With Tiger Woods putting for birdie on the 18th at CordeValle last Saturday, the crowd standing between a pair of bleachers packed together tight. I saw a narrow opening next to the stands four rows back, nudged a shoulder against the wall and realized I’d found pay dirt: As long as none of the three uncontrollable heads directly between me and the green wavered the slightest in either direction, I had a two-inch window with a view of the hole and Tiger’s shot behind it.
With Tiger Woods putting for birdie on the 18th at CordeValle last Saturday, the crowd packed together tight. I was standing between a pair of bleachers, saw a narrow opening next to the stands four rows back, nudged a shoulder against the wall and realized I’d found pay dirt: As long as none of the three uncontrollable heads directly between me and the green wavered the slightest in either direction, I had a two-inch window with a view of the hole and Tiger’s shot behind it.
This was watching the only human Tiger, following his following and quickly learning to stay ahead of his stampede of fans. It was finding a way to have a mere chance at getting a decent glimpse of this twisted version of the Greatest Show on Natural Turf.
Following Tiger for a day was attending a circus without elephants or wirewalkers. It was a rock concert without music but with the most geeky-looking groupies on this side of Pacheco Pass. It was a mobile party on foot – a speed-walking race without the severely awkward Olympic form or the professionals – aside from the golfers, their caddies and probably a few addicted gamblers.
It was a sweaty, sweaty experience in the Woods gallery, especially being a hot day on a 7,333-yard course where the terrain would make mountain goats feel at home. I tried dressing for the occasion, basically like a golf fan, I think, but after just a few holes I ended up feeling like that big kid in gym class who knew he had a severe perspiration problem and still tried harder than anyone else. Yeah, that was me sweating in P.E. And maybe it was just a bad idea to drink coffee Saturday morning before walking the course.
With a mass of followers rivaling “March of the Penguins” and their fandom varying from casual to serious to star struck to passed out on the sixth fairway from too much sun and probably something else, there was plenty of action even when Woods and the other two guys – let’s just call them “Brad” and “Bill” because I forgot their names after the first hole – weren’t hitting the ball or walking by to ever-constant chants of, “Tiger, Tiger, Tiger, Tiger, Tiger, Tiger …” or “We love you Tiger!” – or my favorite, “Tiger, go get ’em! Whoo, Whoo, Whoo, Whoo!”
As you might expect, because the gallery is investing a day to watch the man and paying PGA admission price to see him, people there absolutely loved Tiger. They moaned at all his poor shots. They whispered their discontent at his sudden fall from 5-under to 3-under after an early, hot start to the round had left the impression he might, just might, start his inevitable rise again and maybe, jus tmaybe, he was doing it right there in their backyard. I’m also certain they were thinking that if they somehow had played their cards right by picking that perfect day to see Tiger’s redemption begin, they might be living through the end of Act 2 in a future Disney movie co-starring Dennis Quaid as Tiger’s caddie, Dwayne Johnson (“The Rock”) as his personal security guard, the real-life version of which looked like he could rip out someone’s spleen with his bare hands, and of course the only realistic actor who could play Tiger, Alfonso Ribeiro, “Carlton” from “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.”
This gallery actually kind of felt like something between sport and movie premiere. Besides the paparazzi-like attempts from fans to grab Tiger’s attention by yelling his name, as if he’s an old pal from college, people wanted the only piece of the action they could get, pictures or video from their cell phones. Since the PGA bars use of electronic devices on the course – you know, because there’s a legit concern about fans using iPhones to produce award-winning documentaries to suck away some revenue – there were more cell phones confiscated than at a prison on Christmas.
What became even clearer than ever that day was that fans – whether casual, serious, star struck or passed out on the fairway waiting for the medics to arrive – they want living legends like Tiger to succeed. They want to experience greatness, see it for themselves and take the risk of having to claim their expensive phones at the end of the day from the CordeValle Principal’s Office. They want to witness redemption at the highest level for the obvious reason, inspiration, and to keep hope alive that one day, just maybe, Alfonso Ribeiro will star as Tiger Woods in a Disney blockbuster.
