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Tiger, This Time You've Gone Too Far
Posted: Wednesday June 21, 2000 10:22 AM
Tiger, please stay seated during the presentation. Besides, the more you move, the more the ropes will burn. Now, all of us in this room want to say a few heartfelt words to you. Uncle. Give. We quit. We admit it: You play golf better than anybody who ever lived. Nobody -- not even J.W. Nicklaus -- had this much game, brains, heart, touch, power and fire under one hat. You may not end up dominating as long as he did, but he was never at this level. Period. You're absolutely killing golf. Every tournament you play is about as fair as the volcano versus Pompeii. Every tournament you don't play becomes the Pensacola Moose Lodge 2-Ball. The network guys are dying. Televising a Tigerless tournament is like broadcasting a consolation jayvee game. Or Tuesday morning at the Laundromat. You're torturing the other players, too. You win the Masters by 12? Not possible. You win the U.S. Open by 15 at Pebble Beach? Unthinkable. Your next major -- three weeks from now -- is the British Open at St. Andrews, where you'll be able to drive all the par-4s, many of the par-5s and half of Edinburgh. No, nuh-uh, nope. From now on, Tiger, we're going to even things up a little bit. By this we mean specifically: Leg irons. These'll cut that pretzel follow-through of yours down a little. You averaged 305 yards a drive on Saturday at Pebble. Either leg irons, or we break out the Gillooly stick. That little trick you do, bouncing the ball on the face of your wedge and then hitting it? You'll have to do that on all your drives from now on, O.K.? You may lose some distance, but think how good you'll get at it! New tees. You will be slightly farther back than everybody else, but it'll be nothing you can't handle. On the 17th at St. Andrews, for instance, you'll hit from the 15th tee. At Troon. We're also going to change your tee times a little. Don't worry, you still get 1:40 -- only at night now. Let's see how those new LASIK eyes of yours read rye in the dark, slugger. We've also taken the liberty of replacing your entire staff with some choices of ours. Ready backstage? O.K.! Meet your new swing doctor, Jim Furyk! Sure, Furyk's swing looks like an ampersand, but he's certain you'll be used to it by the Senior tour. Meet your new sports psychologist, Long John Daly! He's no good at giving advice, but with any luck you'll be addicted to M&Ms, Winstons and Jack Daniel's by August, and it won't matter. Your new accountant? Roberto De Vicenzo! True, he sucks at math, but he makes a wonderful sangria! Your new love interest? It's former Tour wife Deborah Couples! As you can see by the Yogi Berra hug you're getting, she has lots of energy and a terrific vertical leap. Unfortunately, she has a very expensive new hobby: house collecting. Now, there'll be some rule changes you need to memorize. For you only, there's the USGA's strict new three-club limit, our choice on the three. Let's see you shoot 272 with a driver, a seven-iron and a Hebrew National wiener, kid! You may have a little trouble adjusting to the new two-shot cussing penalty, too. That's per word, by the way, so you know that little Redd Foxx blue streak you strung together last Saturday on the 18th tee box? That would've cost you six shots. Might be a new ad campaign in it, though: JUST F---ING DO IT. Speaking of which, your new agent, Ivana Trump, has canceled all your endorsement deals and signed you to some new ones. Your clothing contract now is with Woolrich (nice and toasty for the Southern-states swing!). Your ball is the new ultraspin featherie from Nerf. Your shoe deal is with EZ Spirit high heels. (Hey, the spikeless movement is dead anyway.) Look, we had to do something to even things up. Nobody since Wayne Gretzky has dominated a sport like this. Good men are turning into puddles at your feet, like snowmen in Phoenix. David Duval just mumbles. You've left Ernie Els in second place three times this year. Besides, we've got six warehouses full of those TIGER VS. SERGIO T-shirts we need to start moving. So let's untie you and get you started with your new physical trainer, your old friend Fluff! He's immediately putting you on his 25-crunches-a-day program. True, he means Nestlé Crunches, but they work for him.
Issue date: June 26, 2000
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