…with the author’s conclusion:

So there is little love lost. Nor can there ever be, as long as the precious Woods feels even remotely threatened by Mickelson. The loss and the problem, one feels, are Tiger’s.

In this regard, Tiger reminds me somewhat of Bob Gibson. I remember reading somewhere years ago a comment from a former teammate, later competitor, of Gibby’s. (I’m blocking on the name.) When he was with the Cardinals, this guy had been Gibson’s roommate on the road, and they had a good relationship.

Then, he was traded to another NL team. He said that he knew that the first time he came up to bat against Gibson, he was going to be hit. Sure enough, he took a fastball to the ribs. It was Gibson’s way of saying “We aren’t teammates anymore.”

Gibson was notoriously prickly with the press and, at times, with fans. He didn’t care one iota whether he was liked by anybody.

And if I had to pick one pitcher from the history of baseball to start an all-or-nothing game 7 with everything on the line, it’d be Bob Gibson. It’s not that he loved winning. It’s that he hated losing.

Tiger, I think, has a similar mindset. Blowing up at Haney or Williams would seem indicative of such. Is it good form? Is it endearing? Probably not. But 14 major championships buys a lot of behavioral leeway.

This is the ultimate difference between Woods and Mickelson. It’s not talent or practice hours or even self-confidence. It’s all about the kill.

…a shot that provoked one of his least attractive on-course habits – a massive and contemptuous gob on to the pristine lawn. Such not-so-great expectorations are just one example of the arrogance that comes with the certain knowledge that one is above the rules governing mere mortals.

Friday morning I was crouched down reading a putt at the Muni here in Huntsville, Alabama. I am a lifelong Southerner and as such accustomed to springtime’s annual assault on my sinuses. Oh, if only plants could mate like mammals. Then perhaps I and millions like me could avoid being caught in vegetation’s reproductive crossfire.

Anyway, I’m crouched down reading this putt when a tickle at the back of my nasal cavity indicated the formation of a not-insignificant coagulation of mucous. Carefully, without taking my eye off the line, I took a deep breath and then, turning my head to the side, propelled a globular projectile into the greenside rough.

I suppose I am fortunate that the guardians of decorum were elsewhere occupied at tht moment. Otherwise, my shame would know no bounds. :)