Tiger Redux

I saw Tiger Woods swing a golf club only once in my life and I will never forget the experience.

This happened at his Tiger World Championship, or whatever he called it, a dozen odd years ago, and a year or so before his well-publicized crackup and fall from grace.

I was living in Irvine, California at the time. A friend gave me two passes to the Sunday round, and a buddy and I made the two hour drive from Orange County to Calabasas, where the tournament took place.

We got there, parked, and then walked 45 minutes to the 5th fairway, where our calculations indicated that Tiger would be located soon.

We found a place to stand and waited a few more minutes and watched a couple of golf balls land in front of us. And then, as if a figure in a medieval drama, Tiger suddenly appeared over the small rise to our left, with his small retinue — his caddy, and the other player with whom he had been paired, and that guy’s caddy. Whoever he was.

Tiger struck a relaxed pose, legs crossed, leaning his weight on his club, looking fit and larger than life, waiting for his time to hit.

Then he got the all clear, took a practice swing, and slammed his ball, well, somewhere near the pin on the 5th green.

He and his retinue strode off, out of sight.

I turned to my buddy and said, “Let’s get back in the car.”

We didn’t — we hung around for another half hour and saw Vijay Singh (very peaceful) and Jim Furyk (oozing tension and agonizing over a long putt).

And then we got back in the car.

We had seen Tiger.

A year or so later, the whole world saw a Tiger no one had imagined — the women, the lies, the end of the fairy tale marriage to a beautiful Scandinavian former nanny for one of the other golfers on the Tour.

One more celebrity who’d imploded. End of story.

Except that it wasn’t.

Like most American males, I have long had a fascination with Tiger Woods — the phenom who appeared on Mike Douglas at three; who destroyed all college competition while at Stanford; who won in unimaginable ways; and who brought fitness to golf, wiping away the idea that the sport was only for rich, fat white guys.

Everyone thought he’d surpass Jack Nicklaus and win more majors than anyone, and then suddenly he was a punch line.

I’ve read so many books about Tiger — how he’s not the nicest person, how he doesn’t have the social graces, how he abandons the people who put their faith in him.

And I don’t care about any of that.

I read his victory yesterday at Augusta as the ultimate all-American redemption story, and, oh, how we Americans love redemption.

My personal feeling is that he simply got tired of being Tiger Woods, the billionaire corporate spokesman who never had a childhood and never really knew how to be an adult.

So he had no choice but to blow the whole thing up, his marriage and family, alas, part of the wreckage.

I’ve never met Tiger Woods and I don’t need to meet him. What I took away from yesterday was that he came back to golf because he wanted to win for his own sake, not because his father expected him to win, and not because American Express and Rolex were his sponsors.

This one was just for Tiger.

He wanted to win, and he won. After eight surgeries on his spine and knee. After all of the embarrassment he’d put himself, his loved ones, his sponsors, and his fans through.

Fourteen years after his last victory at the Masters, now the longest gap in the history of the tournament.

He came back.

And there he was, in the bright red Sunday mock turtleneck, and America felt young again.

Was this the greatest comeback in the history of sports? It’s got to be one of them. And I say that as one who listened to the 2004 Red Sox coming back against the Yankees.

Good on ya, Tiger. It’s nice to see you back where you belong.

Marching up the 18th fairway at Augusta, leaning on your golf club while waiting for your turn to hit, just the way you did that day at Calabasas.

You did this one for you.

And a whole lot of people, myself among them, rejoiced.

He is Odysseus in Book 24, booting the suitors (the younger golfers) from the home he shares with Penelope, Ithaca cleverly disguised as Augusta National’s 18th green.