson to threaten to eat Tiger’s future children. I just want one of them, or indeed anyone (my personal preference would be Jean Van de Velde), to stride down that back nine Sunday neck-and-neck with Tiger, thus breathing a little vitality into this British Open, the current humdrum sports scene and, most important of all, my life.