Exposure as false idol proves Tiger's naivete - and ours

We can't say he didn't warn us. Last summer, Tiger Woods ignited controversy and outrage by -- gasp! -- cursing on the golf course during the British Open. His behavior scandalized a nation that had bought into his mythic perfection, and when it demanded an answer, he said, "Unfortunately, I do make mistakes."

That seems utterly quaint in light of the whopper heard 'round the world. Like a troublesome hole on the golf course, Woods' mistresses keep inflating the scorecard. He started last weekend with a 3. He's currently up to at least a 4, maybe a 7. And just like that, one of sports' most worshiped idols has become the butt of more jokes than John Daly.

We've all seen this show before, of course. Tiger's ignominious tale is writ larger than most, for two reasons: an adoring public convinced of his infallibility, and an athlete unwilling to discourage such notions. That convergence set him up for a spectacular fall, but one that is unlikely to change athletes' behavior or the way Americans react to it.

More than perhaps any other pro athlete, Woods has inspired a peculiar cult of personality. His superhuman ability on the course, his legendary back story and his carefully managed image created a figure who made grown men behave like 12-year-old girls at a Jonas Brothers concert. They waited for Nike to release his latest shirt, then snapped them up instantly. Golfers and non-golfers alike spoke of him -- always on a first-name-only basis -- with a reverence the Dalai Lama would envy.

This conduct was on full display at last August's PGA Championship at Hazeltine, rendering nonbelievers like me speechless. The mere rumor of his arrival set off mad dashes for the driving range or the parking lot or the roped-off path from the clubhouse, where adults shoved and elbowed each other in the hope of seeing Tiger's back from 50 feet away. No sportswriter could leave the media tent without being interrogated about him; astonishingly, one man with a child in tow asked what it would take for me to give him my media credential so he could sneak into Woods' press conference. Either he thought kids got in free, or he was prepared to leave his son alone outside.

Tiger occasionally offered a wan protest to his deification. He named his showy yacht "Privacy" -- an oxymoron on the high seas -- and bemoaned the burden of celebrity. Still, he kept cashing the checks of his sponsors, who weren't paying him $123 million a year to be either solitary or ordinary. Woods' empire was built as much on his public perception as a pristine role model as it was on his indisputable skill with a club, and he seemed happy to play the part.

His exposure as a false idol proved both his naiveté and ours. "Personal sins should not require press releases, and problems within a family shouldn't have to mean personal confessions," Woods said on his website, a ridiculous statement from someone who made a fortune by selling a perfect image to a celebrity-obsessed culture.

As for the public, we keep feeding our addiction even as we recognize it. We want our sports stars to be like us, only without the annoying flaws. When we find out they have human weaknesses, we feel cheated or angry. We promise we're going to stop looking to athletes as role models, but we can't help ourselves. We're human, too, and we will always want to believe we can find an idealized version of ourselves on the baseball field or the tennis court or the golf course.

Woods' public penance must be particularly chastening for a man used to being revered. Enjoying the fall of the mighty has become a national sport; it's cheaper than golf, and you can play year-round. Within hours of the revelation of his affairs, the "Tiger Woods Christmas card" -- a fake photo of Woods, bruised and bloodied, next to his club-wielding wife -- was flooding into e-mail boxes around the world.

Googling "Tiger Woods" and "God" retrieves more than 8 million results, topped by the website www.tigerwoodsisgod.com. It announced this week that the First Church of Tiger Woods is disbanding after 13 years, having lost its faith.

His hard fall from grace proved that being worshiped isn't all it's cracked up to be. Now, Woods knows what the rest of us know: It's tough enough just being a mortal.

Rachel Blount • rblount@startribune.com