All is forgiven after two days on Tiger Tour

I tried to do this in person, Tiger. I really did. I tromped around Greenville, and skulked around a cool fly shop, just waiting for you to come in and muckle onto a few green drakes and a handful of Hornbergs or two.

You never showed up, so I guess this is my last resort.

An Open Letter To Eldrick “Tiger” Woods (or anyone who looks a lot like him):

Dear Tiger,

I’m really disappointed that we didn’t cross paths when you were in Maine (or Alaska, or wherever it was you ended up). And man, was I prepared.

You see, Tiger, I’ve been paying very close attention ever since you started treating the PGA Tour as your own personal chew toy.

I figured that you could teach me a few things. And boy, was I right.

Remember when you wrote that instructional piece in that golf magazine you contribute to?

Well, ever since I learned how to Tigerize My Swing For Extra Distance (or something like that), I’ve been an entirely different player.

With my new extra-wide stance and all those other tips you showed me, I’ve been swinging from my butt and crushing tee shots that land three fairways away from their intended target, instead of settling for those measly two-fairway-away high-and-mighties I used to hit.

And you know how you retooled your swing before the Masters, just so you could hit those long, sweeping draws that Augusta demands?

That sounded great! Ingenious!

I went directly to the range and perfected the high-velocity snap hook I knew would help me avoid the trees on the seventh hole at Pine Hill. (You know what? There’s great grass over on the far side of the eighth fairway. And the approach is much easier from there).

I’ve taken to wearing red shirts on Sundays, just like you, to show that I’m serious about winning the tournament … or catching a togue … or eating a bushel of hot dogs. … whatever it is that I’m up to that particular week.

But I go up to Greenville, and … and … nothing. No Tiger. No trace.

We could have had a good time, you know. And there’s even a precedent you could have cited, when people asked why you were hanging out with a chubby sportswriter from Bangor.

Remember Ted Williams? The Splendid Splinter? Mr. .406? Teddy Ballgame of the Major (we’ll leave that word out) Leagues?

Well, he used to fish with our paper’s most illustrious sportswriter, the late Bud Leavitt.

You’ve got a reputation as a guy who respects history, so when I headed to Greenville from my own fishing-and-golfing midweek weekend in Madawaska, I did so with a truck full of supplies and a grin on my face.

I had two trolling rods, a fly rod, two tackle boxes and five or six or seven reels. (I bought another reel while I was waiting for you, mostly because Joanne at the fly shop told me I had to, and after a couple hours of aimless browsing, she gets pretty persuasive).

And of course, I had my sticks (You’ve got a tiger for a head cover? I’ve got a bear! See your influence?). I even packed a few leftover beers, just in case you wanted to sit around the fire and trade war stories.

Like, you could tell me what it’s like to win four consecutive majors, and then I could tell you how much it hurts when you thin a 4-iron off a root that caroms back off your own head. Fair trade, right?

Apparently not. And after two days of my own personal (and fruitless) Tiger Tour, I’m a bit tuckered out … and depressed.

But I’m still willing to forgive and forget, Tiger. (I may be a sarcastic pain-in-the-rump, but I don’t hold a grudge … much). I’ve included the information you need below. And I’ll leave my truck packed, just in case.

John Holyoke is a NEWS sportswriter. His e-mail address is jholyoke@bangordailynews.net