Dear Tiger,
You can heal now.
You’re free now.
That world of pressure on your shoulders—
from father, from fans, from the future?
Ball it up,
and toss it away
like yesterday’s sports page.
Turn a couple of those green jackets
into a robe,
Take the cleats out of those Nikes—
and presto! house shoes!
Dust your trophies,
put your feet up
and watch game shows,
pat yourself on the back
for a wondrous career,
smile that big smile of yours—
and disappear for a while.
Earl’s Tiger no longer,
you can choose a new name
for your new life:
Elrod, or Goat, or Tony,
or however you say “I’m Done”
in your mother’s tongue.
This isn’t a eulogy;
this is a celebration.
You can get on with your life.
No come-back necessary.
If you ever play a round of golf again,
it no longer has to be
a late Sunday afternoon in Augusta,
with Destiny,
but an early Monday evening in Florida,
with Charlie—
not for another fist-pumping Major,
but just for laughter, for the love of it,
for the father-son of it, for fun.
Dear Tiger, you can heal now.
You’re free now.
You can say now:
Well done.
—
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