Date: Fri 22-Aug-1997

Publication: Bee

Author: KIMH

Quick Words:

PGA-Tournament-Column

Full Text:

Kim Harmon/On Sports - Trip To PGA Tournament

B Y K IM J. H ARMON

MAMARONECK, NY - A glimpse . . . that's all. Everyone just had to have a

glimpse. They pushed a little. They jostled a little more. They insinuated

themselves between two people and tried to get up close, to the rope.

Just a glimpse . . . that's all.

And there he strode, fresh from the putting green, through a gauntlet bordered

by ropes and patrolled by uniformed police officers. His face was silent,

implacable, intentionally oblivious to the raucous cheers and applause that

drenched him like a summer rain.

Time stood still.

He passed through.

And was gone.

Then just like that, real time started up again. The gauntlet was gone. The

traffic flow across the tarmac began to stream to points elsewhere. The crowd

dispersed.

Most members of that crowd were pleased - some perhaps so much so they could

be called rapturous.

They got their glimpse.

Their glimpse of Tiger Woods.

Like moths to a porch light - heck, like the religious to a sighting of the

Virgin Mary - they make their pilgrimages to the golf tournaments . . . last

weekend being the PGA Championship at Mamaroneck, New York. All to get a look

at a 21-year-old phenomenon who has a swing crafted in heaven and all the

money (about $100 million) to go with it.

I understood it was happening, but I had to see it for myself. Down to the PGA

Championship we went, with my intent being to write a piece on the Tiger Woods

cult of personality, the rabid fascination the people have with this young

superstar.

Problem was, I didn't realize I was member of that cult. Once I climbed aboard

the shuttle, heading up the hill to Winged Foot, I realized I wanted to catch

a glimpse of Tiger Woods just as much as everyone else. I had to see this kid.

I had to feel whatever aura that radiated from him.

It took an hour or so. As soon as we stepped off the shuttle, I heard someone

proclaim, "Tiger tees off at 1:07." Aah, a pilgrim. A member of the cult. We

headed for the first tee, stopped off to see Freddie Couples and Newtown caddy

Joe LaCava, and then set up a stance at the tent behind the grandstand at the

first tee box.

There he came.

Focussed. Intense. Closing himself off to the cheers and the applause.

Affording himself, though, a few seconds to smile and shake hands with the

champ, Evander Holyfield, who stood off to the side near the grandstand

waiting to see the kid.

I began to examine why I - like millions of others - were so enraptured with

Tiger Woods that I would stand for over an hour (later standing and then

sitting for about 90 minutes) just to catch a look at this young man. I

suppose it has a lot to do with envy - he is young, loaded with talent, and

affluent to the point of absurdity. For most people, I think it ends right

there; envy is a strong emotion.

For me, though, it is also because of the persona. Tiger Woods has become an

icon - already - and is stitching himself a little spot on the fabric of

Americana. He is a character. A legend. Someone that people will be telling

stories about years and years from now.

Like Ben Hogan.

Jack Nicklaus.

John Daly.

It's a cult of personality . . . and we are all willing members. No need to be

stolen away from the PGA tournaments and deprogrammed back into normal

society.

It's all rather funny, too, or sad. Depends on how you look at it.

After Tiger blasted his tee shot down the heart of the first fairway last

Friday, hundreds of people lined the ropes in order to see this young man (who

looked really small from one side of the fairway) hit his approach to the

green.

Yep, hundreds of people watched that.

Behind us about thirty yards, on the ninth hole, Ignacio Garrido of Spain was

contemplating a terrible lie in the rough. On the other side of the fairway,

Doug Martin of Edgewood, Texas, was also looking at a shot from the rough.

Their gallery numbered exactly two. Four when Tom Wyatt and I walked over.

Garrido punched out of the rough and got a brief moment of applause and a

claim of, "Nice shot," from the gallery that had grown to 15 . . . all because

Tiger Woods had yet to hit his approach.

When Garrido handed his club to his caddy, the gallery flocked back to the

first fairway.

It is not the golf we go to see. Garrido hit a terrific shot out of the rough,

but it was forgotten because Garrido is, well, a nobody. He isn't Tiger Woods

or John Daly or Jack Nicklaus or Greg Norman. He isn't even Freddie Couples of

Phil Mickelson or Ernie Els.

Garrido went off to his third shot and no one followed him.

It is not the golf we go to see. It is the stars . . . the legends. As if, at

some future point in our lives, we can look back and tell our kids or

grandkids that we saw Tiger Woods.

And I know now that if Tiger keeps his legend alive, improves it to the

stature that Jack Nicklaus now nurtures his, then that is exactly what I will

be doing.