AUGUSTA, Ga. — The ground was quaking, azaleas were shaking, and all that separated Tiger Woods from a stampede of spectators at the Masters was a security guard way underpaid at $8 per hour.
“Tiger’s coming? Oh, Lord help me,” said Joseph Drake, hired to keep the peace as bankers, physicians and otherwise dignified adults chased Woods around Augusta National. “Heaven help us all.”
Golf has a problem.
Tigermania has grown so huge that the birdies and eagles no longer count for much unless it’s Woods making the gallery roar.
The Masters has lost its relevance, and a grand celebration of golf is shuffled underfoot when the headline after 54 holes of the sport’s premier event reads: Woods trails leaders by seven strokes.
“I’m pretty proud of the fact I got myself back in the tournament,” Woods claimed Saturday, when the course brought the world’s No. 1 player to his knees in order to hit a shot on the second hole.
Woods struggled off the tee and stabbed at putts until his third consecutive round in the 70s mercifully ended, but not before constant groans turned his gallery into one giant, movable pity party.
What went wrong?
“Well,” replied Woods, setting up his listening audience for the punch line, “I didn’t shoot a 65 or 64 today. Actually, I did. I just had to play a couple more holes.”
The Masters has now been divided into two distinct events.
There’s the exhibition of hero worship starring Woods.
And there’s the little golf sideshow for the other 95 competitors who were invited to fill the dead air on television between fact time for Tiger.
As the tournament leaders walked up the fairway after hitting the opening drives of the third round, no more than three dozen spectators followed them.
But as Woods played the adjacent eighth hole, the rush of humanity was reminiscent of Christmas shoppers at a New York department store on the day after Thanksgiving.
Here’s thinking CBS would be happier and nobody in America would notice if tourney officials decided to send the twosome of Woods and Phil Mickelson last off the No. 1 tee today for maximum TV exposure, despite the fact Tiger would have to stage one of the more improbable comebacks in the Masters storied history to catch Kenny Perry and Angel Cabrera, who are tied for first place with a 54-hole score of 11-under-par.
“A lot of things happen on Sunday at Augusta, and I would never put it past happening again,” said Mickelson, who, like Woods, is stuck at 4-under-par. “I remember when (Jack) Nicklaus won in ’86, he came back with a 65, and it didn’t look like it was going to be enough. But it didn’t even get to a playoff; he won outright.”
At age 48, Perry has a chance to become the oldest golfer to capture the championship of a major tournament.
But, in a star-crazed world fed by celebrity journalism, we no longer have the attention span for sweet, little stories to slowly take hold in our hearts.
We want our Tiger fix 2 4/7/365.
There is no denying he is an amazing athlete who has changed the face of golf. But am I alone in thinking that cheering for Woods is now so easy it feels a little like rooting for the house in blackjack?
Caught in a late-afternoon bottleneck of spectators inching through a narrow corridor between the ropes on the back nine, a fan being herded alongside me joked that if somebody yelled “There’s Tiger!” at that precise instant, it could be as dangerous as yelling “Fire!” in a crowded theater.
After seeing Woods dominate hearts and minds at the Masters despite not spending a single minute in first place, there are two unavoidable conclusions:
1) The pure love of the game has been trampled in golf’s rush for crossover appeal.
2) Nobody in America deserves a pay raise more than our friendly security guard, Mr. Drake.
Here is the one scene I will never forget from Masters Week 2009.
As a mob hustled for a peek at Woods near the practice tee, Drake smiled and directed the fanatics to calm down.
“Stay on the grass. Behind the ropes,” Drake said. “That means everybody. Except Tiger. He can go wherever he wants.”
The PGA Tour has turned into one big Tiger hunt.
That’s not sport.
It’s a zoo.
Mark Kiszla: 303-954-1053 or mkiszla@denverpost.com
