When I heard of Tiger’s car accident a few weeks ago I was in the gym. I had just stepped off my treadmill—yes, my treadmill—the one in front of the BBC News screen, and was walking away when out of the corner of my eye I saw the words BREAKING NEWS: TIGER WOODS CAR CRASH. I turned around and ran back hastily pushing people out of my way and giving my usual ahem stare to the woman who was about to get on it and I resumed my workout. Everybody knows. Its mine. And everybody knows not to mess with the lady in the little Nike shorts who sings along out loud to her music with her eyes closed and bobs her head so you don’t know whether she’s running or dancing and if or when she just might fall. But this time, instead of my usual are we human or are we dancers! refrain…all I could say as I stared up at the screen was oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
I don’t come from a very religious family—not religious at all, in fact, but with a professional golfer for a brother, Tiger Woods probably comes closest to something we may call the Lord in our house. Well, our holy love is a little complicated, for it borders on the cardinal sin of our envious hope that “we” will one day replace him…but until the day, if and when it comes, they meet face-to-face in a play-off, we will love him and cherish him as one of our own. (Or, it turns out, until the day he cheats). I don’t think we have ever missed one tournament of his—certainly none of the majors; Tiger is probably single-handedly responsible for the fact that we have a TV in every room in our house, and come to think of it, probably indirectly responsible for my appropriation of the treadmill in front of the news screen. We have sat in the kitchen, night after night, treating ourselves to nine-course dinners of golf. Considering my mother can’t cheer for her own son on the course (and is oh-so-often snootily shown the SILENCE PLEASE board), she lets it all out on Tiger, almost falling out of her chair to “blow” the ball forward when it hesitates on the lip, and then yelping rather orgasmic Yes, Tiger YESes! when it goes in. The rest of us sit there with our mouths full—as if psychosomatically unable to swallow until the ball goes into the hole. (Wow. Golf lingo really lends itself to a par-5-fairway-length list of double—not bogeys—entendres!)
So when I saw those words on the news – just TIGER WOODS CAR CRASH – no details on the where, when, how serious…my heart started beating faster than my 45 minute cardio session could ever get it to. As far as I was concerned, if not the Lord, Tiger was certainly family. So much so, that I defended him to the core when the first “unverified allegations of an affair” were announced as the possible cause of the car crash. “Fucking media!” I ranted—yes, still on the treadmill (see why they stay away?)—of course they’re going to say that, sew a seed with absolutely no reason to, so that you can sell tabloids for months afterwards with “THE TRUE STORY.” Our Tiger would never cheat! But he did. And luckily I wasn’t on the treadmill when this was confirmed for this would certainly have been the moment of that long anticipated fall.
Of all of the men I have known who have cheated—whether on me or someone else—hearing that Tiger did was perhaps one of the most shocking, and has fittingly gained more press coverage than any other tale of infidelity I can think of. Granted, this has something to do with the fact that the media are just rolling in the rhetoric that golf invites (“Tiger in the Woods…deep in the rough…etc”) and the irony his advertising slogans proffer (Accenture: “some opportunities are not to be missed”). But, I’d hasten to add that there is something intrinsically and specifically shocking about Tiger being “in the rough” which has pricked the media’s curiosity for reasons beyond the obvious one that its news that will sell. Bill Clinton cheated and that blew over in a rather dull impeachment, Brad Pitt cheated and it didn’t lose him his suave rep, but Tiger is a whole new ballgame—and that pun is very intended because I think the reason lies in the game, or the ball—as you wish. I mean, the man can keep his eye on a little white ball well enough, and for long enough, to win 14 majors!—one would think he could manage to keep his eye on his boom boom pow wife. But no, clearly even she doesn’t have as many nuances or grooves as a golf ball.
And I don’t buy the whole fame…fortune…fuck-up sequence. Marilyn Monroe, Elvis, Jimi Hendrix, maybe. Tiger no. Not the man who has made billions, a career and a legacy from a totally different “f” word—focus. The game is about getting a little white ball into a little black hole—there ain’t much room in there for anything else, and there is certainly none for forgiveness. No matter how cunning your club or caddy. Currently short of greens to read, Tiger’s caddy has turned to ethics, pulled out his philosophy-wedge and chipped the cheap “Tiger is human, he has made some mistakes” shot. I’d have aimed for a fairer par and just said, “Tiger is a golfer. Its what he does. Chases birdies.”
