Inextricably Linked
As Tiger began making his way up the hill on eighteen, it was obvious to all who were watching that he knew. The steely-eyed stare that typically acts as gatekeeper preventing all that’s out from getting in and all that’s in from getting out had already packed up and gone home for the day. Tiger wouldn’t be around for the weekend. But that was just facts; it wasn’t what he knew.
Retrieved from Sportingnews.com
What he knew was he’d probably never be back. Not to compete at the Old Course in the British Open anyway. St. Andrews, unlike Pebble or Augusta, doesn’t regularly roll around. He knew, and we all knew he knew before he ever said it. Without focus standing at attention, the greatest to ever play the game leaked out the corners of his own eyes.
The applause for Tiger as he made the historic walk started early, found its rhythm quickly and then comfortably settled in, echoing off the stone structures, bouncing back from the sea. It wasn’t the typical “Yippee! Yay! How ‘bout that!” explosion that erupts in sports like a hiccup. It came instead with purpose, like a slow and steady escort, an arm to assist this freak of nature as he made his final climb. Those of us who were watching knew we were watching something that we’d remember and be glad we were there to see. We witness this type of fan envelopment on occasion when a basketball player fouls out of a game after an extraordinary performance or when a no-hits-allowed-yet pitcher leaves the mound. Fans rise and pay homage with a thunderous display of appreciation for a job done inexplicably well. Clapping is the thank you that rises from beyond the ropes. This one seemed never ending as it wafted through the wind.
What rose from inside the ropes last weekend, though, from those whose hands were also on the sticks, was what puts the game of golf in a category all its own. Somehow despite the money and the conversations about the money, and the commercialization of the game and the conversations about the commercialization of the game (the very same culprits, by the way, that attack all professional sports), golf has managed to still be a maker of men. It is a game that while refining those who play it, demands a certain sense of class and grace as the price of admission to play. Never has it been on more impressive display than when Tiger made his way across the Swilcan Bridge to the green atop eighteen.
Matthew Fitzpatrick and Max Homa, Tiger’s playing partners for the day, unceremoniously hung back. From the first tee box, the hole that runs adjacent to eighteen, Justin Thomas tipped his cap. Walking against the grain in the first fairway, Rory McIlroy, the guy on top the leader board and the clear-cut local favorite, did the same. You could almost see the lump in his throat as he and Tiger exchanged a weighted glance that carried almost more than it could hold. For a moment it wasn’t about who might or might not win. What it was about was what it’s always supposed to be about—the way you play the game.
Typically, competitive sports require such immersion in the moment that, for the player, the moment has to be experienced later, in retrospect. If the athlete allows himself to feel it, it can knock him off his game. With the end no longer in question, Tiger had the chance to feel the moment on his skin. The other guys? They were willing to go there, no matter what it might cost. The game rose above the contest. They were walking in the footsteps left by Nicklaus, Palmer, and Player. The greats who took the baton from Hogan, Snead and Nelson, and passed it on to them.
Retrieved from Skysports.com
The behavior of the brotherhood is legendary. And it isn’t just reserved for historic moments like this one for the G.O.A.T. It’s not uncommon to see golfers hang around to celebrate with the winner after a tournament. It’s happened regularly since competition first began, though cameras weren’t around to catch it in those days. We get a glimpse of it often now. Like the “brat pack” dogpile at Quail Hollow in 2017 when Justin Thomas, who had scarcely removed his cap and let go of the opposing caddy’s hand, got crushed by Jordan Spieth and Rickie Fowler. One month earlier, Thomas and Fowler had tackled Spieth at Royal Birkdale when he won. These guys who are all chasing the same trophy are not just elite competitors, they are also usually friends. And though it runs awry to how we tend to think of sports in America, “competitor” is not a synonym for a guy you’re supposed to hate.
Golf is a sport that is done best when you pay zero attention to how everybody else is playing. The margin of error is so tight you can’t afford to allow yourself to be anywhere other than exactly where you are. That’s what makes post-match celebrations so unique. The flood of camaraderie that explodes at the end comes seemingly out of nowhere. That’s what made Friday’s pause from all who were near enough to witness Tiger’s probable last stand at old St. Andrews so impressive. The field willingly walked out of their own respective bubbles to stand with him in his. They did that because of what he’s done and is still doing for the game but also because that’s what the game has taught them all to do.
As Tiger reached his destination on the final hole on qualifying day at St. Andrews, placing the cap he intermittently outstretched while walking back on top of his head, he seemed for a minute like a human. Like an everyday man standing in the yard on a summer night trying to hold on to the seconds like fireflies, knowing full well that he couldn’t catch them in his hand no matter how hard he tried. You could almost feel him yearn.
And you could almost feel them—his band of brothers who more acutely recognize his prowess than any of us watching ever could—yearn with him. Sometimes separation hurts the left behind and the leaver in equal parts. Clearly by the respect that was paid, they all knew they were losing something they’d never get again.
Ironically, golf—the consummate alone game—might do together better than any other sport. Those who compete do so belly button linked by an invisible string. Tiger’s respectful adieu pulled the curtain back. The connective tissue binding the players was impossible to miss. The fraternity of the intimate wouldn’t have it any other way.
P.S. If I were Rory I would have this framed on my wall…
Retrieved from Thecomeback.com