As I write, I’m speeding toward Atlanta, at 29,000 feet in a big Fokker, and right now, I know more about the Atlanta Athletic Club than Tiger Woods because I’ve been there once before, to shoot a feature about Jerry Pate. Okay, so I only saw the last hole, and all I did was simulate peeing on the plaque which commemorates his great second shot in the ’75 U.S. Open. I’ll give you that, but still, it gives me a little more local knowledge than the favorite this week.
I interviewed Tiger last Friday in Orlando, for our PGA preview show, which aired before the third round of the Buick in Flint. I like Flint, because it reminds me of my native Belfast in that you can drift off to sleep at night, lulled by the gentle sound of automatic gunfire in the distance. Ah, the memories.
The thing is, though, I wasn’t meant to be in Orlando last Friday, at least not until Tiger withdrew from the Buick and decided to bunk up at home instead. The next thing you know, the golf world is turned upside down.
I was supposed to interview the lad on Wednesday, and work the cable shows on Thursday and Friday, which worked perfectly, as I had to do a charity day on Tuesday in Sarnia, Canada just over the border from Detroit. I was working in a decidedly logical and linear fashion, so I should have known something was about to wad up my shorts.
Tiger withdraws, and the next thing I know I’m on another miserable Fokker to Orlando. McCord, who had planned to spend a couple of days wearing tight leather shorts and yodeling magnificently outside his mobile home in Vail, is buried for two bonus days under the lip of the ashtray in his non-smoking room at the lovely Holiday Inn Flint.
It’s the chaos theory at work. A butterfly flaps its wings in the equatorial jungle of Zaire, an elderly lady breaks wind in Scunthorpe, England, and a small boy in Floydata, Texas, runs out of puff in the middle of a trombone solo. It’s all connected, trust me.
Anyway, that’s my side of this sordid little tale, but here’s a day in the life of the defending champion. Last Friday, he started his day with a bowl of Fruit ‘n’ Fibre, and a short drive in a Porsche 911 Turbo, from his house to the clubhouse at Isleworth.
Third gear was flirted with only briefly, and he was alone, so no underwear was personalized. There, he met with an overweight, hungover, and extremely flatulent announcer who asked him a dozen questions, all of which he answered correctly.
In the adjoining room, there were a number of people who spent a not inconsiderable time setting up three large tables with a vast quantity of high-quality photos of Woods and enough flags to identify every asteroid in our galaxy as a colony of planet Major.
After I got done with him, he signed two thousand items with a pen that filmed his actual hand, in the process of writing his actual signature. Then, he hit balls for the rest of the day and went home in the aforementioned four-wheeled mode of vehicular transport. I don’t know what he did when he got there, because we’re not that close, but I will tell you this — whatever it was, I guarantee it wasn’t human.
He’s an alien, I’m telling you. I know you’ve heard me say it before, but if he’s human, then where is the equivalent female? Ha! Got you all there.
I’m starting to worry a little about David Duval, too. When he broke out of the crowd at the British Open and took off those re-entry shields, or whatever they are, he looked like that blind guy in Star Trek, you know, the one that wears the air filter on his head.
Don’t say you weren’t warned. It’s all part of an elaborate plan to take over the planet, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say McCord might be involved, too. Watch closely, it could be the start of something big