The Importance of Being Tiger
by Andy Behrens

Professional golf is again entrenched on the wrong side of a social issue the rest of western civilization addressed decades ago. We knew professional golfers had no patience for disabled people clogging fairways, and now they've taken a similarly bold stance against another scourge of the links: women. Hootie Johnson, the chair of Augusta National, announced last week that the Masters had dropped corporate sponsors Citigroup and Coca-Cola for 2003 to shield the tournament from controversy surrounding Augusta’s unwillingness to admit a female member.

When the stodgy billionaires in charge of multinational corporations need protection from your hyper-conservative exclusionary policies, it might be time to adjust them. Augusta National is somewhere between the Heritage Foundation and the Taliban on the political spectrum, and they're drifting further to the right every day like a shanked tee shot. Even the Legion of Doom has a few female members.

The National Council of Women's Organizations has waged a righteous and public battle with Augusta National to drag golf at least into the 20th century, if not this one. Their obviously worthy cause has collided with the most immovable of objects, however — a collection of moneyed old white guys clinging tightly to Confederate principles. These hayseeds are not ready to abandon their devotion to male exclusivity simply because every free society says it's the right thing to do. They're a dadgum private club, and that means not you.

Realizing that logic is wasted on Augusta members, the NCWO has begun to pressure CBS, the Masters' television home, and premier professional golfers, hoping to enlist them as catalysts for social change. But in the minds of many sports commentators, there's only one figure in professional golf who could quickly reduce the Masters to the sideshow status of a celebrity pro-am, and his name isn't Hootie. It's Tiger.

If Woods chose to boycott Augusta, the biggest, most-watched golf tournament, in objection to its ugly and anachronistic traditions, his absence would certainly be a larger story than the tournament itself; it might even un-major the Masters. But so far, Tiger has exhibited only the chinless country club ambivalence that makes him a fabulous pitchman for Buick but a lousy spokesperson for equal rights — and really, that should be just fine with everyone.

Why? Because he's killing their golf course like it's a TV and he's Elvis.

The press has placed the burden of fixing several hundred years of golf inequality at the feet of Tiger Woods, and they're waiting for a scathing sound bite or purposeful, determined gesture of "I won't play there" defiance. It's not forthcoming. He's not that guy.

We shouldn't expect conscious social activism from athletes, not even from the alpha athlete of an age. The most explosive, powerful instances of social commentary made by athletes occur mid-game, where the kinetic poetry of athletic expression is louder and more articulate than any celebrity at a podium. Think of Billie Jean King pounding a tired, softening Bobby Riggs. Think of Jackie Robinson alone in the sun. Think of Muhammad Ali mauling Ernie Terrell, an opponent who insisted on calling him Cassius Clay, Ali screaming "What's my name, fool?" Or think of Tiger Woods at the Masters in 1997, a 21-year old black/Asian golfer, shredding — no, belittling — the whitest, holiest venue in his sport.

When it's Sunday and Tiger walks the 18th fairway of a course that probably wouldn't consider his demographic for membership, leading by ten strokes, thousands of raucous, adoring fans doing ungolfly things as they follow him — well, that's more than just a cool moment for Nike. His victories have electricity that Mickelson, Els and Love can't achieve. Not only does he carry the confident, controlled aura of athletic brilliance, his face in the foreground of those crowds still sparks a quick, stifled gasp: "He's not supposed to be there." Then we remember that he is Tiger Woods, the best there ever was, and we shouldn't be surprised. In the end, it doesn't matter that he showers clichés on sportswriters with a typical blend of professional dullness and barely contained arrogance. He doesn't have to ask publicly for social change, and he doesn’t need to boycott an event to make a point. He is the personification of a culture changing. Every time he wins at Augusta National, their obscene membership restrictions seem a little sillier.

The Augusta membership likely wouldn't mind seeing Tiger miss a few Masters, even if that means a boycott. It would temporarily restore their vision of a proper Masters' champion as pudgy, tanned and privileged. As out-of-time as Augusta's policies are, the stuffy octogenarians that belong to such clubs are fading. They're seated together in high-back leather chairs in dark rooms, smoking cigars as expensive as your car, and they're increasingly isolated. Tiger is largely responsible, and all he's ever done is shake their hands, break their records, take their green jackets and prize money, and promise to come back. So fine, they won't pay for the addition of a women's locker room during their lives. They know it's coming, just like Tiger, and they can't stop it forever. They should continue to receive enough negative exposure to make the members uncomfortable, though, and to keep slick mouthpieces like Hootie on camera, awkwardly defending their indefensible cherished traditions.

Meanwhile, Tiger should play, win, and return.

E-mail Andy Behrens at abehrens53 at hotmail dot com.