HOME | POLITICS | SPORTS | LIFE | SCI/TECH | OPEDS | HELPFUL TIPS
|
 By Steve Dayton Mar. 8, 2006 Attempting to learn golf ended up teaching me how to write instead. If writing is anything like golf, however, I'd better keep on practicing. Forever. I’d like to write about Tiger Woods. In the next few paragraphs, I’m going to employ his nickname “T” as though I’m a personal friend or something crazy like that (I’m not, although I met him once on the Stanford driving range in 1995, a story I plan on writing soon), but I won’t apologize for it, because in a very real sense I DO know this man. If you are a testosterone-driven, red-blooded man of this Earth you know who he is, and I’m not even talking about familiarity with his iconic and majestic physical form. Tiger Woods is competitive male desire INCARNATE, and every one of us dudes is familiar with that: “I’m the best. Take it from me. Go ahead. You can’t do it. That’s because I’m the best.” Or something like that. It’s just a theory, but some ancient, underwater volcano near Thailand must’ve belched a manly, superheated breath of brilliant black magma into the air, whereupon it coalesced into a hunk of hardened obsidian named T. Woods. Tiger Woods is quite simply the most magnificent specimen of manhood I have ever seen walk this PLANET, and I’m disgustingly heterosexual. Also, I’ve played a lot of golf, and I know a lot about it. This man is nothing short of extraordinary in his abilities, and words like “surreal” and “magical” are not wasted when applied to his incredible genius in the amazingly difficult sport of golf: the most pressure-packed, mind-numbing, and frustrating game ever invented in the history of mankind. And you know exactly what I’m talking about, if you’ve ever played it. Plus, returning to my earlier point, not only will my use of his singular character nickname embellish this article with a measure of “coolness,” but by only having to type “T” instead of “Tiger” I will save a bunch of “strokes” on my own game (currently, the keyboard) and will hopefully create a different-sounding piece (weirder) than others you may have read on the greatest golfer – and one of the finest athletes -- in human history. Did you see T this weekend at Doral? He was mad… OH! SO mad! His stunning face, a face which always rivets my attention to the television screen, became almost “mottled” with color and intensity like I’ve never seen before. It was a handsome yet roiling visage as it approached the eighteenth green, with its surface smooth from a recently shaved goatee, the shining face of an other-worldly boy king with skin like dark gold porcelain glazed with highlights of smooth brown. Great actors can stretch and strain their face muscles to enhance visual interest for the camera, and make their blood vessels dilate to create enhanced, visible emotions. T is just a natural at this. Sure, T’s playing golf, but he’s also just playing himself on TV. His role? A world-conquering hero of gigantic proportions. A man on a quest for a brand of greatness that few will ever aspire to again. And not just in golf. The recent Nike Golf commercials have displayed a pleasingly technical theme, with T as a perfectly fitting centerpiece, and his Tiger Woods Learning Center has advertised a clear focus on math and science curriculums. There is way more to this phenom than meets the eye, gentlemen. He is refreshingly intelligent in a world of sound-bite-trained athletes, and simply a delightful and engaging young man if you’ve ever had the pleasure to witness one of his children’s clinics. Stay tuned for Tiger Woods, World Unifier. Plus, he’s just damn HOT. I guess the whole Brokeback/Capote thing hasn’t quite cleared my neurons yet. Someday, someone may unleash his natural, beautiful acting talent onto a movie set, instead of just our TV screens. They tried with Ben Hogan in Follow the Sun, but because Ben probably laughed off the whole idea, they cast Glen Ford to play his role and never quite, let’s say, “captured” the enigmatic greatness of “The Hawk.” The sport of golf is the absolute MEASURE of an athlete, by the way. Take it from someone who has played all of the “manly” sports: golf will kick your white butt, black butt, brown butt, yellow butt, AND your red butt. All but ONE black butt, that is. Well actually, golf kicks T’s butt, too, but… but, but….. but not like it kicks OUR butts. But back to why T was mad on Sunday, he was pissed because he was scrambling for bogey on the Par 4 famous last hole at Doral – The Blue Monster -- in front of throngs of screaming PGA Tour fans. In front of the world, is more like it. T had the tournament completely locked up all day long, and he was simply livid over the fact that he was looking merely human on eighteen, as he dumped the ball unceremoniously from a bad lie into a greenside bunker like a first time club champion who knows he’ll win if he takes less than a snowman (8). It wasn’t about winning it was about how he “looked” while winning. T was embarrassed to win that ugly. That is how good this man is. The saying “I’d rather be lucky than good” simply doesn’t apply to a man at T’s level of mastery. Ben Hogan was the same way, having said “The more I practice, the luckier I get.” Hogan even went so far as to describe a golfing “nightmare” he had where he birdied every hole except the last one. “I was mad as hell,” he remembers awakening. T is a better golfer than “B,” by the way. And more obsessed. The vein-popping intensity he displayed at Doral tells me that T will be a very serious force to be reckoned with in 2006. I bet a Grand Slam will relax those scowling, grinding jaw muscles a bit and allow that singular T smile to dazzle us once again! I read in the book Chasing Tiger that T got a chance to talk on the phone with the legendary Ben Hogan, back in 1997 just before he died. I was on a golf course called Bluebonnet Hills in Austin, Texas, that day when one of my playing partners (and former AA sponsor) informed me of Hogan’s death, which had been a long time in coming at that point. Hogan’s heyday was 1953, when he won the Triple Crown. “I feel the same way, Mr. Hogan,” is one of the things T was supposedly overheard to have said in their conversation that day. It sounds like something he would say to the only other real golfing genius in history. But remember, T had just STARTED playing on the PGA tour in 1997, even though he won his first Masters by 12 shots that year. I’d like to, if I may, finish this piece with the following hypothetical exchange as being the rest of their phone conversation: B: I appreciate your respect, Tiger, but I’ve seen you play and I can’t tell you anything. You are the best putter I’ve ever seen, and you hit it a mile. I never put any emphasis on putting, and you make it look almost fun. That ball of yours always seems to be hunting that damn hole… *T hears a hoarse laugh* T: I learned from your wonderful book, Mr. Hogan. You’ve already taught me a lot. You’ve taught millions of people how to play golf, and you started an entire revolution of computerized swing analysis based on your concept of the swing plane. That glass pane around your neck became a real “pain” in everyone’s neck! *The hoarse laugh is heard again in the earpiece, followed by a brief coughing spell* B: That’s why I just held up my hand at an angle to indicate the swing plane instead of drawing a picture or anything stupid like that, because I could always change the angle real quick if anybody questioned me! There ain’t no correct swing plane, you know that… T: Doesn’t matter, Mr. Hogan. It’s the idea that mattered, and you were the very first. I’ll let you go now, Mr. Hogan, so you can get some rest. I just want to thank you for being a role model for me, and for ultimately enabling me to be here. Golf will never forget you, and I hope some day we can play a few rounds together. B: I was pretty good at 41 years of age in 1953. Let’s play as forty-something’s on that great golf course in the sky, agreed young man? Good as you are, the ‘ole bones begin creaking at that age, you know… T: I know, Mr. Hogan. Some of them are creaking already…. B: Please call me next week if you get a chance, son. T: It would be my pleasure, Sir. ------------ About the author: Steve Dayton writes articles like he hits range balls: high, far-out, and sometimes even straight. Email: stixus_steve@yahoo.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com. Please link to this article rather than copying and pasting it onto your site (which would be unauthorized and illegal). |
||||||
|
|
|||||||
|
