It isn’t hard to spot the potential biggest liability of “The Masters Wait,” Amazon Prime’s new documentary on the inside story of Rory McIlroy’s stirring Grand Slam victory at Augusta National last April.

It’s right there in the credits and paragraph one of the doc’s press release: Firethorn Productions.

Firethorn, a nod to Augusta National’s famed par-5 15th hole, is the name of Rory McIlroy’s production shop, which McIlroy’s team launched to produce content around the five-time major winner. McIlroy is not the first athlete to create a production company. He’s not even the first golfer to do so — Rickie Fowler started his own studio in 2022, following a slew of other famous athletes (LeBron James, Steph Curry, Peyton Manning) seeking to own a piece of their own likenesses and narratives.

For athletes, the benefit of a media apparatus is multifold — launching new TV shows, amplifying their brands, creating a post-career career — but in the case of documentary filmmaking, the goal is usually singular: editorial control.

The logic is simple. There’s tremendous upside to creating a celebrity documentary: Money to be made from streaming companies, networks and sponsors, fame to be accrued from fans, influence to be generated from telling your story. But there’s also tremendous risk: If you say something the wrong way, or if your story isn’t quite as squeaky clean as it appears, your moment in the sun could quickly turn into reputational suicide, with several weeks of roasting on the coals of the internet.

For the celebrities at the center of these films, editorial control is the skeleton key. If you’d like to make a documentary about, say, John Stamos — that’s fine! Just give him the opportunity to tell you what to include and what to leave out; that way he can ensure his reputation remains intact. In return, the streaming company or network will receive all the access they need to execute the vision for the film, which in many cases would be impossible (or unprofitable) without the subject’s inclusion.

The liability here is that celebrities (and their handlers) often have the risk tolerance of hydrogen-bomb technicians, unwilling to let anything that might encroach within 100 miles of “interesting” into the final edit of the film. This can lead to stories that are bleached of essential texture and subtlety, and present somewhere between uninteresting and unbelievable.

This is the result I feared when I heard McIlroy’s company was involved in the production of “The Masters Wait,” which will begin streaming on Amazon Prime on March 30. I worried the greatest sporting moment I have witnessed in the flesh would be reduced to a story that felt flat and preordained. That it would not have any of the nausea, horror and disbelief that accompanied the experience of watching it live. That McIlroy’s approval of the story meant it would be, in some essential way, diminished.

But I’d made one crucial error in my accounting: the sensibility of the show’s star.

In “The Masters Wait,” McIlroy is jarringly self-effacing and bracingly honest. In his interviews, which were shot over several sessions with director Drea Cooper, McIlroy is not whitewashed or particularly protective of his image. He candidly addresses the lows of his major drought, acknowledging he came to “resent” the majors for their role in the sport. He speaks about his previous major failures with painful specificity, admitting that some of the residual anguish from his 2011 Masters collapse probably still lives in his subconscious. He even shares a story of a previously unreported 2025 Masters Sunday standoff with Bryson DeChambeau that makes both golfers look slightly petty.

“For us, at the outset, it was very much about very clearly setting some ground rules and understanding where everybody sits,” Cooper, the director, told me. “To his credit, we made this film independently. Rory’s contribution was very much about helping with access, helping connect us to others.”

To those ends, McIlroy worked the phones — setting up shoots in Northern Ireland and Augusta with film crews in late 2025, and convincing three famously media-shy characters to participate: Augusta National and Rory’s doting parents, Gerry and Rosie. The latter two voices are the strength of the film.

“After we did Rory’s first big sit‑down interview,” Cooper said, “he turned to me and our producer and said, ‘Look, that was a great conversation. And, you know, I really think this film could benefit from hearing from my mom and dad. So let me see if I can work on them.’ And he did.”

Even McIlroy’s persuasiveness has its limits, though, and caddie Harry Diamond is a glaring absence. Diamond, who is one of McIlroy’s oldest friends, is famously media shy, and turned down his boss’s request for an interview. Diamond’s recounting of one of the most memorable rounds of the 21st century is reduced in the film to CBS’s on-course microphones.

“We tried our hardest. We thought we came close, and then we didn’t, and then we tried again and again,” Cooper said of Diamond. “To Rory’s credit, he asked. But it’s not what Harry does.”

In the end, McIlroy’s vulnerability is the documentary’s biggest (and most pleasant) surprise. And yet, strangely, McIlroy himself also represents the film’s biggest challenge — which is that his story isn’t yet complete.

Yes, McIlroy’s Masters triumph was the culmination of his career to this point. It would be negligent to tell the tale of that Sunday without touching on all the history that preempted it, from McIlroy’s boyhood dreams through to his nightmares of the last decade and a half. But McIlroy’s career didn’t end on that magical Sunday — and he was understandably weary about the documentary being framed through that lens.

“I was probably a little reluctant at the start because I was like, you know, I’m still not finished with my career, and maybe I want to do a documentary at the end,” McIlroy said. “But I talked to a few people who have been through that process, different athletes, and I think the common theme was: It doesn’t have to be a tell-all of your whole life; it can just be a snapshot in time of this certain moment.”

That thinking drives the narrative arc of the story, but it is also explains why the film feels incomplete.

“It’s a moment in time,” McIlroy said. “It’s a snapshot. It’s not about my entire life. It’s just about my journey to try to complete the Slam. Again, I think it would have been a miss to not document it in some way, and we felt like this was the best approach.”

For those seeking a closer look at the golfer and tournament that tilted the sport on its head, “The Masters Wait” is a thorough and excellent account of that history. But if you want to know how the win really felt, and why it felt that way, a 90-minute look-back does not suffice.

Maybe some day the time will come to capture the entirety of the Rory McIlroy’s story in all its gory verisimilitude. Should that day come, one can only hope a similarly open-minded star arrives to the set to capture it.