Tiger and Ted: American Love Stories
By Kennedy Moore
In 1960, John Updike wrote a New Yorker article titled, “Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu,” paying tribute to the baseball legend, Ted Williams. The piece is now recognized as perhaps the best sports article of all-time. It captures something ethereal about sports heroes like Williams––the last at-bat, in which he hit a home run out of Fenway Park. Reading about this beautiful but tragic end to Boston’s love affair with The Kid, I was struck by the similarities between Ted Williams and Tiger Woods. There is something about their icy relations with the media, adversity-fraught careers and acute level of success that profoundly matters.
My father used to tell me about Ted William’s legendary eyesight and his ‘Happy Zone,’ an imaginary square in the center of the strike zone that represented the only pitch locations he would swing at. I would stand in front of the hockey net in my driveway for hours, trying to find a way to apply this concept to ice hockey.
Later, I watched YouTube videos of Tiger Woods interviews, hanging on to every word as he described the nine shot shapes he practiced imposing on the golf ball and the equations he used to factor the adrenaline of big moments into his club selection. Something about their precision and Calvinist work ethic fascinated me. Ted Williams maintained a pristine batting average and ceaseless discipline at the plate through winning seasons and losing seasons.
With hundreds of millions of dollars in the bank and 14 major championships to his name, Tiger Woods kept the same icy, almost psychopathic, look in his eyes on Sunday at the Masters that we saw from the 18-year-old boy who first walked amongst the Augusta pines. These men didn’t merely play golf or baseball and they certainly didn’t just play for the money. They played the game of greatness. They didn’t only play against Phil Mickelson or the New York Yankees. Some argue that they played against Secretariat, Babe Ruth and Muhammad Ali. I don’t think the rest of us will ever understand why people like that do what they do. That might be what makes us love them so much. As John Updike said, “Gods do not answer letters.” I was nine years old when the Tiger scandal broke. I don’t remember whether or not I fully understood the situation. I wrote a letter to the Big Cat that read something like this:
Dear Mr. Tiger,
SportsCenter says you and your family’s mommy are fighting. My daddy and mommy fight sometimes, too. They always stop fighting soon. SportsCenter says mean things about you. James says they will love you when you start winning again. I hope you start winning so everyone can love you again. James and I still love you. James is my brother.
Your friend,
Kennedy
Tiger never answered my letter. It must have been discarded amongst the $60 million checks from the Nike corporation or the divorce papers from his wife Elin. I like to think that someone in his PR team took a pause, considering the note fondly, before tossing the red construction paper in a waste bin.
Tiger’s sex scandal culminated in years of cold relations with fans, media and even friends. He never signed autographs after tournaments nor did he interact with the media more than his endorsements required. Ted Williams had a similar relationship with the world. He despised the publicity of professional sports. He refused to tip his hat to the crowd and was pitted in a perpetual war of principle with the media. Even in his last game, he looked down at the turf solemnly, refusing to acknowledge the Fenway faithful. If Tiger had lived during Ted’s time he might have been able to keep the same level of privacy. I used to watch the police cams of Wood’s DUI, helicopter footage of Tiger lying in his driveway on Thanksgiving morning.
Tiger has been much more benevloent since his recent comeback. He signed autographs and told dad jokes during long press conferences. A Disney cartoon tiger was replacing the apex predator that I grew up watching. At the British Open, Tiger was on the prowl for the first time in years. On his way from the range to the first tee, the cameraman lingered on him for a moment too long. A row of small children waited eagerly with hats, posters, and sharpie markers. Tiger waved for security to remove the children. With one sweeping motion of his hand, he wiped away any visions of a new Tiger. Some part of me, deep down, was silently happy.
As John Updike said, “Nevertheless, there will always lurk, around a corner in a pocket of our knowledge of the odds, an indefensible hope, and this was one of the times, which you now and then find in sports, when a density of expectation hangs in the air and plucks an event out of the future.”
After leaving for the Korean War during the prime of his career, Ted returned to major league baseball only to battle through years of missed championships and endless injuries. While Ted gave two of his prime years to his country, Tiger gave four years of his career to his addictions. The addiction to practice that made him so great eventually took a toll on his spine. At the same time, addictions to painkillers and sleeping pills, as well as personal moral failings, ravaged him off the course. I watched the Dubai Desert Classic on TV, head in hands, as Tiger swung his driver violently and dropped to his knees. On the internet, I could watch the police cam of Tiger’s DUI, helicopter footage of Tiger laying in his driveway on Thanksgiving morning.
After all of the years of heartbreaking losses, and injuries, Ted Williams made it to home plate at Fenway Park for the final at-bat of his career. A 28-year-old John Updike sat behind the Orioles dugout. There was something fatalistic about the scene. Maybe the best sports writer of all time, at the outset of his career, collided in time and space with one of the greatest moments of his lifetime.
As The Kid walked to the plate for one last time, the crowd maintained a biblical roar until the pitcher drew back his arm to throw. The first pitch was low. The crowd tried not to get its hopes up for what would likely be an anticlimactic end to their love affair with Ted. The second pitch was in the happy zone, and Ted belted it over the right field wall, and into the cannon of Boston religion.
At the 2018 Tour Championship, Tiger walked down the 18th fairway with a two-shot lead. The outnumbered security guards gave way as thousands of fans broke through the ropes that lined the fairway. Like Moses walking through the parted sea, Tiger led the mass of fans down the stripe of Bermuda grass fairway. He tapped the ball into the cup and raised both hands in the air to the crowd. As he tipped his hat to the crowd, his lip began to quiver as he fought back tears. People everywhere were filming the moment on their iPhones. No New Yorker columnists were in the crowd. I called my father on the phone to revel in the moment. Tiger had seemingly done the impossible: turning back time.
But we both knew deep down that this wasn’t true. He probably was not going to win another major; his quest to catch Jack Nicklaus in the majors count was still likely dead. The Tiger we once knew was still gone. There were still no real gods; Tiger certainly wasn’t one, but for a few moments, he made us believe there were again.