A dimpled solution for Tiger's autograph woes
By LARRY GUEST
Orlando Sentinel
ORLANDO, Fla. - Open letter No.2 to Tiger Woods...
Dear Tiger,
Here I am again, Ol' Meddler here, trying to tell you how to
run your life. You'll recall my note of advice on handling the
fallout from lamentable events like your escape last fall from
the Columbus, Ga., PGA Tour event and Haskins Awards dinner planned
in your honor. Here I am again, with a brilliant strategy - brilliant,
because I'm not the one who came up with it - for dealing with
all those young autograph hounds at tournaments.
This inspired solution comes compliments of the brains in my
house - my wife, Mary. She's a tax accountant, not a PR consultant,
so there's no bill attached. This one's on the house.
As you know, the PGA Tour sets up autograph tents where you're
encouraged to spend a half-hour or so after each round to sign
visors, programs, etc., for kids of all ages salivating to have
a piece of you. You can only accommodate a hundred or so, without
staying there through the late news. So you cut it off, understandably,
and many still in line go away disappointed, even angry.
Here's Mary's brainstorm: Before each tourney, while lounging
at home or in your hotel watching yourself on ESPN or playing
Monopoly with real money or reading all of my clever and insightful
columns, you could be signing golf balls. I'm sure your sponsor,
Titleist, would gladly provide the balls just for the goodwill
and exposure to all those potential hackers you've lured to golf.
Then after each round, you could distribute the pre-signed balls
to all comers in a matter of minutes.
Kids would love to have a Tiger-signed golf ball, particularly
if you flash your terrific smile as they file by. Act like you're
actually enjoying giving them out. No more ball-point pens jabbing
at you. It wouldn't have to be a tour-quality ball. Titleist might
even stamp your name or it, but you still have to sign. Fans want
to bond with you, not some imprinting machine.
This golf-ball diplomacy even has a nice by-product: It would
undermine the seamy and distasteful side of the process - those
pro memorabilia worms who, purely for commercial gain, often hire
kids to pester famous athletes. After only a few tournaments,
you will have passed out so many Tiger balls, their value would
be limited; after a full lap around the PGA Tour, there would
be thousands, rendering them commercially worthless - cherished
only by those bright little faces you will have charmed into becoming
permanent fans.
I know autograph hounds can be a royal pain. But if you don't
mind my saying so, Tiger, you have been brusque to fans in some
situations, welling up fears among the likes of your sage old
pal, Arnie, that you may turn off many of the new wave of golf
fans you've drawn to the game. But I've noticed signs you're coming
around on that front.
During the first round at Bay Hill, I happened upon two lads
from Clermont who staked out a strategic spot adjacent to the
putting green players' entrance and camped there for nearly two
hours ahead of your tee time. They copped signatures from Phil
Mickelson, Mark O'Meara, Ernie Els and other stars, but it was
your John Hancock they most coveted.
When the magic moment came, you ignored their ultra-polite
request and blew on by, at arm's length, without so much as acknowledging
their existence on the planet. The hurt on their faces suggested
they had just decided to shop for another hero as they ambled
off.
Two days later, they decided to give you one more chance. They
really wanted to be Tiger fans. After another two-hour wait in
that golden spot by the putting green, they again thrust out their
visors and asked politely. You declined, but this time you flashed
them a warm smile and said, "Right after my round. OK, fellas?"
They were thrilled. Tiger had spoken to them. To them!!! They
re-enlisted in your army. Imagine if you had tossed them each
a pre-signed golf ball. They'd have had to dash back to Clermont
for clean skivvies.
It takes so little to be gracious. And grace returns infinite
rewards.
Your meddling neighbor, Larry.
P.S. Don't tell her, but not all of Mary's ideas are this great.
Sometimes she comes up with screwball notions like saying our
lawn should never be tall enough to hide a Toyota, or that even
an exalted, bread-winning man of the house should learn how to
operate a dishwasher. The nerve.
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