Tiger Woods and the interminable lap of honour

A little after nine this morning, a chill breeze fluttered the flags high above the grandstand on the first tee.

At worst, an aggravation to the couple of hundred spectators shivering in the seats but absolute anathema to the main man in group 16.

Tiger Woods doesn’t like the cold. It disagrees with his fused frame, making it hard to walk never mind swing a golf club.

Maybe that explains his grim demeanour as he prepared for his second round. Or maybe it was the fact he started the day on eight-over after an error-strewn and sadly all-too-familiar first round. Or maybe it was knowing that, unless he could produce something in the mid-60s, he would forego a weekend tee time in The Open for the tenth time in the last 11 years.

Maybe it was all of those things.

Has it really only been five days since he struck the ball so well in his first practice round? Since he almost jarred his tee shot on the ‘Postage Stamp’? A performance that prompted one member of his security detail to break protocol and gush about how well he was playing?

Alas, he picked the wrong Sunday to peak.

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Beyond the full grandstand, hundreds lined the rope line down the left of the first fairway, straining for a glimpse of the greatest player of this, and maybe every other, generation.

What keeps them flocking to see him? Sure, he’s part-metal but this is magnetism on a peculiar scale. Are they there to encourage? To cheer? To rubberneck? To satisfy morbid fascination? To see him one last time? That’s the thing about Woods nowadays. He brings out votaries and voyeurs alike.

A glance at the clock behind the tee revealed that it was 9.25am.

Cometh the hour, cometh the bionic man.

“This is game number sixteen. On the tee from the United States of America, Tiger Woods.”

A warm reception. Just not warm enough to meaningfully adjust the mercury.

Up go the phones. Out stretch the necks. Down goes the noise.

Thump. His ball whistles through the air like an exocet bound for somewhere.

Muted applause. Concerned murmurs. No need. In the fairway, 226 yards away. Cover the remaining seven-and-a-half holes in 64 more of those and maybe, just maybe, he’d make his first Open cut since Carnoustie in ‘18.

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In the end, those 64 shots took him only as far as the 16th tee.

By the time it was all over, he’d added 77 to the 79 he had taken on Thursday. Fourteen-over-par. When his Mercedes pulled out of the grounds some 20 minutes after he’d holed out on 18, he was 150th out of the 155 players still in the championship.

Next stop: the airport where any pilot worth his salt would have been fuelling the jet by the turn.

Closer scrutiny of Woods’ performance revealed the extent of his struggles.

Only three birdies. Fourteen bogeys or worse. He played the par-3s in seven-over. So, too, the par-4s. The par-5s he covered in even-par if that’s a straw he has any desire to clutch at.

He ranked 93rd in Strokes Gained: Off The Tee, 149th in Approach The Green, 156th (last) in Putting and 154th in Total Strokes Gained.

The fight between Woods and Royal Troon was no clash of the titans. Just a complete and utter mismatch, the extent of which was laid bare on his walk to the 18th green. As the grandstands either side of the hole rose to acclaim him, it felt more in pity and appreciation for “giving it a go” than anything else. He managed a wan smile in return, before taking off his cap.

These used to be freaky Fridays. Now, they’re horribly familiar. Remember the gasps at the 2006 US Open when he missed the cut in a major for the first time in 39 starts? Now, he’s missed 12 in his last 23, with a pair of WDs thrown in for good measure.

He remains without a top-20 in the game’s marquee events since his extraordinary victory at Augusta National in 2019, a relative lifetime ago.

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It’s clear to everybody except Tiger himself that this generational party he’s been throwing for us all ended long ago. But he’s determined to keep shuffling away, a dozen soft spikes and close to 80 shots at a time.

Fair play to him. His resolve is nothing if not aspirational. It’s just when you know how good the good old days were, this – whatever this is – will never satisfy. It can’t. It won’t. It’s a poor imitation of a better time.

It used to be expected that Tiger Woods would win but expectation long ago gave way to hope. And what is hope if not lethal.

Woods declined to speak to TV afterwards, electing instead for a three-question huddle with the writers in the tent.

“It wasn’t very good,” he said with near-comical understatement. “I made a double at two right out of the hopper when I needed to go the other way. Just was fighting it pretty much all day.

“I never really hit it close enough to make birdies and consequently made a lot of bogeys.

“I just wish I was more physically sharp coming into the majors. Obviously it tests you mentally, physically, emotionally, and I just wasn’t as sharp as I needed to be. I was hoping that I would find it somehow, just never did.

“Consequently, my results and scores were pretty high.”

Yes, he intends to play at Royal Portrush next year.

No, he won’t play before the Hero World Challenge in December.

He’ll go from there to team up with son Charlie at the PNC Championship before Christmas. Or, as he put it with a wide smile, “the fifth major”.

At least he can laugh about it. Better that than the alternative.

Michael McEwan is bunkered's Head of Content and has been part of the team since 2004. In that time, he has interviewed almost every major figure within the sport, from Jack Nicklaus, to Rory McIlroy, to Donald Trump. The host of the multi award-winning bunkered Podcast and a member of Balfron Golfing Society, Michael is the author of three books and is the 2023 PPA Scotland 'Writer of the Year' and 'Columnist of the Year'. Dislikes white belts, yellow balls and iron headcovers. Likes being drawn out of the media ballot to play Augusta National.

Head of Content