I don’t know, some people are never happy. Even Tiger Woods isn’t good enough, what with all the squealing in the rags about his occasional outburst of profanity, and whacking of the velvet sward with his implements. “What kind of a role model is that?” I hear them whine derisively.
Well, he’s a pretty darned good one as far as I am concerned, even if it might seem that my schnozzle is a little brownish. I don’t care. I’ve seen enough throat slashing, end-zone gloating, and coach choking to last me a lifetime, and no self-righteous, hypocritical, toad-like person is going to tell me that what we see when Tiger is in full swing isn’t worth the price of a few four-letter words. In fact, I think that anyone who can get through 18 holes of golf without yelling at the Almighty, or spitting out the occasional fornicatory verb, should take up a sport where they are isolated from the rest of us normal human beings. Like yachting. Yes, yachting would be great. And I hope you get boarded by a foul-mouthed gang of horny, one-legged pirates, and jolly well rodgered.
While I’m off on a rant, I didn’t like the flak that the golden child had to take over his well-publicized decision not to attend Payne Stewart’s memorial service at Pebble Beach. So he was playing a practice round. Big deal. It seemed to me that everyone who commented on his absence missed the point entirely — that if it had been a service for anyone other than Payne Stewart, one of Tiger’s partners that morning, would probably have been Payne Stewart. It was the U.S. Open, and the smart player knows you must do everything within your power to gain an advantage. As I recall, his plan kind of fell together. Also, Payne was one of the few players who, over 18 holes, could have talked and played his way into Tiger’s wallet.
So, dear readers, forgive me my little soap box soliloquy, for I think that after the passing of time, Tiger will be remembered not for what he said, but for what he did. I would have no problem if any of my sons turned out to be just like him. If one of them does, and he is leading a major championship by 12 after three rounds, I will be sitting in my bath chair, cursing like a fishwife if the little bugger hooks one off the last tee into the Pacific.