Brooks Koepka was upstairs in the private bar of a waterfront restaurant in Jupiter, Florida, describing a moment from the Masters last April when he literally stared down Tiger Woods. This was the Masters, if you avoid news of golf or sports or polarizing human redemption, that Tiger ultimately won, his first major championship in 11 years, and his first since his life and the game of golf were divided into Before and After (the affairs, the revelations, the injuries, the DUI arrest, Mac Daddy Santa, et cetera, et cetera). It was an extraordinary day in golf, and midway through the final round, there were still a number of players in contention, including Brooks Koepka, who had won three of the previous seven majors he'd played in.

This aspect of Koepka's success is unprecedented, especially for a pro who remains largely unknown outside the game. A 29-year-old from Florida, Koepka is built more like a baseball player than a golfer and is known for making people aware that he wishes he could've been the best in just about any other sport. He never dominated as a junior (like Rory McIlroy), or as a college player (like Phil Mickelson), or even as a young professional (like Jordan Spieth). In fact, when Koepka left Florida State in 2012, he didn't even qualify for the PGA Tour, instead playing the second-tier tour in Europe—sort of like going undrafted in basketball and spending a season in Greece. But quietly, confidently, with almost Terminator-like strength and single-mindedness, he had, by last April, forged himself into the most dominant player in the world. And here he was again, in contention on Sunday at a major, looking to spoil the Tiger Woods comeback story.

As both played through Amen Corner, the dramatic stretch of Augusta National where the 11th green, 13th tee, and entirety of the par-3 12th are in close proximity, Koepka was watching Woods over his shoulder and imagining Woods watching him. “I know it doesn't look like it,” Brooks said, acknowledging his reputation as an unthinking, unfeeling killer, “but my mind is turning the entire time I'm out there.” Processing all variables, tuning in to every other player on the course, a sponge for inputs. He hears everything you say about him on TV. He hears every little comment you make about his swing and his score and his body and his girlfriend when you're watching him live behind the ropes. He also seems to see every shot that any player within his vicinity hits, reading their reaction, squeezing what he can from their body language. “It's part of why I don't show emotion,” he said. “It gives the other guy an advantage.”

And so there they were, Brooks on the 12th tee, Tiger on the 11th green. As Koepka stood over his ball, the wind swirling in the treetops, he backed off his shot once. Then he flared a little 9-iron up into the breeze and watched his ball drop sharply out of the sky like a shot bird, landing in the creek that guards the green. It was a shocking error, and yet in his body language, on his face, there was…nothing. With a single mistake, Koepka had effectively ended his bid for a first green jacket. But instead of grimacing, he handed his club back to his caddie and yanked his sleeve routinely, as though he'd done precisely what he'd intended to do.

“My theory is if you don't show them anything visually, they can only go off one of their senses: sound,” he explained. “How did the ball sound when it came off? They don't know if I hit it a hundred percent or 90 percent. And they've gotta judge it by the strike.” But if he starts cursing or sulking, Tiger will know it was the shot, not the tricky wind, that foiled him—and calibrate his own approach to No. 12 accordingly. “And so I didn't have any reaction. I just handed it right back to my caddie. And it might've confused him.”