It came to my attention that, for the first time, I mentioned a face-saving, sincere (not PR spun) apology within the context of Tiger Woods yesterday in my discussion of Tim Donaghy. Yes, I called for a more sincere apology of Donaghy than a retail book -- and an apology unlike the one that I expect [sic] from Tiger. As I didn't want to go off on a (another, perhaps) tangent than I already did in my Donaghy column, let me expand now.
Tim Donaghy bastardized an entire sport; he brought a grease stain to the NBA, the City Upon a Hill for basketball in the world, the very symbol of basketball excellence. He brought a question to the integrity of the game that (whether you are one or not, whether you disapprove of them or not) fans have wept over, have laughed over, have spent their paychecks on, have raised their children on. Dongahy didn't have fans, but he, essentially, by definition of a referee, served as a moral authority for the game -- it was his duty to make certain that the players adhered to the rules of the game. He wasn't in a position to let fans down, but rather to tarnish the very idea of competition that fathers fan hood.
Tiger Woods let wife down, he let his mother down, he let his father down, he permanently embarrassed his children, but he didn't defecate on a sport like Donaghy did. Tiger has fans, but fan hood is a choice, not a mandate.
Maybe Tiger did ask us to stand beside him as fans, but it was our mistake in doing so. If we didn't, we may have compartmentalized him -- kept him as a golfing admiration; a mastery of a game that we love. But, if Nike was in our golf bags and draped our bodies because of Tiger, if we drove a Buick because of Tiger, that is our fault. We were suckers for a clever marketing campaign; a physically drawing spokesperson; an arrogance that we enjoyed, not loathed.
In twenty years, I will tell my children that I saw Tiger Woods play in his prime; that I saw the greatest ever dominate at a time in golf when it no longer seemed possible. I will pull out my 1997 Masters highlight DVD (or whatever tech format is in then), I will hand them my PGA Tour Media Guide chronicling every one of Tiger Woods' 135 (???) career victories. But I won't tell them to read the unauthorized biography of Tiger Woods.
Tiger doesn't need to apologize to me. If there's an altruistic response that I would accept, it would be that Tiger disappears from popular culture, that Tiger doesn't ask us to play Nike, that he doesn't ask us to drink Tigorade; that he simply wins, and wins, and wins. That way, I'll take something from Tiger; I'll be able to say that I watched, definitely, the greatest ever. That would be an apology worth accepting.
Let's not feel sorry for ourselves because Tiger dissapointed us; let's feel sorry for Sam and Charlie Woods -- they will never know a moral father, they will never say that their father is their hero, they are just another victim of an irresponsible father, another statistic in a broken home.
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