It’s not easy brainwashing thousands of spectators to believe in Tiger Woods at the most storied course, a 600-year-old course, classified as the oldest 18-hole course ever in St. Andrews.

But in a timeless four-day honeymoon, greeted by the Scottish spectators sitting charmingly in the galleries, Woods trailed on the leaderboard again, struggled again, relapsed again and lost again. All you need to know about Tiger is that he wore four outfits, flaunting his expensive wardrobe in the final round.

Never before has he been on a drought so agonizing, mired in the strangest position by dropping his last seven majors, and he’s simply delivering mediocrity on the fairways, vastly deteriorating since the disgraceful sex scandal. Wasn’t he the greatest golfer ever? Yes. Wouldn’t he ever win another major?


There’s an indicator that Woods’ time is running short, suddenly staring at retirement faster than he’ll have his name engraved on the claret jug or fit for another green jacket. The warning signs are upon us when he has never dwindled late into a season without a major title, jeopardizing a precious opportunity of surpassing Jack Nicklaus' record-setting 14 major titles.

On the final day of the 139th British Open, Woods slowly unleashed signs of a fading regime and continues to diminish as the harmless, non-threatening golfer. With all the personal burdens, beyond his surgically repaired knee, Woods is disrupted by bedlam and never has been the astonishing winner we once referred to as the greatest athlete on the planet.

Fooled by his hideous transgressions and infidelity, we revered him as the spotless and modest human being, but now are stunned with the shoddy performances in every major. He is ultimately in the midst of a dreadful demise, battered for faltering in reclaiming prominence in a sport he once dominated and engraved happiness.

Rather a surprise, he dropped off the leaderboard and nearly managed a top-20 finish in the Open, on an afternoon when he collapsed and never had the momentum or aplomb. Regardless of having the privilege of playing in the Open at the friendly confines of St. Andrews, where he amazingly won the last two British Opens, Woods wilted, stumbled and suffered mortality eternally.

So much for the Americans relishing the savory of glory at the beautiful scenery, a place American golfers have accomplished much greatness. In fairness, the Americans had won six of the last eight Opens at St. Andrews, but it’s a real possibility that the U.S. could be declining if Woods is suddenly becoming a fallen star, once famous in representing not only the States, but golf in general as the bait of a minority sport.

Consider it an ending to an epic sporting story for which he’s no longer the fierce competitor or beloved athlete adored for masterful feats and enticing an unordinary event. Consider it the last of Eldrick Woods?

Exactly, he’s done…just as a jilted lover is with its prior spouse.

From the love affairs, to the alleged divorce and the ridiculous publicity scene as reporters interrogated a petulant Woods during a press conference earlier last week about his personal business, it’s rational to guess he’s feeling much tension and carefully considering leaving the game of golf without reaching a gigantic milestone.

Its amazing that Louis Oosthuizen, a rising star, is upon us, forging a newborn legacy by winning his first ever major and opening a chapter at the Old Course. Nobody expected to hear a mysterious golfer from South Africa rise atop the leaderboard, and better yet, remain balanced and poised in a gratifying win.

His nickname is “Sherk” because of the gap in his front teeth, but now, his nickname is Louis the Great One, admired for maintaining poise and a competitive nature, until the final round ended happily and brought gratification. In the meantime, Woods switched his famous Scotty Cameron putter for a Nike Method 001 and had two horrible days in the final two rounds, collapsing immensely and wasted a convincing first round.

He apparently assumed that his new putter would have better suited him at St. Andrews, where the greens are slower, or maybe even switched it as a good luck charm. Either way, that is, winning a major is incurable and impossible without hitting masterful strokes.

Either way, that is, Woods, the richest athlete who lost everything he ever possessed such as his family, richest and swagger, will never dominate at St. Andrews.

But without a major, an embattled Woods won’t ever solidify or repair a tarnished legacy unless he wins a major title. And of course, a good time was at the Old Course.

Until then, he’s not the greatest golfer, but the greatest disgrace.

Have we seen the last of Tiger? Who knows? Maybe a regime may end all so badly.


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