The First: Greeters
Hey Tiger. Tiger. Tiger, Tiger, Tiger. TI-GER! The meeters and greeters are here to keep the press and the people away from the Messiah. The meeters and greeters descend on the Messiah like a mob. Great job, meeters. Nice going, greeters.
In Muirfield village, on this gentle Wednesday morning, men in blazers and sports shirts watch the scrum and shake their heads, stirring up a cocktail of mixed emotions.
"It's just great to see him. Great, but these people have gone and ruined our golf tournament." The member waves a hand at the noisy horde pressing against the ropes like sweaty teenyboppers. They bring Muirfield honour. They bring Muirfield chaos.
Tiger. Tiger. Tiger. Dammit. Look over here, Tiger.
Tiger is emerging from the van which has beamed him from his private plane out in Port Columbus Airport to this little scene yards away from the bronze statue of Jack Nicklaus, inscribed with the legend, "The Best Golfer There Ever Was".
Who the hell was Jack Nicklaus?
Tiger signs his name to a few proffered sheets of paper, takes a lot of slapping on the back and squeezing of the hand. Not good for a golfer. Sweat runs down his forehead like candle wax. He disappears into the cool, dark, moneyed bowels of the $35,000 a year per member clubhouse.
The Second: Speakers Corner
HE IS as slender as a splinter. He sits in the big armchair and the questions begin. One hundred and fifty journalists. Maybe one hundred and twenty of them spend their lives living up a tree somewhere. Anyway, one hundred and twenty of them have stupid questions to ask.
"Do you feel like your at home, Tiger, because IMG (Tiger's agents) started out of Cleveland?"
"This isn't Cleveland."
"Well, Ohio."
"No."
"Tiger, is there anything special about the fans here in central Ohio?"
"Well, in my first 20 minutes I've seen a lot of people in one room.
"Have you gotten any nasty mail since the Masters?"
"Since the Masters? Yes."
"How much?"
"Enough."
Tiger sits for 45 minutes. Looks bored. This stuff is old already.
The Third: Swoosh
OUT ON the fairway it's a fiesta. A garish festival of Nike. Before Tiger came along golf activities accounted for one per cent of Nike's business. About $50 million dollars worth of sales. Small change after the accountants shuffled it. Today there must be that amount of gear on the backs and soles of the punters lining the first fairway alone.
Nike had been looking to gobble up golf since the mid 1980s, peering into the scene and looking again and again for a figure who could transcend the game and become that holiest of American holies a marketing tool.
As late as 1992, three top Nike executives - Phil Knight (CEO), Fred Schreyer and Howard Slusher examined golf in detail and turned away in despair. Golf fashion wasn't Nike fashion. Golf seemed immune from anything remotely hip. What stars golf possessed had pimped their images all over the shop already. Nike bought the Ben Hogan Tour (division two) instead of buying a player. Called it the Nike Tour. So what.
Then Tiger Woods arrived and Phil Knight himself held out and argued and tantrummed and stamped his foot until his underlings saw the light. Now, $40 million later, the sums are simple:
Tiger = Nike = Golf.
Nike expect to take in almost $200 million in golf profits next year. Today Tiger is swooshed out in a grey Nike shirt, black Nike slacks and black Nike cap. His many disciples are similarly beswooshed. The special Nike/Tiger range won't even be, launched till just before the Masters next spring.
Tiger = Nike = Golf. Already.
The Fourth: That'll do nicely
MICHAEL JORDAN = Nike = Basketball.
Everyone wants to know about Tiger Woods and Michael Jordan. They played 48 holes of golf down Florida way last weekend. Woods outbid Jordan for two lakeside apartments in Isleworth, Florida, a day or two later.
"He's my hero and role model," says Tiger Woods when asked over and over again to talk about His Airness.
Jordan is the only sports figure left in the world whose earnings and fame easily surpass those of Tiger Woods. Jordan's portfolio of endorsements are worth $50 million per annum, poured slowly on top of his $25 million per annum playing salary and his Hollywood movie deals.
"Off the court he handles himself so well," says Tiger. "I'd like to be the Michael Jordan of golf, not only because of his on court performances, but just the way he conducts himself in general."
That night, 13 years after he started his pro career, Jordan single handedly dismantles the Miami Heat. He looks so hard and so hungry and so focussed on the hardwood that it is frightening.
On the fairways today Tiger looks bored and distracted. In the past 10 days he has expanded his portfolio of endorsement deals to include American Express and Rolex. The soft drinks people are in a bidding war for him. McDonalds have been told to come back later.
"Is your agent with you Tiger?"
"No, I don't think Hughes is here."
"Hughes? He's your agent, right? IMG, right?"
"Uh huh."
Wherever Hughes Norton is, he has two jobs. Keep his man hungry. Keep his man's head above the tidal wave of endorsements.
Who is Hughes Norton? Who's his role model?
The Fifth: Wild West
THEY stampede about the pampered fair ways like a herd of buffalo. There he is! CH-AAAAA-AAAAA-RGE!
In the far distance a slender black man mounts the brow of a hill on the fairway. It's him! With animal cunning the crowd cut across one fairway and gather at the next tee from which He will launch one of his sacred drives. They wait.
The black man pops a ball one hundred and eighty yards onto the green behind the crowd. Whoa! Look at that! They turn to applaud as he approaches the green. He transpires to be Vijay Singh.
Oh. Nike could run a campaign for Vijay. "I am not Tiger Woods."
Meanwhile. under the nearby trees the local TV station are interviewing a black spectator and his child.
"He just loves golf," the man is saying, "just loves it."
"And is Tiger his role model?" asks the tanned TV guy.
"Sure is. You know we wouldn't be here if Tiger wasn't black. Nobody else could get us here."
Saved the TV guy asking the question. The TV guy bends down.
"And how long have you been playing golf?" he says in his talking to kids voice.
"`bout two weeks," says the little fella.
"And is Tiger your hero?" says the TV guy.
Sure is," says Daddy, nearly nodding the little fella's head for him.
The Sixth: Whacky Races
PEOPLE don't get this black, role model thing. Ernie Els didn't get it till yesterday, today maybe. Ernie has just asked Tiger Woods to come to South Africa. Nelson Mandela personally, has asked Tiger the same thing.
"It would be so great for the country," says Els, "and great for Tiger. He could learn so much. He could meet Nelson Mandela, a man who has been through real hardships. He could learn so much."
The request is relayed to Tiger.
"No plans to go there," says Tiger brusquely.
Hours later Nike announce that Tiger Woods will spend more than two weeks in Asia this fall.
Asia? Well sure. There are 25 million golfers in the Asian Pacific region, as many as in the whole of the US. Thing is that 25 million is just the tip of the iceberg, just the first wave of wealthy stockholders in the most expensive game in town.
When Tiger talks the talk, it's African American. When Tiger walks the walk, it's Asian American. The market is Asia, dummies. The market is where you walk the walk. Ernie and Nelson and Co just didn't get it.
The Seventh: Tombstone
JACK NICKLAUS says an unusual thing at his press conference. Unusual because in all the huffing and puffing about how great Tiger, is everybody has thought it but nobody has said it.
"It's amazing," said Nicklaus, "that when you look at Tiger Woods, who started golfing so young, started playing serious golf when he was 12 and has his father and everything, it's amazing that he's not sick of it."
It's true. Why isn't Tiger Woods sick of golf and sick of his father, who since Tiger was literally old enough to walk has used his son as some sort of big time parlour trick, a father who put his son on the Mike Douglas show when he was two years old, a father who describes his other children as "practice" for raising Tiger, a father who has already gone into print with his book Raising a Tiger, a father who wanders around now describing his son as the saviour of the world?
What sort of 21 year old kid would put up with it, could tolerate the pressure applied by Big Earl Woods?
"I just love to play," says Tiger Woods, shrugging it off.
Won't he outgrow Earl? Won't he rebel at some stage, journalists ask each other afterwards.
"Nab," says the experts. "Earl will just die. Earl will have a big heart attack and die and that will be the end of it."
Golly.
The Eighth: Cleavage Corner
AFTER THE first half dozen holes, the crowd gets tired and starts taking short cuts. They follow every drive and every step.
There is one woman of Asian extraction whose beauty is such that she stands out in a crowd. Even this crowd. She's wearing a low cut summer dress. On each hole she positions herself about 20 yards in front of the tee box right in at the ropes. Every time Tiger Woods drives and starts on his walk down the fair way, she leans forward, way forward in her low cut dress, and wiggles her waggle.
"Tiger. Hey there Tiger."
Big deal waiting for the first to print that Tiger has started to play around. Big tabloid bucks.
Hey Tiger. Fore!
The Ninth: Hand of God
THE TV camera batches everything. Even this. The kid in the wheelchair has been here since dawn. He's wearing his Nike hat and his Nike shirt and every hack in Ohio has interviewed him by this stage. Great yarn. Kid in a wheelchair waiting for his hero.
And Tiger breezes straight past. No fault of his own. Between fairways, from green to tee, Woods is ushered around like a rock star. He never sees the kid in the wheelchair.
Mike Cowan sees what has just gone down. He bends down and whispers to the kid. He charges up to the tee. Charges back again, bearing a piece of paper with Tiger Woods signature on it. He takes the kid's little white cap. Makes the journey again. A big fat man lurching about in the Ohio sun.
A Nike hat with Tiger's name on it. The child couldn't look happier if he'd just stood up and walked.
"Thanks, Fluff. Gee thanks, Fluff."
The Tenth: Fluff Stuff
MIKE COWAN equals Fluff.
Tiger Woods is the fastest man ever to make $2 million in prize money on the circuit. He needed 34 fewer tournaments to do it in than anyone else.
Fluff is Tiger's caddy. He gets to per cent. Fluff has made more money on the course this year than Bernhard Langer.
If Tiger survives the fuss and comes through as solid as Fluff he'll be doing well. Fluff still rooms with his old caddy pal, Gypsy Joe Grillo. Still stays in the same sort of caddyshack motels he always did, still loves the Grateful Dead and allows his belly to stretch the faded Jerry Garcia T shirts.
Fluff caddied for Peter Jacobsen for 19 years, lived in Jacobsen's house for much of that time. They both cried like babies when the split came.
"It couldn't have happened to a better guy," says Jacobsen fondly.
"I didn't switch for money," says Fluff. "Peter treated me like a king. I changed for history. I've got the best seat in the house for watching history."
Now, every night Fluff sleeps with the flag from the 18th hole in the final round of the Masters in Augusta beside his bed. Framed and messaged by the boss. Now, when tournaments can't get Tiger Woods to play in their early week pro ams, they ask Fluff instead.
The Eleventh: O' Brother
THE 11th is 539 yards long. Snacksize for Tiger. Two thirds of the way down the fair way the players cross a little stream by means of a couple of footbridges. From one foot bridge Mark O'Meara calls out: Careful there Fluff.
And indeed the other little footbridge is bending slightly under the weight of Fluff and the clubs. Fluff lifts his head and shows his teeth in a smile somewhere beneath the foliage of his moustache.
Mark O'Meara. Tiger Woods and their two caddies make a pleasant group. O'Meara is the player who Woods describes as his best friend on the Tour. They are neighbours in Florida.
"My Big Brother," says Woods of O'Meara.
Tom Kite has already announced that he will be pairing Woods and O'Meara at the Ryder Cup later on this year. "Together the two of them will be unbeatable," Kite is quoted as saying.
A little later Tiger and his big brother are heading towards the tee on the fourteenth.
"Way to go Mark," calls out a deep south accent. "C'mon y'all we gotta give Mark a little attention. Mark needs a hug, too."
Mark O'Meara glares in the direction of the voice. Solid old pro. Seventeen years and hasn't won a major. In danger of becoming best known for being Tiger Woods big brother. Don't patronise me says the glare.
He turns to Tiger Woods, rolls his eyes. Tiger puts the ball on the tee and whips it 300 goddamn yards. O'Meara steps up, drives long and into a lake.
Poor Markie," says the southern drawl "done gone and took a bath."
The Twelfth: The A Train.
TIGER hasn't got his A game with him today. His A game is what he calls his game when he does everything right and punches his drives the 330 yards or so which he is capable of. Except he's not allowed call it his A game anymore.
"You guys really love that A game stuff," be tells the gallery, laughing when they holler about what game Tiger is playing today.
Tiger's fellow professionals don't like the A game stuff. Not since he won the Byron Nelson Classic and announced that he's just had his C game with him all week.
Gee. Tiger whupped their Pringle asses with his C game.
"We had a word with Tiger about the game grading thing," says player rep Brad Faxon. "Some of the guys found it a bit demeaning."
One is reminded of the old line about the definition of hardship for a tour golfer being the sharing of courtesy cars.
"We all just love what Tiger is doing for the game, though," adds Brad Faxon sincerely.
The Thirteenth: Lovers Glade
WE ALL just love what Tiger is doing for golf. If we all had the nerve we'd go and ask the only other pairing who are drawing a crowd on this practice day what they think.
Fuzzy Zoeller and John Daly are playing a few holes further up the course.
Zoeller had an uncomfortable dinner last week with Tiger Woods where Zoeller explained where he was coming from with his remark about Augusta National serving collard greens and fried chicken at next year's champions dinner at which Tiger Woods will choose the menu.
Consider Nick Faldo making a snickering, pig in the parlour joke about Darren Clarke and you'll see that Fuzzy was coming from a dumb, mildly racist and not especially humorous place. He explained all this to Tiger Woods over dinner.
Fuzzy didn't divulge whether he'd read the magazine interview in which Woods made crass jokes about lesbians and black male sexuality. Lesbian jokes have cost tour commentators their jobs. Dumb racist jokes cost Zoeller a big sponsorship deal with K Mart. It's been 11 years since Fuzzy last had a big win. His GQ interview cost Tiger Woods nothing. Fuzzy must love what Tiger does for golf.
John Daly loves what Fuzzy does for John Daly. John Daly is last week's next big thing. The newly redundant saviour of golf. In his darkest days, when he has only a bottle and a head frill of anger for company, it is Zoeller's friendship which has lifted Daly's spirit.
Few days were darker then when his unsympathetic sponsors. Wilson, summarily, dumped Daly as his life took another slice towards the wild side.
"Fuzzy has been true and loyal to me through everything," says Daly. "People don't know this guy's humanity."
Today Daly is playing the first round of his comeback. He has a new sponsor, Calloway Clubs, whose Biggest Bertha model he is using. The campaign slogan focuses on Daly's recovery from alcoholism. "Keep it straight, John."
Five holes ahead of Tiger Woods, the lives of this pair of rehabilitation projects seem like a morality play he should be watching.
Keep it clean, Tiger.
The Fourteenth: The Steadicam
AS HE works his way through the back nine the crowd performs the impossible. It keeps getting bigger. Fewer and fewer other golfers are out on the course. By the time Tiger Woods is within sight of the clubhouse his procession around the course looks like the beginnings of a mass political movement.
As the crowd grows, so too does the media presence. Every Ideal TV station and most of the nationals have cameras here just to follow Tiger Woods. About 150 news organisations have sent journalists to this little corner of Ohio to trail the fairways.
Getting back towards the clubhouse. it is mid afternoon and the TV fronts are starting to do their pieces to camera. It's the sort of media scene you only see at the sight of major bombings.
It was Tiger Woods day here today at the Memorial Tournament in beautiful Dublin Ohio. The throngs..
...We know it as the course that Jack Nicklaus built, but today it was a whipper snapper called Tiger Woods that they had all come to see . .
They call him the saviour of golf and he came among us today, here at Muirfield Village. .
Behind each front person, the cameras capture the great sea of people pushing on wards following the kid who can hit the ball better than anyone in history.
The Fifteenth: To Die For
ELEVATED tee at a sort of crossroads in the course. Big crowd milling about down below. Huge crowd. He's coming. He's coming.
Two guys in Princeton T shirts are stuck behind the rope. They've been trailing Woods all day.
"Your turn," says one to the other.
"No way," says the guy.
"Chicken."
Tiger Woods comes off the 14th green. He is cutting through the crowd which presses in over the ropes, hollering and whooping. The first Princeton guy leans over and drapes an arm over the golfer's shoulder.
"Thatta boy, Tiger."
Woods leaps away, wide eyed and shocked like a startled deer. There is a blur of movement and suddenly a crew cut with blue Nazi eyes has Mr Princeton by the collar of his T shirt.
"Touch him once more, once more and your dead meat, pal," says crew cut.
"Sure thing," says Princeton.
Tiger is on the tee now.
"Phew. Heart's still beating," Mr Princeton tells his mate.
"Why d'ya have to touch him anyway?" "Just to say it. Worth it."
The Sixteenth: The Grind
THEY say that for insiders the remarkable thing about Tiger Woods winning the Masters wasn't so much his youth. his record breaking or his driving, but the fact that he shot 40 on the first nine holes. Not just by two shots the worst ever start for a Masters winner, but a start which should have dictated the shape of his week. Most golfers who hit 40 on the first nine, hit 40 on the back nine too.
Instead, he stood for a while on the 10th tee and figured out by himself what was wrong with the way he was playing. He didn't lie down on a couch. He didn't fly David Leadbetter in. He didn't phone home. He looked at what he was doing and what the ball was doing and sussed it out. He birdied the 10th, birdied the 12th and 13th, scored an eagle on the 15th and birdied the 17th.
This week he looks tired and drained. His shots are all over the place. His swing is still a thing of beauty, containing the violence of an explosion and the coiled energy of a spring. Still, he's all over the place.
"Figure it out Tiger," calls a man at the 16th.
Tiger doesn't figure it out. He says he'll get together with Butch, his coach, next week and do a bit of work and figure it out. Sometimes it seems as if nothing will grind Tiger Woods down sooner than golf ways and golf laws.
The Seventeenth: Homeward
ALL ROUND the clubhouse, as Tiger Woods heads back, are marquees devoted to selling. Jack Nicklaus isn't about to come down into this particular temple and scourge the merchants.
Golf has colonised the earth like no other sport. This decade, 2,000 new courses have been built in the US alone, bringing the total to 15,390. That's a lot of wasted pasture.
Look at the take, though. The number of rounds being played hasn't grown at all, but the amount being spent on golf annually has gone through the ceiling, increasing in the last 10 years by 200 per cent.
That's before Tiger breaks Asia, of course.
We all love what Tiger does for golf. Kerching. This till now open.
The Eighteenth: Begin again
THURSDAY. It's a couple of hours past midday. Tiger Woods has his back to the pavilion and is bent over a small white golf ball. There are clouds overhead and crowds all around. The steward, poor sucker, holds both hands in the air in a gesture which requests silence. The people are giggly with excitement, however. All this starchy etiquette makes them dizzy.
Tiger takes a practice swing. Swoosh. The gallery breaks into chatter. Torque talk? No. Look at his buns. Neat buns, Tiger.
The steward does a 360 with his hands in the air.
"You surrenderin'?" asks a man in a Nike hat.
Tiger Woods takes one last baleful look at what part of the fairway he can see on this dogleg opener. Contemplates his ball for the briefest second and in one fluid movement whips away his drive.
The ball is lost instantly against the grey sky.
Whoa! Whoo! Whoo! Whoo! Ya drive for show and ya putt for dough, baby! Yooda man! Yoo da man! You Is Da Man, Tiger!
Da Man slaps the heel of his club against the Muirfield turf, strides off down the fair way, frowning.
Young, gifted and black. Very tired and with everything to lose.
Da Man.
