Forgotten Sleep

There are plenty of things in my life for which I will accept apologies.

“Honey, I’m sorry I wrecked the car.” “Mommy, I’m sorry I spilled grape juice all over the Oriental rug.” “I’m sorry I stole your idea, lied to the boss and told her it was mine.”

These are things for which I would feel totally appropriate accepting an apology.

But an apology from Tiger Woods regarding his having multiple affairs and potentially being a sex addict? Nah, I don’t need an “I’m sorry” for that one. I think I’ll be just fine without his mia culpa.

Yes, yes, I know that finding out that anyone (let alone a revered athlete) has cheated on his spouse with no fewer than 12 women offends the delicate sensibilities of the American culture. We’d all be horrified if someone in our immediate circles conducted themselves that way.

And, that’s just my point. In our immediate circles. But even then, if it’s not our spouse, father, mother, brother, sister, whatever, we don’t have the right to expect (nor should we get) an apology. The transgression didn’t hurt us in the slightest.

Now, I’m not defending what Tiger did. I think it’s lousy and shameful. I feel bad for his wife and his children — particularly the kids. Having a daddy who boinked nearly a baker’s dozen of women across the country will be humiliating as they get older.

But me? In my life? I have to give this the big “Whatev.” Sportscasters this morning were talking about how it would take a long time for the American people to forget about what Tiger has done and to forgive him. Until I saw the story about his public apology today, I hadn’t thought about his issues in a long, long time. This has not been the biggest thing going on in my life, I have to admit. And, for those of you who have been brooding over it — move on. You don’t get to judge him.

So, I’ll pass on the apology, Tiger. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.

What I do need from you, though, is for you to get your butt back on the golf course. You’re a golfer, and I expect you to play. You didn’t get famous for being a moral pinnacle. Your fame came from your ability to launch a drive 340 yards down the fairway. That’s what drew people to you in the first place.

Get it together, grab your clubs (maybe not the one your wife used to shatter your windshield) and step on the green.

It’s time to put the ball in the hole — the golf ball, that is.