The Big Miss: My Years Coaching Tiger Woods (13 page)

Elin is thrilled.

It’s about an hour after Tiger has won the 2005 Buick Invitational at Torrey Pines, his first stroke-play victory in nearly 16 months and his first PGA Tour win with me as his coach. His press conference and other post-tournament obligations are over. I’m with him and Elin as they walk back to their suite at The Lodge.

Although Tiger’s winning again is a big story, it’s also clear that his current and future performance is going to be measured against the legend of his best golf under Butch Harmon. After Tiger’s second shot to the 72nd hole, there was plenty of conjecture about his ability to close out a tournament with his new swing. Torrey Pines’ eighteenth hole is a reachable-in-two par 5 with a pond that fronts the left side of the green. With a one-stroke lead, Tiger hit a good drive and decided to go for the green with a 2-iron. His intended line was to the right of the pond, but he mis-hit it, and the ball wound up about 20 yards short on the fairway next to the pond. On television, Nick Faldo made a big deal about Tiger being way laid off in his backswing, as if his mechanics were bad.

In his post-round interviews, Tiger readily admitted that he “completely whiffed” the shot but, typically, offered no further explanation. What he didn’t say was that he’d intentionally played from a laid-off position all day, basically getting the ball around with a left-to-right fade that he knew wouldn’t stray too far into trouble. It was one of those days, which often happens during a swing change, when “correct” felt uncomfortable and tempted a big miss. On the 2-iron, Tiger exaggerated the laid-off position even more to ensure that his ball could not go left no matter how he hit it, the pond being the one place that could cost him the tournament. In essence, Tiger made a “bad” swing to hit a smart shot. His mis-hit, which was not intentional, didn’t hurt him. In fact, he chipped up and made birdie to win by three.

All this was something Tiger didn’t want to get into, and if asked, I wouldn’t have, either. It would only raise questions about why the great Tiger Woods still hadn’t mastered his new swing after a year, and by the way, why did he change it again? To me, Tiger had demonstrated that his new swing knowledge allowed him to adjust his mechanics to do the job at hand: winning the tournament. That’s the art of competitive golf, and it was important progress. To the outside world, unfamiliar with the concept that golf is a game of controlled misses, it simply appeared that Tiger had lost his superpowers.

Back in the hotel hallway, Tiger isn’t acting that enthused about winning. He’d smiled through the trophy presentation and kept it light with the media, but now he’s kind of subdued. Maybe he’s annoyed that the tone of several questions suggested he’s not as good as he used to be. Or perhaps, as I’d be learning soon enough, it’s just one of the matter-of-fact ways that Tiger Woods reacts to winning, no matter how long it has been.

I’m pretty happy, but mostly relieved. In the last few weeks, it has become commonly known that I’m Tiger’s coach, and I’ve been getting hammered by much of the golf community for teaching him a swing that isn’t as good as what he had with Butch. This win will provide, if not vindication, at least a respite. But outwardly, I’m taking Tiger’s lead and acting calm.

Elin, however, is really up. She has witnessed a few of Tiger’s victories before, but it’s been a while, and this is his first official win since they were married. Because of heavy rain on Saturday, Tiger played 31 holes on Sunday, and Elin had walked the whole way. Now she’s both tired and giddy. She kind of leans against Tiger and says, “We have to celebrate. What should we do?” She adds that in her days working as a nanny for Jesper Parnevik, he and his wife, Mia, would throw a party whenever Jesper won.

Tiger slows down and looks at his wife. Gently but firmly, he says, “E, that’s not what we do. I’m not Jesper. We’re
supposed
to win.”

Elin is a little taken aback, suddenly realizing that there are still depths to her husband’s intensity and expectations that she hasn’t yet seen. She nods acknowledgment, but her smile gets a little smaller. I would notice that in the future Elin would keep her emotions under wraps whenever Tiger won.

I would soon find out that though Tiger might let loose with a fierce uppercut or leg kick when a winning putt dropped on the 72nd hole, he’d become pretty blasé by the time he gathered his stuff in the locker room. After victories, Steve Williams and I developed a little ritual in which we privately congratulated each other in a humorously exaggerated way while we waited for Tiger. And on those occasions when I wasn’t at a tournament, I noticed that Tiger would call me on Sunday night to review his round only if he’d won. It was his version of celebration.

But in analyzing the sources of Tiger’s greatness as a player, one can see that this sort of reaction makes sense. Tiger never allowed himself to be satisfied, because in his mind satisfaction is the enemy of success. His whole approach was to delay gratification and somehow stay hungry. It’s the way of the superachiever: the more celebrations, the less there’ll be to celebrate.

On this subject, Tiger was the expert and I was the student. All his winning since junior golf had taught him the way he had to think for the winning to continue. When everybody around him wanted him to look at past glories or look ahead to his assault on Jack Nicklaus’s major-championship record, Tiger stubbornly stayed in the present. He ran his career the same way a golfer shoots a low round: one shot at a time. When I worked with him, he never talked about Jack’s record: how many more he needed, when he might surpass it, how much he wanted it. He never talked about his total of official victories or catching Sam Snead’s all-time PGA Tour record of 82. When he got questions about those things, he’d answer that there was a long way to go and basically try to dismiss the whole subject as quickly and unremarkably as possible. I also noticed that whenever we had discussions that assessed his performances, he never used the word
great
. After a tournament in which he’d been essentially flawless, he might go for a “not bad” or “pretty good.” A streak of six straight wins might be called a “nice little run.” Great was a level he was planning to reach in the future. Or a word he could use when his career was over. But not while he was still playing.

Studying Tiger in victory, it was tempting to consider him unfeeling. He could certainly give that impression off the course, when he put out the cold stare or left someone hanging in awkward silence. But what about how hot he could flash in reaction to a bad shot? It might have been off-putting to a lot of people, but it was real emotion.

I think one of Tiger’s gifts was the ability, when he needed to, to turn off emotion. It was why after a tantrum he could still be serene over the next shot. No doubt he’d learned early on that strong emotions unchecked adversely affect coordination and focus and generally impede winning. His knack for shutting down emotion was a big reason he closed out victories better than anyone else in history, and why he was so incredibly good at making the last putt. It was also why he could win half a dozen tournaments in a row and seem just as focused and collected coming up the 72nd hole in all of them. Meanwhile, it was normal for other players, even regular winners, to admit that a victory mentally exhausted them and would lead to a flat performance the next week. This was especially true with majors. Mark O’Meara was an extremely hard worker and very driven, but when he won his only two majors in 1998, at age 41, he attained a deep satisfaction, and could never again quite summon the kind of will that had gotten him there. That’s closer to a normal human reaction. Tiger, who once won four major championships in a row, was beyond abnormal.

The converse of this was Tiger’s ability to flash intense anger after a bad shot. He did this a lot and was always criticized, but he was expert at getting rid of all negative emotion by the time he’d arrived at his next shot. He told me that he often got angry on purpose because it allowed him to get rid of frustration, and also served to motivate him and improve his focus. While most players who throw a tantrum produce too much cortisol, the chemical that increases the heart rate, clouds the mind, and tenses the muscles, Tiger was like a yogi who could level his emotions seemingly at will.

To be around Tiger in the immediate aftermath of one of his victories was a little eerie. He’d smile and shake hands, but his eyes would stay blank, never quite fixed on anything. I know it was only golf, but that detached quality brought to mind the term
stone-cold killer
.

To Tiger, winning was business as usual, and he wanted his team to think the same way. So when he didn’t congratulate me for a job well done after a victory, I was OK with that. It was consistent with the way he treated everyone in his inner circle.

I understood that any accomplishment was important only as a reference point for future improvement, not as a pleasurable memory to dwell on. Based on the fact that for six years I saw Tiger 110 days a year and exchanged a phone call or text with him 100 days a year, I’d calculate that we had at least 1,200 conversations about his golf game. In all those conversations, there were probably fewer than two dozen times that he thanked me or complimented me on my work. Even after a really productive practice session, it was rare for him to say “Good job today” or “Got a lot out of that, thanks.” In contrast, I’d make a point of saying just those sorts of things to him. Usually all it drew was a nod, but that was fine. I came to realize that he’d already put that accomplishment in the past.

I had an intuitive sense of the inner tension he wanted to maintain, probably because I’m wired in a similar way. Because coaching Tiger was the job of a lifetime, while I had it, I never relaxed, never stopped thinking of what my next teaching move would be, never added up his victories. I think Tiger sensed that about me, and it was part of our bond. Sure, sometimes I wished there would be more acknowledgment, but I also believed that deep down he appreciated what I did. And when he did verbalize thanks, it really meant something.

Not that some wins didn’t get more of a reaction from Tiger than others. Each of the six times Tiger won a major while I coached him, the smile would stay on his face longer, and I sensed that, momentarily at least, he felt fulfilled. Victories in which he outplayed important rivals, especially head-to-head, also lifted him. Tiger genuinely enjoyed the extra challenge of a showdown, and he strove to silently send his rivals messages that he believed could have a lasting effect. Early in his career, when Ernie Els was the next-best player, Tiger handed him a string of hard defeats, and he frankly thought it broke Ernie as a serious rival. Tiger was always looking to do that with anyone who challenged him.

So Tiger was more stoked by the two victories that followed Torrey Pines. The first came at Doral, where he beat Phil Mickelson in a duel in the last pairing. It was really an electric atmosphere that Sunday, what I imagined it was like when Hogan was in the last pairing with Snead, or Nicklaus with Palmer. It’s actually rare in golf for the best two players to hook up when it means something, and Tiger and Phil had done so less often than other historic rivals.

At the same time, Tiger’s overall record was so much better than Phil’s that their rivalry didn’t really meet that standard. I think Phil got elevated into being Tiger’s equal by fans and even some media who wanted—secretly or openly—to see Tiger get beat by good-guy Phil. Some of it was about personality, because Phil was clearly more outgoing with the fans and easier for the media. I suspect Phil might have gone to extra lengths in that area because he knew it made him look good compared to Tiger, and it was why Tiger would smile in agreement anytime one of his player friends or inner circle called Phil a phony.

I believe that a lot of the public obsession about Tiger versus Phil was about race. Racism is part of life, part of America, and definitely alive in the golf culture. I knew that during Tiger’s junior golf days, he and Earl had called the unwelcoming glances they’d received at some country clubs “the look,” and that since turning pro, Tiger had received hate mail and even death threats that were racially tinged. I have no doubt Tiger felt racial vibes in what he read and heard on and off the course, especially when he was matched up against Phil. He never brought it up, but a few times when I made comments about how skin color might have influenced some of his critics, he stayed silent but gave me a knowing look.

Although he didn’t mind if other people believed it, I don’t think Tiger hated or even really disliked Phil. But just by natural temperament, Tiger was never going to be most comfortable with Phil’s type of personality. Phil is a really verbal, high-energy guy who, for Tiger’s taste, is too opinionated, is too much of a know-it-all, and just revs too fast. Tiger is much more at ease around low-key, understated, droll people who can come up with a knowing one-liner—older guys like Jay Haas, Jeff Sluman, and Fred Couples, and younger guys with a sly edge to them like Sean O’Hair. Tiger likes David Feherty, but around Tiger, David tones down the manic stuff while remaining clever. Tiger liked it when there didn’t have to be many words, and Phil was just too much work.

But it really didn’t matter what Tiger thought of Phil as a person. Because Phil possessed the talent to be a serious competitive threat to Tiger, the two men simply weren’t going to be friends. Tiger looked at Phil as a way to further motivate himself to be better—basically as a source of fuel. In 2003, when Phil made the comment that Tiger was playing with “inferior” equipment, I didn’t think it was a calculated slam by Phil, as an endorser of Callaway equipment, on Tiger as a Nike endorser. Rather, I think Phil enjoyed noting—correctly—how slow Tiger had been to switch to new technology, like the largest-headed drivers, and how in Phil’s view as an early adopter, Tiger was slightly handicapping himself. I’m sure Phil knew the quote was going to get some play, but I think it was him being mischievous more than anything else. But Tiger took that comment as negatively as possible to give himself a competitive jolt. I always thought Tiger was going overboard when he’d privately call Phil lazy or make fun of his body, but it was mostly the spillage from revving himself up. It was interesting that after Michael Jordan was criticized for bringing up petty grudges in his Hall of Fame induction speech, Tiger was asked about it. “I get it,” he said. “That’s what it takes to be as good as MJ. You are always finding ways to get yourself going.” Sometimes they’re genuine reasons; sometimes they’re manufactured. The bottom line is that to keep beating everybody, fuel is needed.