Thanks Padraig and Sergio and Carnoustie

For your sake, I hope you watched the Open at Carnoustie, Scotland this past week because it was great theater. It started with Sergio Garcia’s amazing 65 in the first round and his declaration that he wanted to win one for Seve Ballesteros, and for three and a half rounds it looked like he would do just that. But unlike Ben Crenshaw when he won the 1995 Masters for his mentor Harvey Penick, Sergio failed to call his shot, and by the time he made the turn on Sunday his lead had disappeared.

Then came Andres Romero, looking all of twelve years old, with ten birdies, a two shot lead and only two holes to play. You could see the headlines, “Second Argentinean Wins Major.” It was Snoopy striking out Joe DiMaggio; Russell Crow out rebounding Bill Russell; and Carl Lewis losing the 100-meter sprint to Jerry Lewis. Unfortunately, by the end of the day, the stars realigned themselves and young Mr. Romero shot three over on the last two holes.

However, throughout the day Irishman Padraig Harrington stalked the course with the relentless steadiness that he is famous for. Hole after hole Padraig watched each pretender fall by the wayside one-by-one until he alone stood at the top of the mountain. This would be his moment. This would be the return of Irish and European golf. Standing on the 18th tee he could almost hear the cheering emanating from his favorite pub in County Cork. Then with the ghost Jean Van de Velde lurking in the tall grass, and Harrington home free with a three shot lead, he unexplainably pulled out his driver.

At that point there was only two possible outcomes. The first was a fabulous long drive down the middle directly toward the Claret Jug and immortality, or the second which was a miserable miss hit that comes tantalizing close to accidentally skipping across the bridge only to hit the railing and fall hopelessly into the water.

Well, it wouldn’t have been nearly as exciting if he had hit it 285 yards down the middle, would it?

But Padraig was not through. He had another chance at immortality. His three shot lead was now basically two and all he had to do was take his drop, then lay up his third shot, hit his fourth shot on the green and two putt for all the glory. Simple enough. But for some reason, and to everyone’s amazement, he reaches into his bag and pulls out a long iron and proceeds to hit a second ball into the water. Suddenly his Irish brogue was sounding very French and the ghost of Jean Van de Velde was about to be replaced by an Irishman.

When the smoke had cleared Padraig was one stroke behind Sergio Garcia, who appeared to be waiting to make good on his promise to Seve. All that stood between him and keeping his promise was the 18th hole at Carnoustie.

By now, sitting in front of my television sipping on a Diet Dr. Pepper and munching on a Pringle, my own emotions had been torn asunder and I couldn’t imagine what Sergio and Padraig were feeling. It had already been Friday The Thirteenth III and I didn’t know if I could stand Jason coming back to life one more time. Go ahead Sergio, bring back my faith in the golf gods, make par and they’ll start writing songs about you in Spain, Dreams Do Come True.

He had used a Tiger-like Old Course strategy of playing it safe all week and hitting long irons off many of the dangerous tees; now all he had to do was make two more swings, two putts and his place in golf history would be secure. I bet the mayor of his hometown had already started mapping out the route for the parade.

The number one handicap hole at Carnoustie is the 499 yard 18th. The burn swings across the fairway twice, once at about 209 yards and the second time only twenty yards from the green. For Garcia, with a one shot lead there was no need to do anything foolish like hit a driver, so smartly he pulled out his trusty 3-iron, the one that had served him so well all week long. He would place it safely in the middle of the fairway and make a second shot onto the green, two putts and start celebrating. But the golf gods had one more trick up their sleeves. Sergio would have to stand on the tee and wait fifteen minutes before hitting his tee shot. Fifteen minutes to think about it.

Perhaps it wasn’t the ghost of Jean Van de Velde that caused Sergio to hit his tee shot fat resulting in his ball being about twenty yards short of where he had intended, but he was still in the fairway, a long ways away, but nonetheless, in the fairway.

It was at that point that I knew one of difference between me a Sergio Garcia, you see, I’ve always know that the golf Gods had a sick sense of humor, so I was not surprised when Sergio had to wait another fifteen minutes to hit his second shot. And I don’t care who you are, standing there waiting for fifteen minutes to hit your second shot for the Open Championship is difficult beyond belief. Not surprisingly, it was not Sergio’s best shot that found the bunker in front of the green, but even as the golf gods snickered, he was still not dead. All he needed to do is to hit the bunker shot close, one putt and start counting the $1,542,450, but it was not to be.

After Sergio missed the ten-foot putt to win, he was devastated, and who could blame him. He was one inch left from immortality and failed. Sure, there was a four-hole playoff, but it’s hard to play those last four holes with a stake in your heart.

As I sat there in my easy chair emotionally drained, I felt for Sergio and Andres Romero and all of the others that had a shot and came up short. Wow, I thought, this was a great golf tournament; an emotional roller coaster with incredible ebb and flow and Tiger wasn’t even on the first page of the leader-board. Is that possible, a great golf tournament without Tiger in contention? I guess the answer is yes.

Tiger Woods And The Dangers Of Looking Human

A buddy and me were shooting pool and drinking beer one day, when he asked me, “Why aren’t we rich?”

Being the sage that I am I answered, “Because it’s 2:30 on Tuesday afternoon and we’re shooting pool and drinking beer instead of working.”

Okay, now imagine that you’re Tiger Woods and you look down at your bank account and you see $100,000,012.54. Are you tempted to roll over and hit the snooze alarm for ten years or so? To me, that has always been the real difference between Tiger Woods and everybody else; he never seemed to reach for the snooze alarm. He is not only the most talented player in the world; he is also one of the hardest workers, as well.

But are things changing?

For almost two years now Tiger seems to be a little out of sync, and that’s understandable. First, there was his marriage, then the death of his father, and now the birth of his first child. Probably any one of those emotional events would set you and I back for months. Now, take all of that and add the normal, day-to-day pressures of simply being Tiger Woods and you have the formula for a total collapse, or at the very least a club throwing hissy fit.

There have been difficulties, sure, but no collapse, or hissy fit. He is still the leading money winner on Tour and the number one ranked player in the world, so what’s the worry?

The answer is simple; he’s starting to look human, even vulnerable.

Remember Mike Tyson before Buster Douglas? He wasn’t human, he was unbeatable, invincible, the scariest man on the planet. But, somehow he lost to Buster and he was no longer invincible and very human. Within the count of ten, Mike Tyson started down that road of “no respect,” which he never recovered from.

Tiger is not Mike Tyson (thank God), but he is starting to look human and that is a dangerous territory for an intimidator, any intimidator. Competitively, Tiger was like Tyson. He carried the aura of invincibility. People didn’t believe that they could beat him and as long as they felt that way they couldn’t. Now, he’s lost to a fat boy from Argentina and last week he was never in the hunt. And there have been other signs. Granted, two weeks does not a season make, and as I said before he is still the leading money winner on Tour and the number one ranked player in the world, but I’m worried.

As good as Tiger is, and I certainly believe that he is the best golfer in the world, I don’t believe that he can simply show up and win. Perhaps he can show up and finish in the top-ten, and frankly he maybe that good, but I hope that’s not the plan. I want to see Tiger be Tiger. I want to see the best golfer in the world be as good as he can possibly be every time he tees it up; that why’s I am proposing that Tiger should get a divorce.

I’m selfish; I don’t want Tiger to be human, or married, or a father. I want him to be the greatest golfer in the world 24/7. Remember, Joe DiMaggio waited until after his career was over before he married Marilyn Monroe. Would “The Yankee Clipper” have had a 56 game hitting streak with Marilyn whispering in his ear? I think not.

High jumper Dwight Stone talked about pacing himself because he was receiving a check every time he broke the world record. Using this tactic he set the world record six or seven times, but he never jumped as high as he could because he was always saving room for another world record and another check. Later on he said how much he regretted not putting the bar as high as he could when he could.

Tiger is in his prime and now is not the time to start pacing himself. Now is the time to see how high he can set the bar, and I want to watch. So the only reasonable answer is to get a divorce. Certainly, this might create a hardship for wife Elin and Sam Alexis Woods, but nothing comforts hardships like a zillion dollars in the bank.

I agree that my expectations of Tiger are not fair. Like any other human being he should be able to marry, raise a family and enjoy his $100,000,012.54 when and where he sees fit. But my advice to him is the same as I gave my friend some years ago, “Stop shooting pool and drinking beer and go to work.”

Like it or not, you’re a supernatural being, so let your mom baby-sit, send Elin to Rodeo Drive and get yourself to the driving range before the British Open.

Growing Up A Prodigy

Having never been a prodigy of any kind it is difficult for me to understand what it must be like growing up carrying those kinds of expectations. While I was busy learning how to walk and chew gum at the same time, a 14 year old named Nadia Comaneci was sticking a perfect ten at the Olympic games.

How does anyone do that?

The soccer prodigy Freddy Adu turned pro at 14, and at 17 years, 74 days Maria Sharapova won Wimbledon. When I was 17 years, 74 days old the only thing I was serving was pancakes at the local IHOP, and soccer wasn’t even a varsity sport.

If I recall, Tiger Woods played in the Nissan Los Angeles Open when he was 16. He didn’t win, but even if he had finished dead last, which he didn’t, he was still doing better than me.

As for the importance of an education to sports prodigies, Coby and LeBron ditched college all together and you can count on one hand the number of NBA stars that graduate from any where. Granted, there are ten thousand “would be prodigies” that dropped out of school and are now working on the shipping dock, and that is sad if you believe that basketball kept them out of medical school. However, taking your shot and not succeeding is not necessarily failing, and there is nothing dishonorable about working on the dock.

Are there prodigies that don’t fulfill their promise? Sure. Would they have been better served by taking it slow, or staying in school, or firing their agents, or their coaches, or having better parents? Who can really say. Life, even the lives of prodigies, is a mixture of nature and nurture and nothing is ever decided by talent alone.

Today, I’m a lot older than 14 and I don’t have a shoe contract, nor have I ever fired an agent, and I promise you that no one has ever offered me a zillion bucks to play a game. Which brings me to the point: Am better off because of that? Gosh, I hope not.

Is Nadia Comaneci better or worse off because someone pushed her to greatness? How about Freddy or Maria, or Coby, or LeBron, or even Tiger; are they better or worse off? Certainly they are better off financially, but being “better off” can mean a lot of different things, would you agree?

How about Michelle Wie, is she better or worse off? The truth is we don’t know because all we really know is Michelle Wie the television personality and golfer, and that’s not real life. Is she embracing the life of a celebrity golfer, or does she hate it? It’s hard to tell. Some people thrive on conflict, while others need more nurturing. I don’t know Michelle’s parents, or agent and I have no idea if she is being served well by them. I do know this, even if she never plays another game of golf in her life, she is probably financially set for life. Is she ruining her potential? I don’t know. If she had waited until she was older to turn pro would she have received the same contract from Nike and the same attention from the press? Would she be a better golfer? Who can say for sure?

Can you be a prodigy and not be driven? Did Tiger Woods wake up one morning and decide to be a golfer, or did his father drive him to the driving range every day from the time he was potty trained? Perhaps obsession comes with the territory.

Has Michelle made some mistakes? Certainly. However, unlike you and I, Michelle is making her teenage mistakes on national television and that’s really difficult; just ask Lindsey Lohan. I’m trying to imagine living my teenage years on national television and how ugly that would have been.

A couple of years ago I saw Michelle Wie on Sixty Minutes. It was the same day that she got her driver’s license, if I recall. When the interviewer asked her what she liked to do most, she answered like a teenage girl that had never picked up a golfclub in her life, “I like to hang out at the mall with my friends,” she said. And, in subsequent interviews, I heard her sound exactly her age, more times than not. As a matter of fact, the only time I ever heard her sound older was when she was answering golf questions.

Without question, Michelle Wie is a prodigy, not merely because she plays golf, or because she can hit the ball a mile, she a prodigy because she is so young. She’s the bearded lady in the circus and when she shaves, or in Michelle’s case becomes older, she will no longer be the story, so there is some logic to running as fast as you can, as long as you can.

I think Michelle is going to be fine. She is enrolling at Stanford this summer. Perhaps she’ll find a guy and never play golf again, or maybe she’ll find her game and reach the potential that we all hope to witness. Whatever happens, she seems like a nice young lady and I wish her nothing but the best.