Oh man, have you stepped in s&*#!
OK, for starters, I don't care who you've slept with other than your wife. I don't care that almost all of these alleged "other" women are exactly the types that end up telling all your business on the Today show. I don't care that your wife probably beat your a$$ and will still get $5 million once this all blows over...
Not too many people are on your side, save for a few columnists like Jason Whitlock, whose latest column about your troubles I read at the urging of the husband. He made some interesting points (some of which, I had already expressed to the husband privately)... Like how this would not really be news if your wife had been black (although I am starting to rethink that position because if your wife had been black, the story would have been that you were killed in that car accident outside of your house). This story would not be news if there were more serious things going on in the world, say like a war in Afghanistan. Or if Barack Obama had done something extraordinary like win the Nobel Peace Prize...
OK, well one out of three...nah, bruh you're screwed.
Right now, the Patron Saint of Extraordinary Humanity (Michael Jackson) is looking down on you and shaking his head because in life, he dealt with the some of the same madness. Because when you reach the heights of fame, there is an inevitably long and hard fall from grace. Michael fell so hard it created a chasm in the earth so deep that it only began to refill with his untimely death. Tiger, while you are certainly no Michael Jackson, your fall fits the pattern.
And your redemption will come, thankfully, without someone having to die (although your marriage could become the casualty in all of this). The public will forget about this as soon as the next big scandal occurs. Even all of those self-righeous pricks in the sports world who knew all about your unchecked libido and kept your dirty little secrets--they will be back in your corner as soon as you win your next tournament. Even my father, one of your biggest fans (the only man I know who would rather watch you play golf than to get out on a course and hit a few balls himself), the Catholic church deacon, will forgive you and root for you as if nothing ever happened.
That is just how fame is. One day you are up, and the next day you are the punchline of late-night jokes (and the object of an upcoming porno). But something more salacious will happen and the world can obsess about someone else's hubris. Just click your heels three times and repeat, "This too shall pass, this too shall pass" (and hope that the Salahis or the balloon boy parents get indicted).
