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.