It was around four-thirty this afternoon, and Gretchen was getting ready to leave, as a matter of fact. She had her coat on when the call came in, but being the loyal soul she is, the telephone on my desk rang.
“Mr. Collins,” she told me, “I have some pitiful dork who says he’s named Eldrick Tont Woods on Line Two. He keeps rambling on about his girlfriend or something and he – I don’t know – he doesn’t have an appointment, plus, he sounds kind of retarded.”
“I know,” I agreed. “But despite that, I have it on good authority that he’s actually somewhat intelligent,” I assured her. “I was just doing some research for Monday’s appointment with the British plenipotentiary for antiquities. It’s certainly not urgent – nor am I in here with a client at the moment. Put the poor devil on.” And she did. After which, she left for happy hour in Adams Morgan.
Woods: Is this Tom Collins?
Tom: It certainly is, Mr. Woods. How can I help you?
Woods: Ah, well, uh, I heard that you’re a pretty smart guy, and that you helped that sheikh from Dubai with all the wives out, and he was pretty satisfied with your advice about female trouble and stuff, you know, so I thought I’d give you a call.
Tom: I see. Where did you hear about me?
Woods: In the clubhouse at a golf course, for Christ’s sake, where do you think?
Tom: Sure. Makes sense. So I hear you and the little lady are undergoing “intense marriage counseling” which is taking place at your home, several times a day.
Woods: Tell me about it! I just got a twenty minute break between sessions, and then I have to go back in the house and listen to some more [expletive] from that [expletive] marriage counselor about how this is all my [expletive] fault! What’s more, I’ve already been [expletive] in the [expletive] for twenty [expletive] million [expletive] dollars, plus a complete, [expletive] top-to-bottom [expletive] re-write on our [expletive] pre-nup!
Tom: Well, gee whiz, that’s a shame, Mr. Woods, but…
Woods: Call me Tiger.
Tom: Okay. Golly, Tiger, Elin Nordegren certainly looks like a nice, healthy, attractive woman to me – and, I might add, to many millions of other objective and impartial observers. Furthermore, here she’s gone and borne you two fine, beautiful children, ages nine and twenty-six months, too. Frankly, sir, a lot of people are wondering if you’ve still got all your buttons, forsaking her and them, gallivanting around with Los Angeles cocktail waitresses, New York party girls, Las Vegas nightclub managers, and so forth…
Woods: So forth? Who [expletive] told you?
Tom: Excuse me?
Woods: About numbers four through seven!
Tom: Nobody. I’m just notorious for my ability to guess things.
Woods: Well, you can stop [expletive] guessing, right now, okay?
Tom: Sure. But I certainly hope there’s no truth to that claim you and the New York party girl took prescription drugs to enhance the pleasure of your… dalliance.
Woods: No [expletive] truth to it at all!
Tom: Well, that is definitely a relief to hear.
Woods: Collins, I just don’t [expletive] get this! You got football, you got basketball, you got baseball – little kids watch those! And what’s more, little kids worship the athletes who play those games! Me? I play [expletive] golf! You see any children gathered around the TV set, watching the [expletive] Golf Channel? No! So can you explain to me, why it’s all right for guys who play football, baseball and basketball to go out on their wives for some strange, maybe get drunk, smoke a joint, snort a few lines even, wreck their [expletive] SUVs, lie around snoring on the pavement with no shoes on – I mean, what the [expletive] ever, man – how come they get to do that, huh? Aren’t they supposed to be [expletive] role models? Who the [expletive] am I supposed to be a [expletive] role model for, huh? Doctors? Dentists? Lawyers? Congressmen? Senators? Architects? Engineers? CEOs? Stock brokers? Investment bankers? [Expletive] financial derivative traders? [Expletive]! Come on, man, who the [expletive] plays [expletive] golf, God damn it? You know any little kids down there in Washington who can afford to join the [expletive] Burning Tree Golf Club?
Tom: Burning Tree in Bethesda? That’s six thousand, four hundred yards. Rated seventy-point-eight, with a par seventy-one, which is a very solid match. The slope dope is one hundred twenty-two, the greens excellent to outstanding.
Woods: [Expletive]! Have you even been listening to me?
Tom: Of course I’ve been listening to you; and I understand your frustration with what you perceive to be the inherent unfairness of the situation. But dwelling on such matters isn’t going to help you solve your problems. Tell me, how much money did you pay Rachel Uchitel, anyway?
Woods: I can’t discuss that.
Tom: Well, whatever it was, you made history when forking it over got Gloria Allred to cancel Rachel’s press conference.
Woods: Making history is something I’m pretty familiar with.
Tom: No doubt. So how does it feel to have been where A-Rod and Derek Jeter went?
Woods: A-Rod? Derek [expletive] Jeter?
Tom: Oh, you didn’t know?
Woods: No, and maybe I’d rather not.
Tom: How about Oprah?
Woods: That fat old [expletive]? Why would I want to [expletive] that?
Tom: No, no, I meant, she wants you to go on her show.
Woods: And do what?
Tom: Explain yourself, I imagine.
Woods: Well, imagine something else.
Tom: Don’t be so sure. You might change your mind if things get worse. She could rehabilitate you.
Woods: Rehabilitate me? What am I, some dumb inbred cracker from Dixie who joined the Marines got two of his legs blown off in Iraq?
Tom: Hey, don’t scoff. You might be lucky to get out of this with all three of yours, Tiger. Sure, Oprah’s asking you on the show to get ratings, but one hand washes the other, you know. So how do you feel about not showing up at the Chevron World Challenge in Thousand Oaks, California? You were the official host of that tournament, weren’t you?
Woods: I… I couldn’t face… I mean, I couldn’t take… ah, [expletive], I don’t want to talk about it, okay?
Tom: Sure, fine, no big deal. What’s this business about your wife getting you out of the wreck by bashing in the rear window? Weren’t you in the front seat when your Cadillac Escalade hit that tree?
Woods: Hey, wait a minute. Something’s not right here. You’re white, aren’t you?
Tom: Ah, yes, I guess I am.
Woods: And you’re over thirty, too?
Tom: Correct.
Woods: And you’re middle class, right?
Tom: Well, here in America, the migrant farm workers, the homeless and the people who live in housing projects, they’re poor. The rednecks, they’re working class. People like you, Bill Gates, Warren Buffett and the Rockefellers, they’re rich. Everybody else, whether they live in Great Falls, Virginia or Flint, Michigan, is middle class. So, in that sense, yes, I’m middle class.
Woods: Okay. You’re white, you’re male, you’re over thirty and you’re middle class. There’s definitely something wrong.
Tom: Like what?
Woods: We’ve been talking for like, five minutes, and you haven’t asked me for anything with my autograph on it. You haven’t hinted that I can [expletive] your wife or your daughter if I want to, and you haven’t tried to finagle a golf game with me.
Tom: Tell me, Tiger, what do you think of bass fishing?
Woods: Bass fishing?
Tom: Yeah – you know – thirty-thousand dollar boats, ten-thousand dollar engines, twenty-five hundred dollar fishing rods, thousand dollar tackle boxes stuffed with hundreds of fifty, sixty, seventy-dollar lures – and up, way up, to a grand each, for that matter; five-thousand dollar fish finder radar rigs, eight hundred dollar bottles of fish attractant pheromones, not to mention the lumbering, monstrous gas-guzzling hemi-powered Ford or Chevy trucks to pull the bass boats and their trailers to where the bass are; yeah, the whole shootin’ match, lock, stock and barrel, Tiger. What about that bass boat fishing?
Woods: I… uh… well, I think it’s totally stupid. Everybody knows bass boat fishing is a big redneck fetish, and it’s obscene. All those married men with children – families to support – put a roof over their heads, feed them and clothe them and all that. But what do those bums do? They go out and blow a huge wad of cash on a so-called “sport” that they can only do half the year, anyway. If you ask me, the whole thing is nothing but an excuse for men to get away from their wives, hang around with their buddies, get drunk and swap lies.
Tom: And that differs from golf in what way?
Woods: [Expletive]! That’s it! I could feel something was wrong! You don’t like golf!
Tom: Hate it.
Woods: [Expletive]! This has got to be the first time in over fifteen years that I have had a conversation with somebody who didn’t want to get down on their knees and [expletive] me because I’m the best golfer in the world!
Tom: You have my word, Mr. Woods, that I have no difficulty believing that.
Woods: This is a very, very strange feeling.
Tom: Also probably one you should experience.
Woods: Why?
Tom: In order that you get some perspective on how warped your life has become.
Woods: Warped? What do you mean, “warped?” I hit a five hundred and twenty-five yard drive at Kapalua! I’ve been named PGA Player of the Year twelve times! I have ten Byron Nelson Awards! Ten! I’ve been named Sports Illustrated Sportsman of the Year five times! I won nineteen professional major golf championships and eighty-one PGA Tour events! I was the youngest player ever to get a Grand Slam! Twice! I’m [expletive] divine you [expletive]! I can knock a little white ball into a hole in the ground better than anyone who has ever lived! And for that, I’m a [expletive] billionaire! Don’t you get it? I’m superhuman! I’m a [expletive] god, and people have to do what I want, when I want it! Which part of “I am a superhuman golf divinity” is it you don’t understand? “I?” “Am?” “A?” “Superhuman?” “Golf?” or “Divinity?” What the [expletive] is the matter with you, anyway?
Tom: With me?
Woods: Ah, [expletive]! [Expletive] off!
Tom: Right, Tiger. Nice apology on your Web site. And if I was a golf moron, I’d probably believe it, too.
Woods: Eat [expletive]!
Tom: Nah, I’m having too much fun watching you eat crow.
Woods: [Expletive]!
Tom: Takes one to know one.
Woods: [Expletive] my [expletive]!
Tom: Really? Why don’t you get one off your harem girls?
Woods: [Expletive] [expletive] [expletive]!
Tom: Same to you. Have a nice day. Oh, by the way, is this really Tiger Woods, or just some demented lunatic who thinks he’s Tiger Woods?
Woods: [Expletive] your [expletive] [expletive]!
Tom: My, my, aren’t we imaginative? ‘Bye!