Play Nice Tiger
If the professional golfing fraternity were brothers and the watching public were their doting parents, then Tiger Woods would be our one errant child with the remainder striving for our attention with their good behaviour. And failing.
“That’s a lovely drawing Ernie but can’t you see I’m busy with your brother Tiger at the minute? Go and play with little Rory and make sure he doesn’t eat any more crayons?”
And as our offspring perform at the junior recital that is the World Matchplay tournament in Arizona, we’re all holed up in the headmaster’s office listening to our naughty son’s abject apologies.
There was nothing remarkable about Tiger’s press conference, maintaining the kind of po-face that has served him well on the rare occasions that a three-footer slipped by the hole. The most surprising element was the pronunciation of his wife’s name. It was as if he had set himself one of those sporting challenges to name as many tube stations as he could during his speech and had got stuck on Ealing.
I think we all would now like for Tiger to get back to doing what he does best. Not having sex with cocktail waitresses, although he is obviously pretty good at that.
Go and play nice with your brothers.