Tiger Woods' 8 Wood

Tiger Woods circles the green, judging the land with his expert eyes. He bends down for a closer look, hands cupping the sides of his hat to block out his peripherals. He finds the lay of the land and frowns. Getting up he circles the green another time like a vulture circling for its prey.

"So whattaya think Tiger?" His caddy asks. "Looks like its sloping down and about ten clicks to the left."

"Hmm." Tiger is distracted, is somewhere else.

"Shall I get your putter?" He asks, already reaching for it.

"Nah, I need the Blackberry."

"Ah, the Blackberry." The caddy smiles all-knowing. The side of his golf bag zips open, the signature tiger heads on the drivers dancing as he does so. The Blackberry comes out and Tiger goes to work:

"oh baby i need some of dat loving, tough hole, but i just wanna stuff ur hole, drive it home with tiger's 8 wood."

He sends the text and smiles. Somewhere, a mistress texts back:

"u knoe i luv ur up and down game. win it all babe and u can take my green"

His head tilts upwards, his features from into an expression of satisfaction. in his pants, Tiger's 8 Wood stands at attention, and Tiger goes to take his putt and makes it. Cue Tiger's famous arm pump. She had become his good luck charm, or so he thought, ever since he met her at that one Applebee's in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. There was something about her encouraging words while on the course that always got him, that always helped him push himself to that upper-echelon of greatness very few ever reach. She made him feel like young Tiger again. Young and free, a strapping young cat with paws big enough to grab the whole world and take it by storm. . . A strapping young cat with sharp teeth still white and shiny, with a coat not yet molted by the years or a horrible relationship.

But he knew he had to keep it secret. What would they say. . . if. . . shit.

On the 7th hole Tiger hits it right in the water, -kerplunk- another drowned victim of that dreaded lake. He takes a drop, his eyes fixed on that yellow flag, nearly 150 yards away.

"Whattaya think Tiger?" His caddy asks. "I'd go with the 8-iron."

"Hmmm." Tiger says, he's distracted again, distraught by a bad shot. "Blackberry. . ."

"Yes, Blackberry. . ." And just like before the Blackberry came out and Tiger went to work:

"im in it tough, my ball just got wet, but all i can think about is you, and making you wet with mah 8 wood"

And somewhere far off a dutiful mistress texts back:

"the only balls that get me wet are urs :)"

Tiger Woods' favorite golf club.

He smiles, his face forming that familiar bliss. He grabs his club, swings away, and just like that, the diamond plops 5 yards from the cup - a damn near perfect shot. The crowd claps while Tiger's head is already living out all the ways he plans to plow her. Tiger's 8 Wood stands tall and proud, but nobody notices - black pleated pants do much when it comes to concealing boners, and Tiger knows this. The putt, a slight roll, it licks the edge of the cup and slips on in, and only for par. His anger is apparent, but only grows worse when his wife randomly texts him:

"i know ur competing rite now, i'm watching you on tv love, win one for momma!"

The next three holes are a disaster. On the green in 3 on a par 4, in the sand on another hole, out of bounds on the next. Tiger is too damned stressed, and as a result he isn't hitting flush, he isn't powering them down the fairway like he did when he was young. He's beginning to feel like that old tiger again, with dulled claws and lazy eyes glossed over by slight glaucoma. It becomes a pain to walk the greens - he no longer stalks them looking for prey, instead he strolls down fairways like a bored tourist, like a golfer only playing professional on the weekends. The next hole becomes a nightmare for Tiger, a slice at the tee lands him in the deep rough, which he digs up with a swift hack that lands him 85 yards from the cup. One the green in one, in the cup in two. A few botches later and he's at the final hole.

He wipes his forehead free of its perspiration. It has been a long day. The interruption of his wife had drained him, and left him feeling very un-Tiger.

"So whattaya think Tiger? You gonna play it safe on this one? I'd go with the 3 wood, and stay clear of the traps." His caddy says, with a sort of halfheartedness that comes from having one's own advice constantly turned down.

"Blackberry. . . " Tiger says.

Sighing the Blackberry is brought out, and Tiger once again goes to work:

"i need that 8 wood babe, u know how to get me going :)"

And his mistress:

"just think of the 16th hole babe, remember? where you took your flag and put it in my cup?"

Tiger smiles, he remembers well, and Tiger's 8 Wood once again comes out to play.

Tiger's secret weapon.

His pulse quickens, he's light on his feet, the tiger is back on the prowl. His legs like coiled springs, his neck tense with new found energy, he takes to the tee and whack one, I mean he fucking crushes it maaaaan, its a tiny rocket set off and in orbit. It soars some 250 yards and lands gracefully in the center of the fairway as the crowd provides applause. After another shot he's on the green, and damn close to the cup too. He finishes the hole with a birdie and wins the tournament, rather undramatically.

Weeks later Tiger's secret gets out, and before long all members of the PGA start sexting during tournaments. . .

Cause everyone's a much better golfer with a boner.

iR