Into the Woods

I don’t play golf and never have (except the miniature version). I don’t watch golf on television. I buy into the quote that golf is “a nice walk, ruined.” Sunday and Monday I watched golf on television for about five hours each day. Only one man in the world could cause this phenomenon in my living room and in my competitive brain. Frankly, I swear he has a pact with the devil. Although a player of genius he still gets the lucky bounce. His ball caroms off a tree and bounces back onto the green. His ball hits the flagstick and drops in the hole. He is golden. Some people resent this man for his chutzpah, his prowess, his luck and his success. There is an acronym bandied about by the unwashed and the unholy among sports fans and, as far as I know, professional golfers themselves: “ABT” (Anybody but Tiger). That’s so amazing to me and I don’t really understand the resentment. I say may his sheen abide forever and I’ll give up a Sunday, any Sunday, to watch.