Time for Eldrick to come out of Woods
THERE goes the guy who used t o be Tiger Woods. What’s his name again? Ah yes, Eldrick. We should all call him that from now on. Because Tiger, that fearsome persona imposed upon the talented child by his dominating father, is extinct.
Too harsh, too damning, even too soon to make a call of such finality? It would be nice to be wrong, it really would. But the evidence is surely impossible to ignore.
If any place on earth, any week in history, was going to witness the rebirth of Woods as a potential major champion, i t was over the Old Course i n this Open Championship.
Even among those unable to forgive the 14-time major winner his failings as husband, father and nominal role model, there can be no real sense of joy in watching those optimistic predictions of a comeback win — or even a one-off blip in a cycle of r epeated humiliations — fall flat.
Still, to deny the obvious simply makes no sense. Eldrick is not just an ex-Tiger. He is an ex-golfer, at least when it comes to competing professionally.
Oh yeah, out on the range, he can bash balls with the best of ’em. He looked good enough — ripped, athletic, controlled and solid — on the practice ground here early last week that more than a f ew observers rushed out to put on each-way bets.
The logic held that, quite possibly, you would never again see Woods available at odds of up to 40-1. Not for an Open Championship at St Andrews, anyway.
Now? Any bookie offering less than 500-1, the kind of price usually reserved for old-timers turning up just to enjoy a couple of rounds and pose for photos on the Swilcan Bridge, is taking the mickey.
And, in the best traditions of the profession, psychologists are already blaming the parents. In this case, the late Earl Woods, the man who taught his son how to be tougher than anyone, stronger than anyone, more determined and more capable of getting ‘in the zone’ than any player — maybe any athlete — since, well, maybe since time began, for all we know.
Here is a boy who learned to be not only brilliant, but in control. Of his ball flight, his distance control, his image, his ability to make the other guy blink first. And now he’s no longer in control. No longer able to grasp that the march of time, injuries and the emergence of a new breed of super-athletic rivals calls for a more nuanced response.
Woods can’t overpower the field any more. Nor can he spook them just by his presence on the range, muscles rippling and shots fizzing. He might as well try to control the weather.
Actually, remember that clip from last month’s US Open at Chambers Bay? No, not the vine of the former world No 1 topping his ball straight into a bunker. The one of a marshal raising his hand in the vain hope of stopping a passing train, because i t was disrupting the putting routine of the most focused player ever to lace up spikes.
No one here in St Andrews would have been more than mildly surprised if, following his opening rounds of 75 and 76, Woods made straight for the West Sands to play the role of a modern- day King Canute, ordering the tide not to come in.
Far easier to swim with the tide, to accept that another swing change, a new routine, even one more coach, won’t deliver results comparable to the days of old. Yet someone of such obvious Godgiven talent must be able to find some way to play this game without embarrassing himself.
So here’s an idea, then. Forget about being Tiger, Eldrick. Be yourself. A guy who plays golf pretty well, picks up a tournament win here and there… and maybe, j ust maybe, gets to play in a major championship without embarrassing the memory of who he once was.