A design is value a thousand words. Let’s see if we can get 700.
Tiger Woods is not looking his best. His eyes are complicated lidded, half closed, maybe from sleep, maybe from surrender. The lights are out behind his eyes.
His eyes have stared down opponents and putts, defying possibly of them to pass a will of Tiger Woods. His eyes could bake steel. His eyes could solidify summer.
Not these eyes. These eyes are blank. These eyes go in a uninformed fish market. These eyes go on a locate of a day, that Tiger Woods is, some-more than less.
These eyes go on another face, a face some-more informed with pity. These eyes are not sad. These eyes do not glare, they do not stare. These eyes are only eyes, as tantalizing as cold coffee.
Eyes are a windows to a soul. These eyes are windows to a empty lot.
Tiger Woods’ mouth is bound in neutral. The line of his lips is level, not parsimonious in annoyance, nor lax in acceptance. They are only lips, a lips that have kissed vital and teenager golf trophies on cue, all over a world, for a cameras, for history, for dual decades.
His mouth seems unknowingly of a options. It can sneer, and it has. It can grin and it can smile. It will grin again. The universe has seen his smile, a winning smile, a calming smile. Tiger Woods has a good smile.
His grin is far-reaching and full of teeth and as mostly as not it is real, yet it can be phony, too, a open requirement of a famous and a celebrated.
Tiger Woods is not smiling. In this design his mouth waits for what will come next. It is idle and resigned.
His is a mouth that roared. Out of his mouth have come howls of good joy, shouts of triumph, cries of conquest. From his mouth have come vulgarity and bitterness, too. From his mouth have come promises, some kept and some broken.
His mouth will answer as best it can questions of because Tiger Woods was where he was, defunct behind a circle of his Mercedes, on a side of a road, blinker ticking, tires flat, in a dark, early hours of a Florida morning.
It will explain eventually as it has attempted to before because a many informed contestant of a time is again in informed difficulty, and it will sound as vale as those eyes. Not wrong necessarily, a blending of medications, though trust in Tiger Woods has been dispossessed some time ago.
This is not a design to be unapproachable of. It is a kind of design on a walls of precincts. It is a kind of design found in yearbooks and on passports, a bad picture, a design a owners wishes could be taken back. But there it is and it will be there as prolonged as amicable media stays antisocial.
Tiger Woods’ jaw is slack, not set in defiance, not organisation during all, unresolved there placidly, though insolence, though resolve.
The best jaws can take a punch and a punches this jaw has taken are from Tiger Woods himself. Late in a fight, Woods is heading on points.
Tiger Woods’ unattended brave needs a prune, slow somewhere between conform and neglect.
His brow is not furrowed. It is a broad, well-spoken trail to where was once his hair. Tiger Woods’ hair is customarily lonesome by a sponsors’ cap, to be doffed when a day is done.
Now his hair thins though retreat. It sticks adult like wispy weeds on an unattended grave.
He could use a cap, pulled down to shade his shame, to remind a universe that never has wished Tiger Woods anything though good that it was golf that has brought him to this picture, brought him some-more than he ever needed, some-more than he could handle.
He will contend he is sorry, contemptible that he is not during his best, contemptible that we have to see him like this, contemptible that we now will have this design of Tiger Woods forever.
A design is value a thousand words. And infrequently there only are no words.
Bernie Lincicome is a special writer to a Chicago Tribune.