In 1997 Bill Clinton was President and I was still getting used to life as married man and the looming enormity of parenthood. Selling fax machines was at its peak, providing a nice living, but cresting before a descent into obsolescence. I still had hair, but my comb was on the same path as fax machines. And if it was early April it meant I was taking Thursday and Friday afternoons off to watch the Masters, sport’s most wonderful event. That year there was buzz; we were going to see if the prodigy from the West coast was for real…. this kid, Tiger.
My expectations were in check, even though I had marveled at his last US Amateur win, when he truly seemed a man among boys. It was crazy how, not only could he torque his body like a cyborg to drive the ball 20-30 yards further than the rest of the field, but he never seemed to miss the testy 6-footer, effortlessly draining golf’s most annoying abasement. Yet and still, I figured he’d be in line with another prodigy, who, while enjoying tour success, was finding Major victories a tougher nut to crack….. Phil Mickelson.
Thursday’s front nine seemed to confirm my expectation; Tiger struggled and made the turn at +4, inauspicious. Moreover, the back nine appeared particularly penal in 1997…. I reckoned Tiger was about to be humbled by Bobby Jones. I got up to get another brew, my choice back then, 22 Oz. Heinekens, and sat back to watch the schooling. But then he birdied 10 and 12! Suddenly his tentative walk to the next tee became the confident and laser focused stride that would define his greatness. When he eagled 15, things started to feel special. This was not Phil Mickelson! He shot 30 on the back nine en route to an eventual rout, which would pretty much be the norm for the next decade. The Tiger Woods era had begun.
Woods’ domination of golf in his prime will never be matched in any other sport. At a time when the pool of young and exceptional golfers was exploding, producing talent from around the globe, Tiger rendered tournaments foregone conclusions. He won so often, by so much, that he threatened to deflate the ballooning interest he had created. In 76 stroke play tournament wins, Woods won by a combined 229 strokes. In the 2000 US Open at Pebble Beach, the rest of the field couldn’t break par. Woods shot 12 under. It’s fair to say, had Tiger never been born, Ernie Els, already a dual US Open winner and pegged for greatness in 1997, may have enjoyed 10 Major victories. As it was, he has the distinction of finishing second to Woods more than any other player, struggling to only two British Open titles after Tiger came on the scene. Mickelson would not break through for his first Masters until well after suffering the ignominy of the “best not to have yet won a major” label. Two great golfers, who suffered the misfortune of being the greatest’s contemporaries.
I remember vividly thinking to myself, as Tiger hoisted perhaps his 12th or 13th Major trophy, that history would begrudge him for a storyline that was too perfect, everything too damn easy. Sure, his focus and commitment were recognized by all, but still. Surely life could not deal pocket aces over and over again, fame and riches beyond imagination, without any struggle at all. Instead of the “greatest,” Woods’ seemingly effortless brilliance and unencumbered success would mar the verdict, donning him the “luckiest” instead. Nobody can dine on nothing but chicken salad to the grave… at some point chicken shit has to be on the menu.
After his fourth Masters title in 2005 Woods began to betray chinks in his armor. The ungodly body torque his swing required began to take a toll. News items of assorted aches and pains became more frequent, as did “fores” off the tee. After he gutted out an 18-hole playoff win for his 14th Major in the US Open at Torrey Pines over Rocco Mediate, it was revealed he had played with a broken leg. For the first time there was vulnerability in the Woods narrative, a hint that the hordes of life’s vagaries may be closing in….. and then it all fell apart.
Since Tiger Woods’ personal peccadillos exploded into relentless tabloid scandal, and his body, no doubt encouraged by unrelenting stress, fully abandoned him like many sponsors, fellow pros, and the PGA establishment, more than a decade has flown by. What seemed idyllic became a sad saga, an unrelenting grind marked by futility. Those of us concerned the story was just too neat and tidy need not have worried, Tiger got his and then some…. and then some more. It took a while for us Tigerphiles to finally begin thinking of throwing in the towel, but one can only watch so many false starts and early withdrawals, missed cuts and ugly double bogies, dejected assurances focused on what went right rather than wrong…. the hacker’s mantra. How foolish we were to doubt him.
What Tiger accomplished Sunday has no equal. Professional golf at the highest level is sport’s most unforgiving competition. At 43 winning the Masters with no health issues is special. When Jack Nicklaus performed the feat at 46 it became golf’s greatest moment…. until Sunday.
Anyone who has had spinal surgery knows the pain and drudgery which follows. Golf at the $5 nassau level suffers greatly when swings produce jabs of discomfort; at the very top it’s a disqualifying distraction. The willingness of Woods to go under the knife four different times, and continually humble himself before peers he used to dominate, speaks to sacrifice that so often underpins true greatness.. Years of struggle to simply not embarrass himself, answering the constant questions from reporters, reworking his swing in line with his faltering body’s limitations, failing again and again, all components of an unrelenting test of character. At some point even those closest to him had to feel they were patronizing him about playing on tour again. Winning the Masters? C’mon. Delusional.
The Masters is unique in that every past champion is technically invited to join the field every year for life. That rule has undergone some unspoken modification as previous winners, well into middle age and long since not competitive, stunk up the joint and actually slowed play looking for lost balls in Augusta azaleas. Just 18 months ago the 2019 champion was far closer to that indignity than any green jacket. Now it’s in his closet and all of us who doubted him recognize the folly of our impatience. Great men do great things…. the greatest do the greatest things. Tiger Woods, the best to ever play any game at any time. BC