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In June 2008, I was fortunate to attend the U.S. Golf Open in San Diego with my son Alexander. On the third day we watched in awe as Tiger strode down the 17th fairway like Moses parting the Red Sea. In a vast semi-circle around him, but at a respectable distance, were at least 150 journalists with Woods, hobbling on a bad knee, in the middle. His second shot landed in the rough directly across from where we were standing.
Watching Tiger and the hoopla surrounding him is one of the great sights in sports. He stood awkwardly beside his ball and with a wedge chipped it out of the rough as hundreds of cameras clicked. The ball bounced once on the green and dropped straight into the hole. The crowd, my son and I included, went wild. Two days later, in a playoff round, he won the tournament.
Recently, Vanity Fair magazine documented Tiger’s sordid affairs. Reading the salacious details, the tales of secret rendezvous with strippers and porn stars, his insatiable sexual appetite, and the adolescent text messages, it is difficult to relate this to the image of the golfer I have seen play.

See the full article from “Winnipeg Free Press”