Singer/songwriter Jackson Browne sings "No matter how fast I run, I can't get away from me."
I think that timeless lyric is dead-on for Tiger Woods as he struggles today to right his golf game, moral compass, shattered self-esteem, and whatever tidbit is left of his personal and family life.
The old Tiger Woods had it made. Man, did he ever.
Unparalleled work ethic; exquisite talent; global travel; unrivaled riches; a doting, enabling mother; a palatial home and yacht and all their trappings; gorgeous and willing babes galore on the side; good buddies aboard the wild-side train who hear no evil-see no evil-speak no evil; and a loving, obviously gullible trophy wife and a couple beautiful, innocent children at home where he could go anytime to cleanse his conscience and validate his contrived pristine existence.
And then, with mind and body refreshed and conscience rinsed clean in his plush suburban cocoon, right back to the narcissistic litany of golf course and intercourse, and the continued vertical and horizontal domination of all those who stooped before him.
It's no secret to me why Tiger is struggling to regain his winning form on the golf course. After you've dedicated your entire childhood and adult life to the game, your swing is grooved and you trust it, and you feel good about yourself and being wrapped up in the meticulously groomed green grass and blue skies in some of the finest of places while playing a leisurely game, golf becomes pretty easy to excel in.
That is, until the mental part of the game needs summoned.
For, no matter how good Tiger might continue to have it since he was busted by a careless cell phone trail and harlots began popping up like microwaved Jolly Time, what trickles between his ears at crunch time is what really matters in his professional golf life - his lone, remaining meal ticket.
Picture the poor lad over an eight-foot putt, or having to pick clean a 200-yard six-iron under a tree and over a pond onto the green, or facing a daunting 325-yard tee shot down a 25-yard wide tree-lined fairway bordered with sand traps and rough thicker than Craig Stadler's waistline... and here come the distracting thoughts he tries so very hard to conceal, to bury forever with that old Tiger's evil corpse...
...I wonder what Elin's doing today? I wonder where she is or who she's with? I wonder how the kids are? Are they happy? Are they smiling? Do they still think of me? Do they still want to see me? Do they know what I did? What's she's telling them about me? Who's tucking them into bed at night, reading them bedtime stories, and tenderly kissing their forehead while saying goodnight, I love you? Who do they run to crawl in bed with when the thunder booms? Who's buying them that first bicycle or ball glove? Have they hidden or discarded our family and wedding photographs? Do they still want me around? Ever? What about Mom? Do they forgive me? Can they forgive me?
DO THEY STILL LOVE ME?
Whammo. The putt misses the hole by five feet. The six-iron hits the tree. The tee shot goes O.B.
And the anointed greatest golfer of all time never wins again.
That's when the real hell will begin for Tiger Woods, for he'll find that "no matter how fast I run,I can't get away from me."