jump to navigation

An unplayable lie February 20, 2010

Posted by WillardWhyte in Musings, Tiger Woods.
trackback

I realize from the start that I am, will be and always have been a severe sap at heart. The kind that ignites a flame of recognition in the eyes of all the Lucy’s in the world eager to crouch with that finger on the football and turn their dewy eyes back to me with a wordless “trust me Charlie Brown.”
And no matter how many times I find myself gazing at the clouds from my back, chumped again, I’ll always take that run at the ball. Not because I crave that joyful vision of a finely arcing perfectly thumped pigskin, though that would be sweet. No, I want to hug Lucy the moment after her better angel wins, the one I know is there struggling just as I am. If I turn away, I ensure comfort, preserve my dignity and embrace the accolades of those who shake their heads at my repeated abandonment of reason. Tempting.
But if I cease to believe, I deny myself as well as any hope for Lucy.
So Tiger, you should know that we are out there, folks who one day may allow you to squat in the fall with a digit on the ball, ready to give it the old Charlie try. For the moment, some of us will take the apology, nod in sadness and in our hearts forgive. For this is no big concession after all. We built you up into whatever it was that fell and shattered, whatever it was we told our little ones they should see in you or strive for in your name. That was us and, judging by the stats I’ve seen, not too many plunged into a Buick on your behalf.
Sure, you had your machine, which let us see only so much, but we looked quickly past the hints of something else. We forgive that too, for we know those handlers did much more harm to you than us.
The cynical bones in us chortled as you read your thing, a thing they assured all in earshot was penned by the very same masters who now are summoning their all to piece together all the shards. Perhaps. The jealous watchdogs whine from the minivan, pouting and ranting at their exile, denied their duty to pose the Question on behalf of us all. So they too failed to hear, to see, to even entertain a notion of a better angel still struggling.
I heard no deflected blame. I heard no promises other than a pledge to try for integrity, to seek Tiger somewhere lost within the man at the podium — and in the mirror. A man who has lost just about everything, save for a stack a mile high. Cold hard shiny comfort, I think you know. I heard anger, aimed at those who use your children, even as you nod to knowing the fault for this, too, is yours. I sensed a glimpse of the rushing air, the flailing grasps, the swamping fear of the fall, the lonely panic in the bottom silence as you finally asked: Who is Tiger?
The rest is properly yours. And hers. For the only vow broken here was the one you shared. We were just along for the cake and open bar.
Can you hold the Road Hole green from this buried lie in Iceland? I think not, but then again … part of me would love to see that shot, the kind you found in the bag when you had to have it, out there on the grass, just the ball, the air and whatever you had inside that made it happen. No handlers.
I’ll root for you finding that place and building on it. I’ll root for you standing one day in a red shirt with the right number on the board, tears falling from the right face behind the rope. Not rooting so much for you, but for that angel to sip from the cup as my gentle draw moves between the posts.
For there, but for the grace of God, go I.

Advertisements

Comments»

No comments yet — be the first.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: