Watching Tiger Woods stride the fairways in Georgia with the grim determination of a small-town undertaker pouring formaldehyde into the veins of the town’s richest man was a chilling spectacle to anyone rooting for the underdog, but I guess no one (without a betting interest) roots for the underdog any more. Did you see Duke come from 22 down against Maryland and beat the panicked Terps going away? Was there any doubt at all Arizona was as cooked as a fried egg on a Tucson sidewalk in August before Duke even walked on the court last Monday night?
America’s become the land of the front-runner: where hoping the meek might prevail is like stamping a Big, Blazing L on your forehead. No one wants that L on their head. But me, I’m in the running for Patron Saint of the Loser. I rooted for Phil Mickelson. I cheered the robot controlling the body of David Duval. I hurt with Maryland. But Duke Woods doesn’t lose a big game. Duke Woods will not put one in the pond with the field behind by 1. Duke Woods wants to grind Duvals and Mickelsons into swine feed. He doesn’t give a shit if they never win a major. Duke Woods, down 22 against a top-five team, doesn’t bat an eye. Anyone understanding anything about basketball knew at halftime that Duke was a lock. When Maryland coach Roy Williams almost pulled the earpiece off a hapless CBS reporter (who knew a sinking ship when he saw one, though Maryland was still up by double digits) who asked him what his team needed to change in the second half. Williams responded by snapping that his team was “fine.” They were the ones ahead by 11! The hysteria in his voice made it clear he understood the guillotine was halfway down and moving quickly.
I’ve lost my way. I was talking about being enshrined somewhere as a Saint. I’m a Cub fan. I watch Bulls games on television. I voted for Al Gore. I root for New Mexico State when they play Texas. Hell, I was a George McGovern campaign worker, and that, sportsfans, is a hard one to trump. By the time I got home from passing out McGovern leaflets in Kenilworth, Illinois, the richest per capita neighborhood in America, a place where I doubt McGovern got a vote, Nixon was already president. (I suppose I should’ve been grateful I got home at all, such was the sullen hostility my aggressive pro-McGovern appearance provoked from the Kenilworth butlers and chauffeurs I encountered on my late-afternoon rounds.)
I resent the ignorant mobs (my wife for instance) who double the TV ratings every time Tiger picks up his broken tee, emblazoned, I’m sure, with a little black swoosh. People who don’t know a balata from a beach ball cheer inanely for Tiger, unconcerned with the troubles of the vanquished.
It’s a lonely place I live in. As Duke was not going to lose to Maryland, so it was that, as Dave and Phil and the other pretenders passed the turn at Augusta last Sunday, they all understood the jig was up. It was time to start thinking about the difference in the check between second and fifth. Mickelson, renowned for his short game, looked haggard and relieved every time he sunk a putt of any distance. Duval, with his studied indifference, looked like a giraffe trying to remain composed as it finds itself walking in front of a wide-awake lion.
Actually, I was hoping Mark Calcavecchia would make a serious run at Tiger. Calcavecchia has the look of a mean, small-town hood, not above sneezing at the top of Tiger’s backswing. But Calcavecchia folded too, before he got within sneezing distance.
The TV announcers treat Duke Woods as if they are both Gods, already far beyond reproach. Would it hurt for Billy Packer to say something like, “Ya know what, Bill? I’m sick of seeing Duke here every year.” Or for one of Tiger’s lackeys to say, “It would be fun to see Tiger chuck one in the pond here.” Duke Woods are spoken about in reverent tones reserved for presidential funerals and plane crashes.
Well, it’s likely the underdog thing is an American myth anyway — something that never was. John D. Rockefeller and Cornelius Vanderbilt were treated like Masters of the Universe in their day. Half the country was rooting for the British back in 1776. We love General Electric and the Yankees. Jordan’s a God. Malone’s “the Mailman.” Americans don’t really love teams like the Cubs. Lovable losers are just losers we can all mock. They make even the clinically depressed feel better about themselves.
Duke Woods is what it’s all about in this country; always has been. Savagely chain-whip the other guy into a bloody pulp and then give him a sporting hug. Of the sports giants of our day, only Muhammad Ali was honest about the ass whuppings he administered. Ali kicked ass with a mocking humor and a savage, politically incorrect, unapologetic ferocity. He all but spat on his bleeding opponents.
Which is why Ali was a hated underdog himself for most of his career. As piteously efficient as Duke Woods, Ali ruled with the vengeful snarl of the downtrodden.
Which is why, I guess, he was one favorite I always rooted for.
This article appears in April 13 • 2001.