An open letter...

Normally, I wouldn't get so worked up about this, but I am. Here goes...

Dear Tiger,

I've been a Tiger-Tailer from the very beginning. I followed you through your first victories. I've cut articles and pictures out of newspapers and magazines. I pinned the picture of you looking over the hill at your putt with your hands cupped around your eyes and the title "The Eyes Have It" on my door. I've admired every single Sunday red you've worn over the years. I was sad for you when your daddy died. I cheered for you when you sank the final putt to win your first Master's. I got your autograph when you could still meet your fans after the tournaments (I confess that I later sold said autograph, but it was for a good cause). I followed you when, quite frankly, you sucked for a little while and didn't win. And then you were married and had cute little Tigers and you had to get a new caddy when Fluff just couldn't cut it.

See, Tiger? Your fans have invested a lot in you. We made you famous, because, honestly, who admires golfers? And, I'm a GIRL! C'mon! I love coming home from church and watching the Sunday rounds with daddy. I walked all over Augusta National just to catch a glimpse. I mean, you're good, but we really like you because you aren't flashy and arrogant. Not like Greg Norman. Ew.

So, Tiger, let's be clear. If all these infidelity rumors are true, you will be filed in the Athletes I No Longer Respect folder. You'll find company among Pete Rose, Michael Jordan and Barry Bonds (his folder is full of fiery flames and gnashing teeth). Oh, and Greg, because he refuses to sign autographs and breaks clubs when he is mad.

Say it ain't so.


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