I asked my golf buddy, Heels, what he thought. ”So, what do you think, Heels?”
He slapped his hand to his forehead and slid it up, over, and down the back of his balding head. “I can’t think, that’s the problem here with this. Two weeks ago he could have given God four shots and still won by five. Now he comes to the freakin’ Masters and the freakin’ Am Tour guys are kicking his keester.”
That brought a chuckle out of me. ”The Am Tour. Sweet.”
The HD flat screen displayed a huge expanse of Georgian green manicured with razor-cut precision by probably a team of OCD patients.
“Phil shot a 68,” Heels said around a mouthful of beer.
“I’m not thrilled.”
“I miss his breasts.” My comment virtually squeezed Heel’s cheeks and beer rocketed all over the dog, Balls, who patiently licked it off.
“Don’t do that to–” Heels shot to feet, pointing at the TV. ”Did you see that squirter? Charles Barkley hit better shots than that! And that’s freakin’ Tiger W.T.F. Woods!”
I slapped my own forehead. ”Between shots like that and missing all those putts, I’m gonna have a heart attack. I’m too old to be a Tiger fan, I just can’t take it, I can’t take it, I tells you.”
“There’s still nobody freakin’ better.”
“Well, yeah, okay, potentially.” Heels shook his head back and forth with his thoughts and sighed. ”There’s always tomorrow.”
“Brilliant observation, Nostradamus.”
“You never know. And by the way, you aren’t that old.”
“How would you know, you old coot.”
“I’m younger than you!”
“You’re just proving my point, Heels.”
“I’ve gotta get home. Gotta play kissy with the pool and fill up the wife. What? Oh, damn, you know what I mean. This Tiger thing has me really frustrated, I have to admit it, and I kind of feel like a fool even admitting it, but I reeeeally want him to win, to smash Jack’s records, to get a good grip on the best player who ever lived, so all this frustration and rooting for him over the years was worth it and not just wasting my life!”
I stared at Heels for a minute. What he’d just said was pretty profound, or at least insightful. ”Yeah, you know, one thing Tiger has going for him that few other golfers do is that potential thing–that, at any minute, he COULD turn it around, he COULD win. Any day, any tourney, against anyone. It is totally possible.”
“Guess that’s better than being a die-hard fan for a hyped-up golfer who never wins. I won’t mention any names.”
“Don’t. We know who they are.”
“Mostly everybody except Tiger.”
I shot Heels with my fingers. “Go kiss your pool, Heels.”
He smiled and bent to pet Balls goodbye. ”The dog smells like he’s been on a bender.”
“Must be a Tiger fan.”