Sunday, April 9, 2000
Despite early woes, Green Jacket
not out of sight for Tiger
By Bill Lyon
Knight Ridder Newspapers
(KRT)
AUGUSTA, Ga. - Tiger Woods is preparing
to chip from just off the green of No. 12 at Augusta National,
in the third round of a mildly important tournament known as the
Masters, when a golf ball splats onto the green.
The ball is a gate-crasher that has been
delivered in a screaming and majestic slice from the Augusta Country
Club, a portion of whose commoner acreage dares to bump up against
the scented and sainted premises of the hallowed home of the Masters.
"It was," Tiger says, grinning
in appreciation, "like something out of Caddyshack II."
Woods looks over the fence for the author
of the errant shot. Nothing. No cart. No sheepish golfer in a
Day-Glo lime-and-purple ensemble come to apologize and offer a
penitent brew. No, he is probably screeching his way to the state
line, certain the constables are in heated pursuit.
Now here comes the supernatural part: Later
Woods is asked, lightheartedly, whether he had happened to notice
the brand name of the offending ball before a marshal picked it
up and took it away. And without so much as a blink, he replies
that indeed he had, and proceeds to identify the brand.
By his own estimate, Woods never got within
20 feet of the ball. So how could he identify it so confidently
from such a distance?
"By the dimple pattern," he responds.
Your mouth drops so open that a 747 could
be parked inside.
Did he just say by the pattern of the dimples?
Why, yes. Yes, he did.
It has been said of Ted Williams, the last
man to hit .400, that he could see the stitching on a pitched
baseball, that he could read license plates from 100 yards away,
and most incredible of all, could read the label on a record while
it was spinning, at 78 revolutions per minute, on a turntable.
(Note to young readers: Ask your grandparents what a record is.)
Tiger Woods is known to be prodigiously
gifted as it is, and now we learn, from a casual remark, that
he has uncommon vision as well. It is true that unlike Williams,
the ball he strikes is not moving, but with his special sight
the fairways must yawn as wide as the Mississippi, the flagsticks
must loom like the Alps, the cups must look larger than bushel
baskets ... and he can tell the brand of a golf ball by the dimple
patterns!
It is not such an extraordinary thing, he
insists, with a dismissing flick of a wrist. Every pro can tell
you, from the pattern or from the color, he claims. Really. Each
ball is, he says, "uniquely different."
Well, unless they float or don't cut, most
of us can't tell the difference. Most of us non-pros, from 20
feet, aren't sure whether it's a golf ball, tennis ball or baseball
we're looking at.
Tiger identified his current vision as 20-15.
He used to wear contacts, and then last October underwent laser-eye
surgery - and proceeded to win the next five tournaments in which
he played.
And Saturday, just about the time you thought
his chances of winning this tournament had shriveled like an azalea
gripped by overnight frost, he shot himself squarely into the
hunt.
He put up a 68 on Saturday. It could just
as easily have been a 62. Just as he had caught a huge wave of
momentum and had birdied four straight holes and was bulleting
into Amen Corner, he was sent to the clubhouse, there to sit out
a 125-minute weather delay.
Asked how he whiled away the time, he smiled
and said: "Ate. Just ate, and listened to some old guys tell
some great stories."
A younger, more impatient Tiger might have
fumed and returned with a hail of bogeys.
While he waited, listening to old lions
tell charming exaggerations, the wind came up - and so would the
scores - and the temperature dropped. The wait was long enough
to congeal swings.
"One of the great things about being
young," Tiger said, smiling again, "is that I didn't
stiffen up."
No, he didn't. Even though he had lost the
rhythm of the game, the flow of his swing, he was able to get
himself plugged back in, and he finished his round with two birdies,
a bogey and five pars. He was able to make adjustments on the
go, to call an audible on himself, which is the mark of a superior
athlete, no matter what sport.
He had reckoned before the round began that
he needed to get to even par for 54 holes to still have a reasonable
chance Sunday. That meant shooting a 69, and while such a number
would appear to offer no challenge to Tiger, the surprising fact
is that he had not shot in the 60s in 10 straight rounds at Augusta.
That 68 got him to 1 under - and not that
far out of the lead. The leaders, who teed off as Tiger was finishing,
had to contend with howling winds and numbing cold. The leader
board came back to him in a rush.
On Sunday, Tiger gets to sleep in, can nestle
under the covers while the leaders have to grump their way into
the dawn mist and chill and complete their third rounds, and then
wait, regroup and brace for the final 18.
Tiger shot 75 the first day. No one shoots
75 and wins the Masters. He followed that with an indifferent
72. Then he turned on the TV and heard it said that he was done,
and that, he said, annoyed him. The talking heads had dissed the
Tiger. He let the anger cool overnight, used the residue to motivate
him in the third round.
Now, the rest of them can't help but notice
him. The one they fear, the one they thought had gone away, has
a red number after his name at last, has his putting stroke back,
and has an enormous memory bank of so many whooshing finishes
from which to draw Sunday.
And, of course, the rest of them know that
he lurks.
Tiger can play the psych game. Shrewdly,
he made sure to remind all the cameras and all the tape recorders
how big leads have a way of evaporating in major tournaments.
He singled out last year's British Open, in which a 10-shot lead
on the last day couldn't hold up.
And then, in a way that reminded you of
Jack Nicklaus at his intimidating best, Tiger evoked the ghosts
of Sunday back nines at Augusta National, when weird and wondrous
things have a way of happening.
"Going into the final round, anything
can happen," he said. "And it has happened, as you've
seen in the past here. In the past, 30 (on the back nine) makes
up more than just 6 shots."
His tone said 30 was exactly what he could
see for himself.
Just as plain as dimple patterns from 20
feet.
(c) 2000, The Philadelphia Inquirer.
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