Tigerized by a nice afternoon of flog
My God, I’ve been Tigerized.
It is true that for several years, the likelihood of my watching a golf tournament on television went way up if Tiger Woods was playing. Ninety percent of the time, if Woods was playing, I could count on something unusual, or outright bizarre, happening.
But I think that was only a natural reaction, one that all, or practically all, humans are born with. It is standard human equipment to react to unusual events. “Novelty,” to a media professional, is one of the 12 basic media values, and I believe it is totally reasonable to suggest that Tiger Woods is a novel golfer. Bobby Jones in 1965 said of the young Jack Nicklaus, “He plays a game with which I am not familiar.” Dave Anderson of The New York Times used that line, after Woods won the 1997 Masters at 18-under, to set up his own line: “Woods . . . played a game with which even Nicklaus was not familiar.”
That was the kind of novelty on my mind that drew me in again yesterday for the Masters final round. Woods was seven strokes behind the leader, but pfsssh. Tiger could wipe out that lead by the fourth hole. He didn’t, ultimately, but anyone, including Woods, who has ever swung club at ball knows that in the long run, the course always wins. (There is a little-known historical fact why “golf” is “flog” spelled backward, but more about that in a minute.) Woods gave it a good run, though, all the way to the 17th hole. And that’s when I got Tigerized.
On the West Coast, the Masters was scheduled to end at 4 p.m. As Woods was walking off the 16th green, my eye caught the clock on the TV cabinet. It was a few minutes before 2. I went into one of those space-time disconnects that always happen when I think about the International Date Line. How could Tiger be walking to the 17th tee with two hours left to play? Adding to the confusion, the picture switched to something that players were doing on the front nine. How did they get back there?
Then I understood. On Sunday afternoons, I tell time by how close Tiger Woods is to the 18th hole. Sociologists spend a lot of time studying, and worrying about, the cultural influences of media. Do people become the events, the content, they consume in the media? I tend to think no, people only imitate media content without any actual change in behavior. Many times have I imitated golfers without actually ever becoming one. I was amused to note, by the way, another circle closed between me and a famous person. Two weeks ago it was Bill Cosby, who won a Mark Twain award, just as I won a Mark Twain award in 1990. During this Masters, Padraig Harrington set a Master’s record – or perhaps a professional golf record – by hitting the same tree twice on the same hole. Pretty good, but well short of my personal best of hitting MYSELF twice, on CONSECUTIVE SHOTS, including the second shot that had to hit a ball-washer post exactly right to come back and nail me in the left thigh.
That was utter simplicity, though, compared to gaining two extra hours on a Sunday afternoon because my cultural geography had shifted into Tiger Time. I didn’t say anything to Karen. No sense making her worry. She doesn’t particularly like golf, but she likes to watch Tiger for the usual novelty value. We were in the mountains over the weekend and left in plenty of time so we could, as she said, be home in time to “watch the flog.” In this case, she was imitating me. I like to call golf flog. But I wasn’t sure she knew the whole story.
“Do you think that ‘flog’ is a typo?” I said. I know that she, like me, likes to speak in typos sometimes. “Yes,” she said. “Actually,” I said, “’flog’ is ‘golf’ spelled backward,” and I told her the history of the early Scots, going out to the heath with a stitched-leather ball and walking sticks with which to hit the ball. They called it “going out for a flog.” Later, as the game caught on, the founders decided that “flog” may not be the most distinguished label for their new sport, so a committee was formed. At a national meeting of the Royal Flog Committee, a member happened to look at his nametag in the mirror in the men’s bathroom. And that’s where golf came from. You see why Karen might worry.
It is true that for several years, the likelihood of my watching a golf tournament on television went way up if Tiger Woods was playing. Ninety percent of the time, if Woods was playing, I could count on something unusual, or outright bizarre, happening.
But I think that was only a natural reaction, one that all, or practically all, humans are born with. It is standard human equipment to react to unusual events. “Novelty,” to a media professional, is one of the 12 basic media values, and I believe it is totally reasonable to suggest that Tiger Woods is a novel golfer. Bobby Jones in 1965 said of the young Jack Nicklaus, “He plays a game with which I am not familiar.” Dave Anderson of The New York Times used that line, after Woods won the 1997 Masters at 18-under, to set up his own line: “Woods . . . played a game with which even Nicklaus was not familiar.”
That was the kind of novelty on my mind that drew me in again yesterday for the Masters final round. Woods was seven strokes behind the leader, but pfsssh. Tiger could wipe out that lead by the fourth hole. He didn’t, ultimately, but anyone, including Woods, who has ever swung club at ball knows that in the long run, the course always wins. (There is a little-known historical fact why “golf” is “flog” spelled backward, but more about that in a minute.) Woods gave it a good run, though, all the way to the 17th hole. And that’s when I got Tigerized.
On the West Coast, the Masters was scheduled to end at 4 p.m. As Woods was walking off the 16th green, my eye caught the clock on the TV cabinet. It was a few minutes before 2. I went into one of those space-time disconnects that always happen when I think about the International Date Line. How could Tiger be walking to the 17th tee with two hours left to play? Adding to the confusion, the picture switched to something that players were doing on the front nine. How did they get back there?
Then I understood. On Sunday afternoons, I tell time by how close Tiger Woods is to the 18th hole. Sociologists spend a lot of time studying, and worrying about, the cultural influences of media. Do people become the events, the content, they consume in the media? I tend to think no, people only imitate media content without any actual change in behavior. Many times have I imitated golfers without actually ever becoming one. I was amused to note, by the way, another circle closed between me and a famous person. Two weeks ago it was Bill Cosby, who won a Mark Twain award, just as I won a Mark Twain award in 1990. During this Masters, Padraig Harrington set a Master’s record – or perhaps a professional golf record – by hitting the same tree twice on the same hole. Pretty good, but well short of my personal best of hitting MYSELF twice, on CONSECUTIVE SHOTS, including the second shot that had to hit a ball-washer post exactly right to come back and nail me in the left thigh.
That was utter simplicity, though, compared to gaining two extra hours on a Sunday afternoon because my cultural geography had shifted into Tiger Time. I didn’t say anything to Karen. No sense making her worry. She doesn’t particularly like golf, but she likes to watch Tiger for the usual novelty value. We were in the mountains over the weekend and left in plenty of time so we could, as she said, be home in time to “watch the flog.” In this case, she was imitating me. I like to call golf flog. But I wasn’t sure she knew the whole story.
“Do you think that ‘flog’ is a typo?” I said. I know that she, like me, likes to speak in typos sometimes. “Yes,” she said. “Actually,” I said, “’flog’ is ‘golf’ spelled backward,” and I told her the history of the early Scots, going out to the heath with a stitched-leather ball and walking sticks with which to hit the ball. They called it “going out for a flog.” Later, as the game caught on, the founders decided that “flog” may not be the most distinguished label for their new sport, so a committee was formed. At a national meeting of the Royal Flog Committee, a member happened to look at his nametag in the mirror in the men’s bathroom. And that’s where golf came from. You see why Karen might worry.
![michaelgrant2 [at] cox.net](http://www.michaelgrant.com/blog/uploaded_images/email.gif)
