Dubai: Throughout his highly televised press conference, prior to the Masters on Monday, Tiger Woods seemed to exude an aura of remorse but failed to hide his arrogance. Every word he offered as justification for his transgressions were laced with a similar pattern.
The verbal comebacks were a result of some serious prepping by his agents. Humility, it seemed he was told, will be your greatest asset. So go out and display it.
The world's best golfer resembled a cross between a beaten high school bully and the straying husband who had been caught with his pants around his ankles — on about 15 occasions at last count. He said he was sorry because there simply wasn't any other option. If there was, then the conceit that drives Woods would have ensured he took it and lived to fight another day.
Woods' self belief and strength lay stripped away as he subjected himself to the painful, unforgiving scrutiny of the media. It was his baptism into the world of intense stress. This was the reality check that he needed and not the 15-minute televised address that he made in the presence of his mummy where the press had been barred.
Full circle
On Monday they tore into him with a savagery displayed by hyenas — as they fight each other for bigger portions when preparing to feast on a big kill — eating into his conscience, probing the deep, dark recesses of his hitherto impregnable mind, looking for signs of extreme discomfiture. They took away chunks of his self-esteem with every question.
For many in that room it was almost as if life had come full circle. There were two ingredients that went into the making of the Tiger Woods legend: his flawless golf coupled with the support of the media.
The man who once treated questions from the fourth estate (dealing with matters strictly related to golf, since there was absolutely no inkling that he was mortal) with contempt and reserved his special, patronising look and tone for the hapless reporters who found that their brilliant queries had been invalidated and thrown back in the form of a counter enquiry (this was the way Woods treated press conferences) had resorted to calling them by their first names. It was all up close and personal.
"Okay. Well Christine."
"I know a lot of you in here are my friends and will always be my friends."
"You know Tom I fooled myself."
"Do you want me to answer the first part or the second part. You did a long winded one, Bro."
There they were gathered around the room, writers who had all contributed to the making of a legend and in front of them he sat, a lonely, pitiable figure — a myth.
In the past they had written about the steel in his character, his mind and his spirit. The very elements that were instrumental in fortifying Woods' impregnable defence (his eyes always had that glint, but on Monday they were lifeless) had been reduced to dust thanks to the incessant verbal carpet bombing.
He had forgotten that those who shape you are the only ones who can bring you down.
But Woods still has one more weapon his armoury: his golf. It is the only element that can be instrumental towards his resurrection. The man's character may have shrunk but his talent may not have been tainted as yet. It is the only tool that he can use in the exorcism of the demons that have taken ownership of his soul.
Smart enough
Woods is smart enough to know that his golfing skills have not deserted him yet. His self-belief, at least on this front, lies intact.
Just as he was beginning to wilt under the intense gaze of the press and in the eyes of those who peered into their TV screens all over the world to study his emotions the much awaited question was put forth.
Golf wise, what are your expectations this week?
"Nothing's changed. Going to go out there and try to win this thing."
There was a brief glint of hunger in those eyes. All he needs to do is find that roar.
