There are two parts to me, the golf fan. The first part is the one that smirked when Zach Johnson's putt was left the entire way on the last hole at Sherwood, the part of me that jumped out of my desk chair and pumped my fist when Tiger's putt went in. That's the part of me that live chatted 2011's Masters, begging Tiger's eagle put on the 15th at the Masters to go in. The part of me that watched the entire Monday playoff in the 2008 U.S. Open, watched his chip on 16th at the 2005 Masters roll and roll and roll… and then fall. That's the part of me that hazily remembers the 1997 Masters. I call that part of me "Optimist." Otherwise known as "Irrational."
The other part, "Realist," lives in a post-2009-Thanksgiving world. A world in which Tiger Woods destroyed himself. He's not Ben Hogan and a bus didn't nearly crush him late one night. He messed up. Post-2009 me, still a fan of Tiger's on-course achievements, has felt stupid for two years for not moving on.
What am I supposed to do? Every time I think he's done, he gives me the eighth hole at the Masters. Every time I think he's back he gives me the PGA. Then he looks wholly average at the Frys.com, and event he could have dominated just two years ago. Now this. He wins an 18-man event, his own event, and I'm supposed to think he's ready for 2012? He's ready to challenge Nicklaus? He's ready to tell Rory and Rickie "Eh, not yet guys?" I don't think so.
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