Written by Danielle Belton
Saturday, 05 December 2009 00:00
Tiger Woods will survive. Seriously. This will be a blip in the trophy case at the end of the day as long as he stays focused, never says too much, or when he does speak, says all the right things.
As long as the wife keeps quiet and everyone stays all Ninja like on everything. As long as there’s no “there there” he will be fine. Please ignore the Jazmine Sullivan style window busting. Just another day in golfer’s paradise. No worries.
I make no secret that I love Tiger Woods – the golfer. Tiger Woods the human being, I do not know. But when it comes to golf, he’s my man. I’ve followed him since 1996. I’ve loved him since 1996 and as the daughter of a sports fanatic he’s been fun to watch. But I’m a pragmatist at heart and I’m shocked, SHOCKED, by all these people who are shocked because the Tiger might have been sinking his balls into someone else’s hole. Mostly because I’m like, didn’t we see this coming?
I remember reading the Esquire interview with Woods in 1997 where he made a bunch of “black man dick so big” jokes and joshed around with hot blondes. I remember the PARADE of hot fembots he dated over the years until he finally settled down with Elin in 2004. And I can’t believe anyone who watched the parade of plastic boobs and former fashion models would be surprised that Tiger didn’t give up his love of female attention just because he wife n’ kidded up some Sweddish dame. She was the trophy, you see? The dime piece. The store front. Nobody said nothing about kicking the hoochies out of the back room.
What’s HILARIOUS to me is how delightfully trashy the bitties coming out of the woodworks are. We aren’t talking dimepeices. Hell, we aren’t even talking nickels. It’s just wave after wave of the Silicone Sallies of Sexting. Instead of saving infamous semen stained dresses, they hold on to digital Valentines of late night booty call dreams. They are all, by and large, interchangeable and available and more than happy to play the game – and cash in – now that the gig is up.
I love Tiger Woods, but you’ve got to think … how big could that ego be? Seriously. This isn’t a Michael Jackson situation, where Earl Woods beat the living shit out of his son and made him feel inferior while living off of his celebrity. This is the story of the Golden Child that could do no wrong, who had gifts that needed to be celebrated and cultured. Tiger’s parents built their worlds around him and his gifts. This was about ushering in the chosen one. Preparing him for the ascension to the throne of Jack Nicholas.
And after his parents sacrificed and labored for him, the world opened up and did the same. The PGA lives and dies by how Tiger is playing. The networks live and die by whether or not he is winning. Nike lives and dies by whether or not he is selling. He is unequivocally and for all intensive purposes – the man. And you get the fuck out of the man’s way. And if the man wants to drown himself in fake tittles and champagne and Vegas poker chips the man WILL HAVE his fake titties and champagne and Vegas poker chips because this is Tiger, Tiger Woods Ya’ll! Tiger Woods, ya’ll! Not Phil Mickleson or some other aspirant who will never, ever be THE MAN. The Man came. The man saw. The man married his trophy wife and wanted to have his other women too and no one said “boo.” That is how the world rolls and if you are surprised you are terribly naive, but the man that built Tiger Woods (that would be Papa Earl) and the team behind him (that would be his management) wanted it that way. They wanted you to believe the myth of a loveable, smart, nerdy guy who just happened to be the best at something, better at something, than anyone else in the world. They wanted you to believe that you could have that kind of money, that kind of power and still be the humble boy next door who just met the Swedish former nanny/fashion model of his dreams.
It was kismet! It was fate! It was real! But he was human and he did human things and exchanged humanly body fluids with other humanly people who weren’t the wife. And we don’t know what happened that night the windows got busted out, but we do know that this ain’t over.
But I wouldn’t worry.
Michael Jordan couldn’t keep it in the pants. His wife eventually left him. He’s fine. Magic Johnson couldn’t keep it in the pants, contracted HIV, married his long-suffering girlfriend. He’s fine too. R. Kelly PEED on somebody. Also fine. People are amazingly forgiving of celebrities. Especially those with penises. Especially those worth nearly a billion dollars in endorsements and still have years of playing time left in them. Most of golf’s fans are men. The golf reporters who live and die by having access to Woods want this mess to go away (lest they piss off THE MAN by being forced to report on it). It’s going to fucking die … eventually.
For now he’ll just have to let it burn like gonorrhea. But this too shall pass.
Danielle Belton is a writer and freelancer whose works have appeared in The Huffington Post, The American Prospect and Essence Online. She is the author of the blog: http://blacksnob.com/
Friday 30 July 2010
