A day they came to see if the man could be The Man again...
They were 14 rows deep in the gallery, eight on one side, six on the other. There were five marshals, wrestling with rope, and several baseball-hatted G4 security men, sweating profusely.
A local sheriff marched through, perspiring through his regulation white shirt, too. even for Augusta in April it was unseasonably warm: 89, according to the Weather Channel. There was speculation it would be the hottest Masters on record.
The senior G4 guy was eyeing the crowd for kids. When he spied one, he got him to the front, then asked if he would like to watch the players hit from the first tee itself. The boy nodded enthusiastically. It was approaching 1.48pm eastern Time. Tiger o’clock.
The 14 rows fidgeted expectantly. All this to watch a man walk the 10 strides from the putting green to strike his first shot. he breezed through, to applause, to cheers and the odd whoop, to the love of the common people. he nodded in appreciation once, mouthed a noiseless thank you, smiled a tight anti-smile.
And then he was gone. Swallowed up as the ropes dropped and the
“Tiger might have played the shot of the day”
crowd fell in behind him. Will he, won’t he? Could he, couldn’t he? They had seen the man, but would they ever see The Man? he was coming here with a new game, and a new mindset, but was this a new Tiger?
No. Not a new Tiger like the old Tiger anyway. Too much, too soon. he was better than the Tiger that departed Torrey Pines in February, with fears for his long-term future. Better than the Tiger that shot 82 at the Waste Management Phoenix Open in January.
But he was still the 111th ranked golfer in the world. A bit erratic, a bit brilliant, a bit rusty, a bit fallible. And, fleetingly, a bit marvellous too.
he may have played the shot of the day to the par-four seventh. Oh, boy, it was beautiful. he was behind a tree, left of the fairway, barely in sight of the green. he took a giant hit, dug it out but with such power and ferocity. The crowd lost the flight, the cameraman too, but Woods didn’t.
he skipped and peered around the forestry, as it appeared — dropping out of the sky, on to the green to a Sunday afternoon reception. Momentarily it was 1997 all over again. And then it was 2015 again and he left his 25-footer short. Par.
And that is Tiger’s problem. he’s Al Pacino in Carlito’s Way. every time he tries to get out, they pull him back in. The creaks, the chunks, the odd crisis of confidence that just wasn’t there before. he starts to get going, he works his ass off, but it is hard.
he three-putted the first, birdied the second. hit a tree off the tee on the third, but got a lucky kick on to the fairway. Found a bunker, then missed the green on the par-three fourth, played a quite stunning second from a poor fairway lie on the fifth. It was the golf of a competitor still battling against the years, and the aches of a creaking back and — whisper it — maybe the yips too.
That he was merely one over the par at the turn is testament to his cussedness, as much as his talent. he is refusing to go quietly, but we see his pain. On the sixth, another par three, Woods missed the green again. he looked more than just irritated, he looked worn down, tired, fed up with a sport he once held on a string. he no doubt remembers the old Tiger, too. how he must miss that guy.
he walked to the ball, perched at the top of a small incline to the right of the green. And he putted it. Rolled it down the slope, got it near enough. Settled. But, even so, it was a tell. The best poker players don’t have tells and Tiger likes Las Vegas as much as any high roller. But he saw his hand and blinked.
Sure, it was still his gallery, still 10, 12 deep around the greens. Still in awe. Still ready to applaud even the tiniest glimmer. But they knew it, too. This was Tiger bluffing.
Rewind through a decade and there would have been as much chance of Tiger taking a snooker cue from that position as a putter. he would have conjured something small and miraculous with a short iron, made the ball pitch and stop almost at his command, shown the mastery of a charmer with a mesmerised snake.
Putting from off the green? That was for the old guys and the alsorans, those without the bravery or the genius to make the ball obey.
he sunk the routine par putt, a solid up and down. Sure, they’re part of the game, too. every pro relies on them, even the all-time greats. But he was coming to need them, more and more.
At the 11th, too. he missed the green right, left himself a rascal of a chip, recovered just like old times.
even so, that wasn’t what old Tiger was about. The sizeable gallery is writing cheques the man in the arena can no longer cash. Tiger was all about that shot on the seventh and plenty like it. That is why they rush to see him. That is why they rush still when he has played his shot, no matter the needs of his patient partners. Tiger hits and off they go to see Tiger hit again.
But Tiger is hitting more and more. Not the 82 times around Phoenix maybe, but he hit it too many times at Augusta yesterday.
At the 12th, for instance, where he found the water, like a sap, staring forlornly at the little ripples, utterly human. he had the worst of the conditions yesterday with a cooling breeze, but it was no hardship for many of the others out there, including Jordan Spieth who took a fair swing at the lowest score ever recorded at the Masters.
Justin Rose earlier tore up the course and came in five under par, Tom Watson is now the oldest competitor to shoot a sub-par round here, at 65. Tiger scrapped for a second birdie at the eighth, having ended up taking relief from a spectator stand — then struck his tee shot at the ninth so far right, scouts disappeared into woodland in search of it. The ball was located in the heart of the fairway; but unfortunately the first fairway.
Woods remained frozen at the bottom of his follow through, and let the club fall from his hands. he wasn’t about to surrender at his 20th Masters, but this truly was the age- old definition of a good walk ruined.
he struck his second shot right, and took a wild swipe of anger at the divot he had left, missing it. Out of respect to the famous turf, one presumes, although at that precise moment, it was hard to say.