By Bob Markus



Before pronouncing the last rites over Tiger Woods' career, it might be well to make sure that the deceased is really dead. Although we are all aware that Woods shot a career worst 18 over par in last week-end's Bridgestone Invitational, very few of us actually witnessed the ghastly event. So wretchedly did Woods perform that by the week-end, when the majority of viewers are free to watch golf on television, Tiger was relegated to the dawn patrol, seen only in sound bites, having started--and finished--his rounds before the live cameras were turned on. Perhaps it's just as well. Even those who can no longer abide the sight of the once universally admired golfer would not have enjoyed watching his self-immolation. My first thought was of the last words of Edward G. Robinson's character in the movie "Little Caesar." A depression era gangster modelled on Al Capone, the mortally wounded Rico Bandello, chillingly portrayed by Robinson, gasps: "Can this be the end of Rico?



Can this be the end of Tiger? Probably not. Can this be the end of the Tiger Woods who has dominated golf almost from the day he earned his pro tour card? Much more likely. Woods' fall from the pinnacle of his profession to the depths of golfing hell is shocking and unprecedented. I've tried to think of another athlete in any sport who has fallen so far and so fast. I can't. First of all, few athletes have ever risen to the heights that Woods attained. Sure, baseball has had its Steve Blass, a world series hero one year, a has-been pitcher the next, unable to throw the ball over the plate if his livelihood depended on it. Which it did. The Chicago Cubs even now are wondering what happened to Carlos Zambrano, a double digit winner for six consecutive seasons who started going south almost the very minute he signed a mega-million dollar contract.



Likewise the Detroit Tigers, who acquired Dontrelle Willis in a trade three years after the crowd pleasing lefty had won 22 games for the Florida Marlins. The Tigers shuttled the increasingly ineffective pitcher back and forth to the minors for two years before finally shuffling him off to Arizona. Fortunately for Detroit General Manager Dave Dombrowski's sanity the trade with the Marlins also brought them Miguel Cabrera, one of the game's elite hitters. Probably an even better example is another Detroit pitcher from an earlier era, Mark Fidrych, who captivated baseball fans in his rookie year when he went 19-9 with 24 complete games and did it with panache. He won only 10 games over the next four seasons and was out of baseball at the age of 26. But none of those pitchers was even close to being the dominant performer that Woods has been.

The closest I can come to finding a precedent for Tiger's situation is race car driver Tim Richmond, who burst onto the scene in 1980 as rookie of the year in Indianapolis and two months later embarked on a NASCAR career that would see him win 13 races in a six-year span. The last two years of his life would be shrouded in mystery and controversy. He died in 1989 at the age of 34, having lived the life advocated by Nick Romano, the hero of Willard Motley's novel "Knock on Any Door," whose mantra was: Live fast, die young, and have a good looking corpse. I covered the 1980 Indy 500 for the Chicago Tribune and although I knew him for only three weeks, Richmond became one of my favorite drivers. He was the talk of the Speedway in the week leading up to qualifying, but on pole day he crashed during the morning practice. That cost him any shot at the pole, but he qualified with relative ease and was racy enough on race day to earn Rookie of the Year honors. He led one lap, finished ninth and ran out of fuel with three laps to go. The last I ever saw of him he was hitching a ride back to the pits on race winner Johnny Rutherford's front wing. The crowd loved it. A few months later, Richmond switched to NASCAR and I switched to baseball, but I followed his progress as best I could. He mostly was spinning his wheels for the first five years, but in 1986 came a switch to the Rick Hendricks team and a breakthrough year. He won seven races that year and finished third in the point standings. But he missed the Daytona 500 at the start of the 1987 season and already the rumors were starting. He was on drugs. He had AIDS. The official reason for his absence was described as double pneumonia. He came back later in the year to win back-to-back races at Pocono and Riverside, two of his favorite tracks. He raced only once more that year and in September resigned from the Hendricks team. His final days were dogged by continuing rumors. He attempted a comeback in 1988, but NASCAR banned him for alleged drug violations which he disputed until his dying day, Aug. 13, 1989. The cause of death was listed as AIDS, which he was said to have contracted from an unknown woman.

Motor racing at the time was only a niche sport and Richmond was nowhere near to being as famous as Tiger Woods. But his story might well serve as a cautionary tale. While Tiger is trying to sort out his life and his game, and fans wonder whether it's his driving or his putting that that has led to his startling collapse, the answer is obvious. It's the rut iron, as writer Dan Jenkins so succinctly described it. The driving and the putting can be fixed, although it won't be at this week's PGA championship, the last of this year's four majors. For once the venue, Whistling Straits, seems to have Woods overmatched, considering its length and devilish contours and the state of his game. What will be harder to fix will be the damage Woods has done himself with the rut iron. Perhaps he should just keep it in his bag.