Keidel: The Tao Of Tiger
By Jason Keidel
While Tiger Woods struggles just to finish tournaments he used to win before the back nine, experts will point to flawed swings, fairway placement, and poor putting. But Tiger's woeful scores on the course mirror the squalor he created after 72nd hole.
It was a slow drip on his soul, talking to his wife with his right hand while texting his harem with his left. It was the life of privileged bloodlust where matrimony was the entrée while limitless unjust deserts followed with impunity. There's an expiration date on all lies. In essence, his car crash into a tree and his fall from grace was the end, not the beginning. It was the night Tiger became Eldrick.
And if it were aesthetically pleasing to root for him while he posed as perfect, it's perfectly fine to root against him now. "He's been through enough, already!" you scream. Why? Since the drama and trauma were of his making, it is he who determines when it's over.
His apologists will always be glued to his side. And he can quiet the rest of us by winning on the links, which, in today's climate, cloaks all gaffes. Keep waiting on that one.
Tiger's most imposing avatar was his ability to win under pressure. We have since discovered that he's hardly clutch, his greatness clearly commensurate with his spiritual prerogative as a bully.
You marveled at his ability to hit a small ball across the sky. But isn't it far greater and resonant to be a husband and father? He has failed on that front, his first in a yearlong series of significant chokes.
For the first time in his life Woods stands alone, nestled in the synthetic comfort of an entourage, tethered to a tattered legacy that is only measured by the cold math of a scorecard. There was a front-running flavor to his fandom, only interested in the game of golf because he was winning. You can go home now.
You'll point to his No.1 ranking, which is cosmetic in every sense, an amalgam of obscure computations. He is in last place everywhere else. If you measure success in the abstract, in things that glow on television, you will not understand.
But perhaps there is hope for Woods, because his stumbling on the green carpets of his outdoor office means that it matters to him that he destroyed his family. We hope. We hope it's the sin that salvages his life and not the hope that the tornadic media coverage he created will merely evaporate, the paparazzi punching itself out and ready to pick another fight.
There really are no lessons for the proletarian in the Tiger Woods saga, as none of us will know his fame or his shame. The halo indeed slid down to his neck, the result of our deification before the defecation.
If you're a praying man, be sure you kiss your wife before and after you hit your knees tonight, and be sure you ask for the right things in between, remembering that Tiger Woods is probably the loneliest man on the planet.
Feel free to email me: Jakster1@mac.com
