If divine justice has ever fallen from the sky, it happened on Sunday at the Masters. Phil Mickelson, consummate family man, wins the tournament as his cancer-stricken wife, bedridden all week, waits for him at the 18th hole.
This same man, three-time Masters winner, who watched his toddler little girl leap from his wife's arms, run across the green leaping into his arms after his first win at the Masters. The same guy who was leading a tournament, but with his wife pregnant and expecting any day had a private plane waiting to take him to the delivery room in case labor started early, willing to forgo the chance to win to ensure he was at his wife's side during the birth of his child.
Yes, quite a contrast to the one who gained most of the headlines all week.
Rival Tiger Woods looked like his namesake stalking, waiting to snatch victory away at the 11th hour. Tiger, a serial adulterer and fresh out of sex rehab. Sex addiction rehab, where I suppose 150 Million other men should also be, except for self restraint and, equally likely, lack of opportunity; unlike Tiger with a new mistress lurking behind every sand trap and pine tree.
If Tiger had won, what would have happened? Phil hugged his caddy so tight I thought he'd suffocate him, and then tearfully embraced his wife for a tender long time. I guess if Tiger had won, Candy from the Platinum Club would have pole-danced on the 18th green flag staff.
You see, late in the day it looked like Tiger might begin the long anticipated, or feared, run toward victory. He eagled and birded to close within three. Phil met the challenge and pulled away. Still, all in all, it had to have been stressful for poor Phil. If I were Phil, I'd make sure next time Tiger is in the Masters, hunting prey will not be so difficult.
I'd wait until about the 10th hole on Sunday. When Tiger got ready to putt, I'd have a 44D blonde directly across from his putt alignment. She'd bend down and lean toward the hole. When he squatted down to line up the putt, all he'd see, well, would be a baby smorgasbord. Tiger's a sex addict. It'd be like offering free beer to John Daley or a photo opportunity to Paris Hilton.
The next hole, at the tee box, I'd have three Hooters girls lined up. I'd fold a nude photograph of Angelina Jolie in his scorecard. I'd have my caddy wearing a sponsor shirt for a 1-900-sex line. By the 12th hole, Tiger would be calling every three minutes. Just for fun, I'd pay a stripper to streak Amen Corner.
Before long, Tiger wouldn't have enough blood left to think, much less negotiate over Rae's creek. I'd be able to beat Tiger by the time he made it to the 18th hole.
I must say, I can't remember a time anyone listened to any advice I had about playing golf. But I bet if Phil will follow the plan, by July he'll be No. 1 and Tiger will be back at the clinic in Mississippi.
Contact columnist T. Gamble at firstname.lastname@example.org.