Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Diary Of a Confused Tiger Woods Fan

On the Masters opening round last Thursday, Tiger Woods was poised to win it all--his fifth Masters title. His impressive cruise through the Arnold Palmer Invitational, a Masters tuneup, flashing his old form, showed he was ready, really ready, for the first time since he went haywire on Thanksgiving of 2009, when his enraged wife--now ex-wife--tried to turn his head into a golf ball. I bet on you to finish in the top five. Don't let me down.

Early Thursday morning:
Tiger, Tiger. You can do it, you can do it. At the Palmer Invitational, you showed your putting was finally up to par. And your swing, that swing is a thing of beauty--smooth, no glitches, packed with power. Some of my buddies, those idiots, bet that you wouldn't even make the top ten. One of them bet three grand against you. I told him he had rocks in his head. You're gonna win it all, Tiger, or at least finish in the top five. I just know it. You're back, Tiger, you're back.

After Thursday's first round:
Tiger, Tiger, Tiger. It wasn't brilliant. That birdie-birdie ending,  giving you a 71, putting you four shots back, that's not so bad. Yes, there were some ugly shots, particularly that one blasting into the trees off of No. 18. That one made me shudder. But you're within striking distance. You have the stuff to win it. That guy, that nobody Westwood who's topping the leader board, is just a one-day wonder. I'm not panicking.

Friday night, after round two:
Tiger, Tiger, Tiger. How old are you anyway? Aren't you a little old for a temper tantrum? What's with kicking your nine-iron? What are you, nine years old? Your swing, by the way, sucks. Your shoulders are all wrong, your hips are jerky. Your swing is one big glitch. Clearly doubt has infiltrated your head. Just a few weeks ago, you were a rock. Now you're a mass of jelly, quivering with insecurity. The phone is ringing. It's Phil, I know it. He's the guy who bet the three grand. He's calling to rub it in. I'm not answering.

Saturday night, after round three:
Ugh! It's really foul-tasting. I'm talking about the crow I'm eating, because you Tiger, you bum, did it again. An even-par 72? What the hell is that? How can you go the final 14 holes without a birdie? The old Tiger, who's hiding inside you somewhere, wouldn't do that. At least you didn't play football with your nine-iron today. There's the phone. It's Phil. I'm not answering. Screw you Phil!

Sunday night
Tiger, Tiger, Tiger. Or should I say, you bum, you bum, you bum. What the hell? Finishing tied for 40th, your worst Masters ever. That swing that looked so good at the Palmer, where did it go? You looked like you were swinging with a forty-pound weight on your back. Even you were quoted saying that you don't trust your swing. I thought you'd win. I bet on you to finish in the top five. I'm the idiot.

Tiger, now what? I'm confused. I don't know what to think. Can you fix that swing or can't you? You're not done are you? Well, are you? There's still greatness in there somewhere, I just know it. I'm not going to bet on you again, I don't think so anyway.

Where is your head? Some insiders I know are saying that you're very quietly back womanizing again, keeping it really hush, hush. That's a good sign, since you played your best golf when you were hanging with trollops. What if you turn it around and start winning on a consistent basis again? I could win big too. What do I do? Give up on you or follow you? There's the phone. It's that damn Phil again. He'll be laughing at me like jackal. I'm still not answering.