Tiger Woods is still the greatest golfer around, despite his recent bumblings and fumblings on and off the course. His impressive string of infidelities may have been kryptonite for his game, but I for one, was sort of glad to see the dark side of the man. Up to that point, I was concerned he was a robot, programmed for golf domination and little else. He was, in a word, bland. And nowhere is this evinced more acutely than in his logo, that pathetic, middle school graphic design combo of T and W. Really Tiger, is that all you got? I mean, your name is fucking Tiger! Woods! OK, really it’s Eldrick Tont Woods, but Tiger is yours. Why not use it? I mean, what’s cooler than having a Tiger for a logo? Surely, with all those PR flacks, somebody in some marketing meeting had to say, “Hey, how about we take the head of a Tiger and use that as the logo? Maybe it could be peeking out of a forest or something?”
What, were they afraid people would think of Tiger Schulmann’s Karate School?
(Now, that’s a seriously kick ass logo, btw, and I’m shocked, shocked, Tiger’s people couldn’t do something at least on par with that, pun intended. Like maybe the T & W coming together to form a tiger’s face?)
Did Eldrick say, “No, sorry, a Tiger…that’s just too suggestive and dangerous. Let’s go with this flack’s TW idea.” Perhaps he feared his inner beast, and saw negative connotations instead of positive ones (a predatory person rather than just a fearsome competitor), things that might harm his marketing potential (highly ironic in light of current revelations that he’s a Tiger in the sack, rending fresh stripper meat nightly). Instead of Tiger, he was going for Tigger, a staid, Disneyfied representation of the man that everyone assumed wouldn’t matter anyway, since his game was undeniably great. Why risk offending anyone?
Now, compare Eldrick with Greg Norman, the biggest, most successful, and charismatic golf star of his time, who shrewdly appropriated the nickname “The Shark” (and not just any shark, but a freaking Great White) simply because he was from Australia. Bloody brilliant, that. He slaps the shark logo over everything his Great White Shark Enterprises can crank out concerning golf and the “golfing lifestyle.” So, twofold brilliance: steal a nickname simply because you were born Down Under, and then apply it to the least threatening game on the planet. “I may be a 50 year old pudgy bank manager, but I have a Great White on my pleated pants. Now, watch this drive.”
Should we then, from something as seemingly innocuous as logo choice, delineate the larger distinctions between the men? Norman famously choked at Augusta, where Tiger has dominated like no other. Tiger famously choked on his marriage to a fellow golfer’s nanny with a bunch of cougars and shabby porn stars, and will likely lose half or more of his considerable fortune, not to mention untold dollars in lost or cancelled endorsements. Norman manned up and faced the media after his fiasco; Tiger waited months, letting the intrigue build (neither smart nor brave) and then gave a 5 minute statement without allowing questions. Weak. Norman has stamped everything from visors to vineyards with his shark logo, and has made more money off of his personality than he ever could from his game alone. (Two majors is nice for you and me, but Tiger has septupled that figure and will likely add a few more as he goes for G.O.A.T. in golf.)
Eldrick, for all his purported prowess, has Nike do the heavy lifting for him—he’s a brand accessory, not the brand itself, his TW subsumed by the Swoosh. Nike, in this case, is the tiger, and Woods is something decidedly more domestic. As such, the scope of his influence is quite narrow: golf stuff and little else. Planet Shark ranges from course design to restaurants to residential communities, and one gets the impression that Norman is resolutely in control of his image and actions, not simply mailing it in by proxy.
How would Norman have handled Tiger’s recent dilemma? Likely with a toothy grin and a wink: “Sorry people, if you want to talk about golf or my Australian Grille, I’m here for you. If you want to talk about my non sanctioned events, you’re out of luck.” At the very least, he would have been in command of the situation, not relying on a focus group to field test his faux contrition.
This is not to be construed as a Norman love fest; the guy actually comes off as a cocksure prick in my book, but he gains my grudging respect for having parlayed his specific golf talents into a thriving and diverse portfolio of post golf activities. Both have made a ton of money, and achieved varying degrees of golfing immortality, but as a measure of success, that’s insufficient. Tiger, with all his on course victories, mopes along from tee to green to practice tee and gated (and utterly boring) Orlando, enclave, in a circuit of dogged determination, but devoid of spontaneity, of life itself. Despite his talent, he remains a grinder, unsure of his place in Golf history, which is, apparently, the only legacy he cares about. His security is circumscribed by numbers: beat Jack’s record for majors, and then he can be the Man. If it says so in the record books, it must be so. He finds the hole, but misses the point.
Norman, I’m sure, could give a toss. Presidents on holiday stay at his crib (and when they fall down his stairs and rip their knees up, a la Bubba, they don’t sue), and people kowtow to his image to such a degree that there’s actually a Greg Norman Australian Prime beef product out there (a nod to his beefcake status I assume). Clinton goes where the party is, and it’s not at Tiger’s house (check his hotel room instead). In short, The Shark has fun. He surfs. He enjoys the good life without apology, with relish. He doesn’t waste time looking back. Norman and Woods both have their Gulfstream jets, but only the Shark is a pilot.
Eldrick needs to get on a new track. Divorce the wife: it’s a sham marriage at this point anyway and you’ll be excoriated by her regardless. You’ve got enough cash, so pay up and move on. Date a reality star or Sasha Grey instead. Do so without remorse, with gusto even. Maybe really take some time off from the game, and when you do come back, return to your original swing—you know, the one that scared the piss out of the field but also made you nervous because its aggressive form threatened the longevity of your career. You’re 35, and the time to win is now. Dominate and be done. Go for the gusto, grab Jack’s brass ring of 18 majors and sail away on the Privacy for a booze cruise to end all booze cruises. Have the balls to be a Tiger. And if you can’t quite be that, at least stop being such a pu**y.
