This was supposed to be the year Tiger Woods made his move on history, the run which would put him within spitting distance of overtaking Jack. It was all laid out for him. Augusta. Pebble Beach. St. Andrews. All old-home courses for Tiger. All old favorites. Imagine! He could be there in one fell swoop. Spitting distance.
Eighteen, here we come. It was destiny, as good as done.
But then came that Thanksgiving weekend.
And now this.
Woods said yesterday in Ireland that he would be flying all the way back home in order to prepare for next week’s British Open. Why put his aging body through yet another transatlantic flight? Why not just jump a puddle to Scotland? Why not get in some links golf? Is this how one prepares for a major championship? Not playing the Old Course, but . . . in Florida?
You can’t tell me this was in the original plan.
The Associated Press called Woods’ responses to questions “staccato.”
“I need to get home,” he said. Silence. That’s all.
Why? he was asked.
“See my kids,” he said.
And there it is.
The fable goes that when the cub was just a kid, his father Earl would jingle change in his pocket as Tiger was in his backswing or as he stood over a putt. It helped build his otherworldly focus and concentration, the story goes. It helped give him the ability to block out everything else.
(Interesting, considering how legendarily thin-skinned he would become about on-course distractions as an adult. But it is a good story.)
Who knows what noises Woods hears jangling in his ears now.
And these are real. This isn’t loose change, or a camera click or a cough. These can’t be silenced with a dirty look from the marshal. This isn’t something Stevie can chase away.
Flying back across the Atlantic with the Open Championship next week?
This was supposed to have been the great run, Augusta, Pebble Beach, St. Andrews. This would be the year in which he gobbled majors in bunches. The year in which he put his breath on Jack’s neck.
And then it begins to dawn on us: No. The reality is, this could be a lost season. This could be an opportunity forever left on the table, a destiny shattered like his SUV’s broken glass. This might have been a chance he’ll never get back.
Time gets short on everyone. Even Tiger Woods. This might be his last, best chance. And perhaps that’s why he’s flying back to Florida.
We’ve all been thinking about history. But yesterday, it sounded like Woods was thinking about his legacy. No, not his shot at 18 majors. Not his record. Not his number of wins.
His legacy.
Why fly across an ocean and back with the British Open just days away?
“See my kids,” he said. That’s all.
And I am rooting for him, in this. Not on the golf course, no. I’d like to see someone else be successful, see a new face reach greatness. He’s still not very likable. I’m still icked out by his actions. I don’t care if the guy never wins again.
And he may not, at least this season. You never know. Time gets short on everyone, even Tiger Woods. You never know when you’ve missed your last, best chance.
And so I’m rooting for him, in this. I hope his trip home goes well. I hope he can become the kind of man he knows those kids need him to be. Those kids deserve it. All kids do.
It’s starting to dawn on us. Augusta. Pebble Beach. St. Andrews. And yet, the great run may not happen. This may just be how it goes.
And still, he turns around and flies home.
We were hoping to see history. But he may be finally thinking of his legacy. His real one. The one that counts.
This probably isn’t any way to get ready to win a major, flying back and forth on flights that are brutal, even when you travel the way that Tiger Woods does. But that doesn’t matter. What does?
Staccato: “See my kids.”
I’m rooting for him, on this trip home. This may or may not be a lost season. But hopefully by the end of it, all is not lost.
The loose-change trick no longer works, Earl. It turns out Tiger really does hear things on his backswing. It turns out Tiger can no longer block it all out.
That’s good.
