A hero in the home of golf, his body now weakened, a broken old legend limping on to the 18th. Despite it all, I believed in Tiger.. but I fear it’s all over
“EVERYTHING HAS LED TO THIS”, the sign behind the Open grandstand said.
What could have read like some sort of “wine o’clock” cushion took on an extra resonance as I watched Tiger Woods arrive at the 18th tee at St Andrews on Friday afternoon. The words made me think of all sorts of things: character as destiny, the lost childhood, the mental and physical toll and the incredible cost of building the GOAT: the Greatest Of All Time.
On the 18th tee, Tiger detached himself from his group and you could see him taking a moment to drink it all in: the North Sea sparkling, the granite brickwork and steeples of the town, and the vast, vast crowds that lined the roads. I wondered if he felt the lump in his throat as keenly as I felt the one in mine. If he felt the knowledge that – as he approaches 50, his body weakened from the incredible punishment he’s put it through – this might truly be the last time. By the time he was halfway down the fairway, you didn’t need to wonder any more: as the crowd broke into roaring, tears streamed down Tiger’s face.
Over the years, Tiger’s denials about the state of his game have sometimes been as powerful as his game itself. “I hit it pretty good out there,” he’d say, after carding an 81. “I’m not far away from where I want to be,” he’d say, before withdrawing from the tournament the next day.
In fact, there’s possibly only been one person with more belief in Tiger than himself: me. I’ve routinely defended him during his periodic slumps. When he rebuilt his swing in 2003 and 2004, I said: “He’ll be back.” And he was, heading into his greatest streak ever: winning the Masters, the PGA and two Opens in an 18-month period, one of them at St Andrews, a course Tiger came to love like no other. “The best… the greatest test of golf,” he’ss said.
Even afterfter his spectacular meltdownn in 2009, when the worldd learned of his infidelitieses and the prescriptiontion meds and all the surgeryery that followed with his knee and back problems,s, I said: “He’ll be back.” And, even though itt took him 10 years, there he was, defyingying all the odds, to win the Masters for a record fifthfth time in 2019.019.
And now,ow, I fear, it is all over. Whichich is why watchingg Tiger’s return too
St Andrews this wweek has been such a bittersweetbitters experience. And I say “bittersweet” very deliberately. d
Not “ppainful” or “excexcruciating” or any of tthe other adjectivesadj golf writerswr were using to describe W Woods’s performancep on ThursdayTh and Friday,F when he stumbledst his way to nine over par anda a flight home beforebe the weekend.we It’s bittersweet because it doesn’t matter what Tiger does now, the incredible joy he gave us in his prime is almost worth what we’re seeing today.
My son Robin only really got into golf in his teens, around the time Tiger entered his decline. “What was it like?” he’ll ask me, “watching him back then?” It was unreal, son. I remember watching him win his first major, the Masters, by 12 strokes in the spring of 1997, with you on my knee. You’d just turned one. He played with such ferocity and passion, you almost felt sorry for the guys trying to face him down. You sometimes hear younger golf pros saying: “I wish I’d had the chance to play against Tiger in his prime.” Mate, trust me, no you don’t. You really don’t. Forget one-in-ageneration, you only get one Tiger in a century. Maybe not even that. How incredibly lucky I was to be born at the right time to get a front-row seat.
There’s another reason, I think, that Tiger loves playing St Andrews. He knows that the Scots know their golf. He knows they don’t coo and whistle over slightly pushed drives and thinned irons. That they reserve their real appreciation for the purest of golf shots. And look at the kind of golfers who have a special place in the heart of Scotland: Bobby Jones. Arnold Palmer. Seve. Tiger. Every
one of them a guy who played right out of the centre of his being, who hit every shot as if it were his last, who clung to Arnold’s famous phrase: “If I can see it, I can hit it. If I can hit it, I can hole it.”
These are the golfers we love to watch, here in the home of the sport. How it must hurt to not be able to turn it on at will for us any more. And Tiger knows it. “These guys,” he said, meaning the fans at St Andrews, “they understand.”
Then you look at the players Woods is leaving behind him, the new crop of stars. Scottie
Scheffler, the current world number one, is a fine golfer, no doubt about it. But he’s 25 going on 45. Frowning into his yardage book, he looks more like a management accountant scrutinising a balance sheet than a passionate athlete. This is the reason the crowds at St Andrews still scream for Tiger. Even though he’s now fighting to make cuts rather than win tournaments, he still reminds them of the possibility of greatness.
It is the same reason Top Gun: Maverick has just surpassed Titanic as the highest-grossing movie of all time. People are not flocking to see it in record numbers because of the jets and the pyrotechnics but because art allows them to experience a wish fulfilment exercise that is cruelly denied all of us in life…
The broken old guy gets another shot. And gets to win again.
Life, as we know, is not like the movies. And sport does not indulge sentimentality. After his round, Tiger acknowledged that, by the time the Open returns to St Andrews again in 2030, he will no longer be able to compete. That walk down the 18th on Friday afternoon was goodbye after all.
Fare thee well, Tiger. You burned so bright. We were lucky to be there with you.
You only get one Tiger in a century, maybe not even that