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TALE OF A TIGER VOLCANO

Let us not be too hard on Tiger Woods. Whatever may be the explanation for his 2 a.m. auto-auto incident; whatever the purpose of his ironically golf-iron-wielding spouse; whatever his reportedly wavering in and out of consciousness, the narrative probably will proceed in vulcanologist terms.

Just as any volcano guarding against the excesses of its roiling magma, the relatively poor boy-cum-embodiment as a super-endowed corporation/ambulatory billboard/singular spokesperson for an entire sports industry / first-order philanthropist / international role model (Whew!) – he was, one day, bound to erupt. The amazing part is that it took so long coming.

Think back to a toddling Tiger, on TV, tapping Titelists with his tiny Tinker Toys. That is the image he has been required to sustain throughout his life. Having been trained to please a fawning but perfection-demanding golf-stage dad, Tiger had to maintain his squeaky-clean appearance throughout school, exclusive Stanford University, directly into golf super stardom and beyond. As the accolades, endorsements and international status ballooned, the cage of the intrepid Tiger shrank to the point of prohibiting room for pacing. The feline volcano had reached its boiling point.

Along with all of that, this kid of African American and Thai heritage was provided with no real ethnic identity upon which he could rely for support. and blowing off steam. With the further internationalization of his marriage, his family’s racial identification becomes more muddled in this far-from-post-racial society in which we live. Whatever the official reason happens to be for this overdue spewing of black and orange-striped lava, the real reason probably is as stated above.

Hold on, Tiger; you are only thirty-three; only developing a hardened cone. Save a little magma for future eruptions!