I’m not ready to cheer for Tiger Woods yet. The sense of betrayal is still too raw.

The greatest sportsman of his generation will return to his game’s most revered theatre, Augusta National, to contest The Masters. My overwhelming reaction to the announcement is that he doesn’t deserve to.

The contradiction is I don’t begrudge Woods the right to play golf. When a man makes such a mess of his personal life sometimes all that’s left is to plunge himself into his work.

Golf is a solitary game – a contest between a player and his temperament. If Woods can escape his self-inflicted torment on the fairways then he should.

But it’s the spectacle that shapes as unbefitting. It’s already being billed as the biggest event in the US since the Obama Inauguration. There’s an implied triumphalism in the return.

Of all that can be said of this tawdry affair the thought of attaching the word triumph is most distasteful. Yet if Woods is draped in his fifth green jacket winning at his first tournament since scandal overwhelmed his career such exaltations will doubtless flow.

I fear the context will be misrepresented. There is no redemption to be found on a golf course for Woods. This is not overcoming adversity. Nor fighting back from injustice.

Golf was never to blame for this mess. It was the collateral damage.

Woods exploited his lifestyle and status. He was premeditated in his duplicity.

It has been said Woods never asked for the pedestal on which he was placed. He didn’t cultivate the perfection he was afforded.

What nonsense.

The brand Tiger Woods was more carefully manicured than anything you’ll see on the legendary Augusta layout. The lengths to which his associates went to obscure his seedy double-life betray what was at stake.

This return seems hasty. Even unseemly. Particularly given the tone and content of last month’s apology. An event on which I stand in the minority.

Other than being overly solemn and too stately in its choreography, Woods’ conviction in accepting responsibility was compelling.

While I’m not naive enough to think he wrote the words unassisted he summed up precisely the great affliction of modern sport.

“I knew my actions were wrong. But I convinced myself that normal rules didn’t apply. I never thought about who I was hurting,” he said.

“Instead, I thought only about myself. I thought I could get away with whatever I wanted to. I felt that I had worked hard my entire life and deserved to enjoy all the temptations around me. I felt I was entitled. Thanks to money and fame, I didn’t have far – didn’t have to go far to find them.”

It brought to mind the scene at the climax of The Dark Knight:

Batman: Because you were the best of us! He wanted to prove that even someone as good as you could fall.

Two-Face: [bitter] And he was right.

For me, Woods doesn’t have to answer questions about the specifics of his sexual extravagances. That is a conversation between him and his wife. Only she needs to forgive him on that front. Or otherwise. He owes no debt to sate the voyeurs.

His apology to those who believed in him, in the lie, was required.

Watching Woods at the Australian Masters in November reminded me how pure sport can be.

Given the betrayal taking place at that very moment the bitterness is acutely felt.

So on what grounds could I cheer for him in a fortnight?

To hope for Woods would seem tantamount to excusing him. We can’t just pick up where we left off as if nothing has happened. The hurt can’t be soothed by booming drives and delicate wedges. The signature shots.

I tested this on YouTube. Reliving some of moments etched forever in a sports fan’s imagination complete with the sense of adoration once felt.

It served only as a reminder of what has been lost.

Woods concluded his apology: “I ask you to find room in your hearts to one day believe in me again.”

That day might come. But not yet. Not at The Masters.