All Eyes On Me

When I was in fifth grade, I was chosen to participate in a debate that was going to be conducted in front of all of the fifth and sixth graders in the school. I was excited to get selected, and I spent hours studying the material, determined to have a good showing. And a couple of hours before game time, I felt fully prepared to do just that. I was comfortable with my position, I had an organized list of talking points, and I was already anticipating any counter-arguments I might need to make.

But as I took my seat alongside the rest of the panel, and I looked out across the room and saw all of my peers staring back at me, my confidence began to waver. For the first time, I realized that I was going to be right at the center of everyone’s attention. They were going to be listening to me and judging me and critiquing me and talking about me. And once that reality fully set in, I did what any kid who wants to get noticed by the pretty older girls would do:

I threw up.

All over my team’s table.

With the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I’d had for lunch suddenly on display, I sat frozen in horror. My nerves-induced nausea had struck many times before, but it had always had the courtesy to hold off until I could get some privacy.

After a few paralyzing seconds, I snapped out of my shock and scrambled to contain the mess, and my teacher jumped in to help me. Once everything was sufficiently cleaned, I was sent to the restroom to wash up. Amid a chorus of disgusted gasps and mocking whispers, I slunk out of the classroom and down the hall to safety.

As I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, I knew that the vomit on my new collared shirt was the least of my worries. I mean, I had just thrown up in front of half the school. I was completely and utterly humiliated. How could this have happened? What did people think of me now? Was I still going to have friends? Would a girl ever want to “go with me”? Had I set off a chain reaction of puking? I wondered how I could ever show my face again.

And now, as Tiger Woods returns to the spotlight this week at The Masters, I wonder how he’s dealing with this same challenge.

It’s been a long, strange trip for Woods since that fateful Thanksgiving night. With the revelation of his infidelity and fondness for Perkins' hostesses, his deepest, darkest secrets have been paraded in front of the entire world, and his effort to reemerge into the public eye from the status of “punch line” has come at a glacial pace. After sticking in stealth mode for over two months, he softened the ground a bit by giving a prepared statement in February, followed by a couple of restrictive five minute interviews with Golf Channel and ESPN. On Monday, he met the press for the first time, fielding a wide variety of questions, while only sidestepping a couple.

But now it’s time to go play.

And while the physical demands of golf will never be confused with those of any other sport, the mental and emotional discipline that is required to be successful is unparalleled. Where other games are reactionary – hitting a pitch, defending your man, catching a pass – golf is the complete opposite. You’re the one who puts the wheels in motion…the ball will just sit and stare back at you until you choose to actually hit it.

Because of that, your inner demons have ample opportunity to wreak havoc on your mind, to bring to the forefront all of your fears and anxieties. As you prepare to play a shot, they’ll whisper sweet nothings in your ear about how you better not dunk it in the water or that you’re not good enough or that you’re about to make a fool of yourself. It’s a constant battle to get out of your own way and let your natural talent shine through. And even if you can quiet those voices for the second-and-a-half that the golf swing lasts, the rest of your time is spent walking and waiting, where it’s just you and your thoughts.

While Woods is arguably mentally stronger than any athlete in history, this week he will be battling these head games in the cauldron of major championship golf under the shameful shadow of a scarlet letter. Every tee he steps off of, every green he steps onto, every club selection he makes, every putt he lines up, every swing he makes, he will do so burdened by the fact that everyone watching – the gallery, his fellow players, the millions watching on TV, the azalea bushes – knows what he did.

They know he cheated on his wife. They know he’s been in rehab. They know about the never-ending string of mistresses. They know about the seedy text messages he sent. They know what he likes to do in the bedroom. They know about his "take your name off your phone" voice mail. They know about his crumbling marriage. They know he’s the reason I was forced to discuss the term “golden shower” with my mother (No, I will never forgive you, Tiger).

So how can that not be in the back of his mind? How can that not detract from his focus? How can he possibly go out and play at his customary out-of-this-universe level with all of that on his shoulders? I don’t know how you do it. I don’t know how you look anyone in the eye, much less compete with a rusty game on a treacherous golf course under this type of pressure while being saddled with such embarrassment and disgrace.

I guess there’s the possibility that the golf course could serve as his own personal sanctuary, the one place where he can block out those worries, where he can reconnect with a part of himself that allows him to do what he does better than anyone else. His good friend, Michael Jordan, was that way. Jordan imagined that the basketball court was surrounded by invisible walls, and when he stepped onto the floor, he was shielded from the distractions and hassles of his fame. Same thing with Kobe Bryant. When he was charged with sexual assault in 2003, flying back and forth for hearings and arriving at halftime had little to no effect on his scoring average.

Those guys may be a big reason we sometimes look at athletes as if they are machines. Buried under their uniforms and corporate logos, we see them competing and succeeding, and we forget that beneath it all, they are just people. So if they miss a shot or get beat for a touchdown or fail to perform up to our expectations, we don’t stop to consider that they have a personal life that could be affecting their performance, the same way we might be affected by ours.

And if there’s ever been an athlete who appeared to be anything but human, it’s Tiger. Still, the only other time a major was his first event back from an extended layoff was in 2006, when he played in the U.S. Open nine weeks after his father passed away - which, coincidentally, was the only time he's missed the cut as a professional in a major.

But that was a different time and a different Tiger, and I honestly don’t know what to expect from him this week. He could win, he could finish last, or he could miss his starting time because he’s watching Joslyn James strip at the Pink Pony. Like with anything involving Woods these days, nothing would surprise me.

He’s already made it through what had to be the toughest test of this whole ordeal – giving full disclosure of his infidelities to his wife (who's handy with a 9-iron) and disciplinarian mother – but when he steps onto the first tee on Thursday, he will do so for the first time as a stripped-down, tarnished man without an air of invincibility, and with all of his flaws exposed for everyone to see.

For the sake of keeping the hallowed grounds of Augusta National vomit-free, let’s hope he lays off the peanut butter and jelly.

Keeping Up With The Joneses

I am constantly amazed by our society’s fascination with celebrities. Everywhere you look, from newsstands to television to the internet, the gossip on these people is ever-flowing, and there are new tabloid outlets springing up every day.

And while I concede that the lifestyles of the rich and famous can be intriguing, I sometimes question the demand to know about the wardrobe of Brad Pitt’s son or that Jennifer Love-Hewitt got a haircut.

(In honor of Larry David) Having said that, I am not above getting sucked into this world from time to time. If I find myself in a doctor’s office, and there’s a People Magazine on the table, I have no problem flipping through it as I wait for my name to be called (although I will make sure no one is looking before I grab it).

Most of the “news” is as boring as I would expect – what is interesting about the sight of anyone lugging shopping bags or taking out the trash? – but like many, I’m a sucker for scandal, and the stories of divorce, infidelity, bankruptcy and catfights are entertaining.

But beyond filling my guilty-pleasure void that’s vacant whenever The Bachelor is not in-season, reading these torrid tales serves a more personal and somewhat sinister purpose:

They make me feel better about myself.

I know, I know…admitting that I take pleasure from the anguish of others isn’t exactly politically correct, but it’s the truth.

From afar, these stars appear to have the perfect life, living in a different universe from the rest of us. They’re gorgeous. They have bank accounts the size of Dolly Parton’s chest. They date people who are equally attractive and wealthy. They have entourages who attend to their every need. They’re worshipped by an adoring public.

Just typing that last paragraph made me want to call my therapist, so seeing them struggle is a nice change of pace. It gives me a slight sense of superiority, even if it’s only for a fleeting second.

And really, isn’t that one of the main attractions of gossip? Yes, everyone likes being kept in the loop, but when it comes down to it, don’t we get some payoff from hearing about who’s going to be fired or who’s getting dumped or who had to call the doctor for a four-hour problem – and knowing that it’s not us?

Of course, the gratification we experience is nothing more than malicious and shallow cattiness, the vengeance of our inner Lewis Skolnick (Revenge of the Nerds), and it’s best to just brush it off as such.

What we don’t want to do is put too much stock into it, so that it becomes a pillar of our confidence, something that we derive our identity from. Because when our self esteem is dependent on the actions and abilities of others, we’re asking for trouble.

On a recent, lazy Saturday night, I was messing around on my computer when I stumbled across a website that mentioned the rap group N.W.A., the group that featured the unknown versions of the now-famous Ice Cube, Dr. Dre and Eazy E. Their album “Straight Outta Compton” was the soundtrack of my fourth grade bus rides – even though I had no idea what any of the explicit lyrics meant – so I decided to take a trip down memory lane.

I read about how they got started and watched a few videos. I enjoyed several so-that’s-what-they-were-saying epiphanies while listening to their old songs. And through a stream-of-consciousness search of the Internet Movie Database, I ended up on the biography page of John Singleton, the man who had written and directed Ice Cube’s movie debut, Boyz N The Hood.

As I scrolled down the screen, I couldn’t help being impressed by all that Singleton had done. He’d graduated from the prestigious USC School of Cinema-Television. He worked on a number of music videos, including one with the late Michael Jackson. He dated Tyra Banks. The man had really lived.

But the notation that struck me more than any was this one:

“Youngest person ever to receive an Academy Award nomination for Best Director (at the age of 24).”

24? He was nominated for an Academy Award when he was 24-years-old? Really?

When I was 24, the only way I was going to walk on a red carpet was if my parents installed one in the room of their house where I was still living. The state of my union was a mess. I spent my days working as a substitute teacher and my nights worrying that I’d eventually be that forty-something hermit who never left his mother’s basement. Every date I went on inevitably turned south when the girl realized I had no money and no prospects. I’d been out of college for two years, and the little league trophies stuffed in my closet were representative of my achievements: in the game of life, I had done nothing more than participate.

Suddenly, I felt completely inadequate.

It didn’t help that Singleton was a writer, the craft that I am currently pursuing. I mean, he had written one of the defining screenplays of his time (Boyz N The Hood) before qualifying for car insurance; and here I am, eight years older now than he was then, and the best I can do is post a blog that’s only read by people who would be invited to my birthday party.

My visit to the good ol’ days had turned into a nightmare. And the worst part of it was the glaring revelation that my self worth was on such shaky ground. Sure, I could get a confidence boost by reading through Tiger Woods’ salacious text messages, but I could just as easily get crushed by hearing about another man’s accomplishments.

As I picked up the shattered pieces of my ego, I wondered why I expended so much energy comparing myself to everyone else. It’s an easy trap to fall into for sure, especially when things aren’t going your way, or when your life doesn’t match up with your expectations, or when you see people enjoying something that you lack, but still…this was not healthy, and I knew it wasn’t getting me anywhere.

Because the fact is that we each have our own path, one that is completely independent of anyone else’s. And when we fail to honor and respect that, we allow our self esteem to fluctuate with the failures and successes of others, with the “woulda-coulda-shouldas”, with whichever way the wind blows.

But self esteem is an inside job, and the only way that it can be a true foundation for us is to feed and nurture it from within. We have to value ourselves. We have to be complimentary and encouraging. We have to be kind and gentle, while still being honest and tough when the situation calls for it. We have to have our own backs. We have to be our own best friend.

The temptation will always be there to pick ourselves up or put ourselves down because of what’s going on around us, but doing so will only make us feel worse or give us a “fool’s gold” sense of assurance.

In other words, it’s a harmful, detrimental waste of time.

Of course, looking outside ourselves doesn't have to be a bad thing…we just have to do it with a positive frame of mind. For someone who wants to be a writer, a great book can serve as inspiration or a source of motivation. For someone who wants to get married, the sight of a gushing bride can be a sign of hope. For someone who is feeling empty, the homeless man on the corner can be a reminder to live a life of gratitude.

And for someone who is interested in other people’s hygienic habits, an article about Jessica Simpson’s hairstylist’s Brazilian wax treatment can be an informative piece of journalism.

What Are Friends For?

“I just want you to be happy.”

That has always been my mother’s final answer whenever I’ve gone to her for help with making a big decision. Sure, we’ll talk about the what-ifs and examine every aspect of the situation, but in the end, she will ultimately step aside and leave it up to me.

Of course, that doesn’t mean she has no opinion on the subject.

Having nurtured me since the day I was born, she knows me as well as anyone. She’s very familiar with my strengths and weaknesses, with what gives me fulfillment and what does not. And she has taken this information, mixed it with a dash of intuition, and painted her own vision of what I should be doing with my life.

This vision is ever-changing, and it took on a new look several years ago when she began her second career as a Licensed Professional Counselor. Building a successful practice from a stack of manila folders and some refrigerator magnets, she has learned what being a therapist is all about, and she’s slowly become convinced that I have what it takes.

I don’t disagree with her, either…I think I would make a good therapist. A natural observer, I feel as if I “see” the world well, like a quarterback who can cut through the chaos of a defense and determine the best place to throw the football. I try to understand the reasons behind a person’s actions before ever passing judgment on their character. And I believe in the power of therapy – that everyone could probably benefit from quality time on somebody’s couch.

Plus, considering how screwed up I am, there’s a high probability that I’ve experienced every issue that any potential patient could be suffering from.

In spite of all that, I have never had the desire to go into the profession. There are just other things I want to do with my time – and none of them require me going back to school. Having gotten through my mandated educational career largely by picking “C” on Scantron tests, I’d be terrified of pursuing a graduate degree for which I would have to actually learn the material.

So I have decided to maintain my amateur status, applying whatever skills I may have to any family and friends who turn to me as a confidant. It’s a responsibility I take very seriously, and I’m flattered when someone entrusts me with the more sensitive aspects of their life.

Most of the time, I feel like I do a good job, and it is quite a compliment whenever I get a return customer.

But there are other times when I’m about as effective as George Costanza in a job interview. No matter what I say, no matter what persona I take on – from advisor to cheerleader to drill sergeant to rabbi – I end up making things worse, giving the person a whole new set of reasons to be mad and upset.

And it is during those moments, as I’m getting yelled at for not understanding or reading an e-mail full of angry capital letters, when I can’t help asking:

When somebody turns to you in their time of need, what is your role as a friend?

It’s never fun to see someone who you care about struggling. You feel their pain, and your natural instinct is to take charge, to dive in headfirst and do whatever you can to make them feel better.

Unfortunately, that emotional connection can cloud your view of things, making it difficult to maintain any semblance of objectivity. You inject your personal opinions and beliefs into the situation, confident that you can fix the problem yourself.

But it’s not your problem to fix.

That realization can be hard to digest, but the quicker you take a step back and relinquish any ownership over what is happening, the quicker you can start having a positive impact on the matter.

Because the only way the person is going to make a lasting change or improve their circumstances is if they figure it out for themselves. It’s the same principal that applies to learning: listening to a lecture or watching someone perform a task is great, but there’s simply no replacement for doing and experiencing something yourself.

I mean, I warned people about the nightmares I suffered after watching the internet video “Two Chicks and a Cup,” but it took them clicking on the link to fully grasp the horror.

That’s why I am always hesitant to give my friends advice. Without having Quantum Leap powers that allow me to step inside their body, I have no idea what it’s like to be them. I don’t know what they’re going through. I don’t know what they’re feeling. I don’t know how what they’ve gone through in the past is affecting their outlook in the present.

All I have is a second-hand, outsider’s opinion of what is going on. So while I can tell them what I might do – or have done – in a similar situation, any solution I offer beyond that would be my own issues and biases talking.

I also respect that everyone has their own timeline for dealing with something, and it’s useless to try to disrupt it. Just look at the couples who take forever to break up. They schizophrenically ping-pong back and forth…one minute they’re together, the next they’re not. And even though those close to them can see why the relationship will never work, it can take them longer to reach that conclusion – and not just because the “backslide hookup” is wreaking havoc on their judgment.

So you can shout and lecture and preach all you want, but the person has to be ready to hear what you are saying. And until the idea of making a change or taking a step clicks in their heart, your suggestions and recommendations will most likely be translated as a high-horse scolding or dismissed with a nobody-gets-me wave.

As my mother-the-professional taught me, a good therapist doesn’t tell their clients what to do. Instead, they act as a guide, gently nudging and prodding the person in the right direction.

In that vein, I try to serve as a wide-angle lens, giving the person the panoramic view of their situation. I ask the stereotypical how-does-that-make-you-feel questions, so that they can process their emotions. I challenge them by pointing out destructive behavioral patterns. I present them with the different options they can pursue.

But above all else, I do my best to validate their feelings, to let them know that no matter what course they choose, I will be there for them.

That doesn’t mean that I always agree or take their side. Being a “Yes Man” is not being a good friend. And even though at times my difference of opinion has been interpreted as a lack of support, I will not blindly back someone’s actions or decisions simply out of friendship. They came to me because they felt they could trust me, and to automatically fall in step with them would be a betrayal of that trust.

So it is a constant battle to find the right buttons to push, and what is successful in one instance can often fail in the next. But when nothing is working, and I feel like putting my head through the nearest wall, I take a deep breath and think about what I want whenever I’m the one in pain.

I want to be heard. I want to be understood. I want to know that the person I’m talking to really gets what I’m saying. I want to be comforted and loved and supported. I want to be told that there is a way out, and that everything is going to be all right.

In other words…

I want my mom.

It's Better to Have Played and Lost...

I have always been a loyal fan of my sports teams. From the moment I began following them as a kid, I felt this special connection, and I’ve been emotionally invested ever since. Watching games, it’s like I’m out there with them, living and dying with every play, and anyone who’s brave enough to sit next to me has to understand that it’s even money as to who will disgustedly throw something first – me or the head coach.

Some of the happiest times in my life have coincided with my teams’ successes. The night the Houston Rockets won the first professional championship in the city’s history, I danced through a traffic jam of fellow Houstonians, high-fiving and hugging strangers, some of whom looked like they’d just been paroled from the TV series Lockup: Raw.

Of course, the flip side is that when one of my teams loses, I’m absolutely devastated. The game replays through my mind over and over, and I think about what might have been had this play or that play gone differently. Listening to sports radio is not an option, and I quickly flip past ESPN, because any mention of the loss feels like a kick to the stomach.

I freely admit that this obsession is completely irrational, and confessing the depth of it is somewhat embarrassing. I often question why I care so much about something that I contribute nothing to, but I don’t know…it’s just part of who I am.

So on January 7, 2010, when the Texas Longhorns – my alma mater and lifelong passion – were set to play the University of Alabama for the national title, I could barely contain myself. This was going to be one of those where-were-you-when-Kennedy-was-shot moments for me, a night for which I would always remember every detail and every twist of emotion.

Utterly useless at work, I got to the sports bar nearly six hours before the game, and by kickoff, my tapping foot and beating heart were going so fast I worried they might simultaneously combust.

But mere minutes into the game, on the Longhorns’ fifth offensive snap, everything changed.

Texas senior Colt McCoy – the all-time winningest quarterback in college football history and undisputed leader of the team – took a hit on his right shoulder that sent him back to the locker room.

In came Garrett Gilbert, a true freshman who had completed a total of 15 collegiate passes, all of which had come against second- and third-stringers at the end of lopsided Longhorn victories. And while he was a highly decorated prep star, he had never been in a situation like this before, facing the top-rated defense in the country on the biggest stage imaginable.

As Texas struggled to move the ball, and Alabama took control, I sat there grappling with myriad emotions. I was angry at the incredibly tough break, and I wondered why the Sports Gods were frowning on the Longhorns. I hurt for McCoy for not getting to compete in the game he’d been preparing for his whole life. I was stunned at how a season’s worth of anticipation could be deflated so quickly.

And in a strange way, I also felt relieved.

I know that sounds crazy, but once it became clear that Colt wasn’t coming back, any nerves or anxiety I had were gone. I was suddenly in a no-lose situation: if Gilbert somehow led the team to an unexpected victory, great. If not, the built-in excuse of Colt’s injury would prevent me from ever having to face the harsh reality of a Texas loss. I’d be able to tune into sports talk and log onto message boards and read every article without fear of getting upset or frustrated by any of it.

Over the next couple of days, though – after UT had fallen 37-21 – that relief slowly turned bittersweet. After all, your team only gets so many shots to play for a national championship, and this one evaporated before it ever got started. Plus, no one had believed the Longhorns could win, and I was hoping their performance would serve as a fully-extended middle finger to the entire nation. Instead, the story of this game would forever be filed in the “we’ll never know” folder.

So while I wasn’t suffering through any pain or disappointment, I had lost a real, viable chance of feeling joy and happiness.

And that was the rub.

Every so often, life presents us with the opportunity to achieve and experience greatness. And whether it’s pursuing a new career path, professing your love to an unsuspecting crush, cat-fighting for a rose on The Bachelor or anything else that our hearts may desire, it’s up to us to take advantage of these moments.

But like a poker player going “All in” to try to score a big pot, we have to accept the inherent risk that’s involved. Going after something we care deeply about demands that we expose ourselves to the possibility of rejection and failure, of being completely embarrassed or humiliated.

And the higher we reach, the further we can potentially fall.

When I was chasing my dream of playing golf competitively, I turned my life upside down to try to make it happen. I learned to wait tables, studying harder for my menu test than I ever did in college. I picked balls off the driving range at a local country club – the same job I’d had as a 16-year-old – so I could play for free. I moved back in with my parents to save money, even though I knew that having to disclose that information on first dates would lead to an endless string of cold showers.

If I wasn’t lifting weights, I was practicing in the 100 degree Texas heat, buoyed by the belief that with each putt I rolled, with each golf ball I hit, I was getting one step closer to achieving my goal.

So it became increasingly frustrating to not see improvement in my game. While my technique got better – video images of my swing were similar to that of a successful tour pro – my scores did not.

I realized that what was ultimately holding me back was not a physical problem, but an emotional one.

I couldn’t seem to get out of my own way. When I wasn’t struggling with my lack of self-confidence, I was indulging in my fear of failure or worrying about what other people thought of me. I was a walking Psychology 101 textbook, and no matter how hard I tried, nothing ever got better.

After banging my head against the wall for two years, I finally decided to put my dream aside. It wasn’t easy, because for as long as I could remember, I had wanted to be a professional golfer. It was what I’d always thought my life would be about.

Suddenly, I needed a new answer to the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

The ensuing aftermath was tough. I didn’t touch a club for months, and I even had to stop watching tournaments on TV, because I’d end up berating myself for not being able to do what the guys on the screen were doing.

It was difficult to accept that my internal issues had railroaded me into surrendering something that was so important. I felt like I had the passion, desire and talent to succeed, but as my own worst enemy, I couldn’t stop sabotaging myself long enough to find out.

When I look back now on the experience, I feel as if I left something on the table, and I wonder if things could’ve been different had I found the mute button for my inner demons. With no sense of closure, the uncertainty still haunts me.

But it also gives me comfort.

Because while I was crippled on the golf course by a wide range of fears, the thing I feared the most was giving my dream every ounce of my heart and soul – only to have my best not be good enough.

That would’ve been an awfully tough pill to swallow, like getting your heart broken by someone you think you’re destined to be with. I don’t know how I would’ve handled it. And sometimes I question if, in some small, subconscious way, I held back – even just a little – to shield myself from the possibility of facing that realization.

If so, I executed the plan brilliantly, as my emotional shortcomings have since served as a crutch I can lean on, a rationalization as to why I came up short. So when I’m sitting in my cubicle, working a job I never thought I’d have, angered that I’m not on a golf course somewhere, I have a therapist’s pad full of excuses that I can hide behind.

Yes, it’s human nature to protect yourself. Nobody likes dealing with failure, and when something doesn’t turn out the way we want it to, our initial reaction is typically to question why we ever did it in the first place.

But the fact is that in order to experience life on its deepest and most meaningful level, we are required to take chances, to risk falling flat on our face in a heap of humility. And if we are not willing to drop our defenses and step out of our don’t-hurt-me cocoons, we will be sentenced to a guarded, flat-lining, even-Steven existence.

Like Mike McDermott said in the movie Rounders, “You can’t lose what you don’t put in the middle…but you can’t win much, either.”

As someone who has too often played not to lose, I can attest that it’s no way to be. Sure, it’s safer and more comfortable to “hope” than “know,” but I can’t think of anything worse than looking back on your life, knowing that it’s full of regret.

I’d rather do something about that while I’ve still got the time. So when the next opportunity presents itself, I want to approach it with an open heart, give it everything I’ve got, and accept whatever results – good or bad – may come.

After all, you only get so many chances to have fun in a traffic jam.

Showing His Stripes

I took up golf when I was 13-years-old. Even though I had spent my entire childhood playing sports, I’d always preferred catching passes or fielding grounders to hitting putts. But with my dad’s passion for the game encoded on my genes, it was only a matter of time, and once I struck my first pure 3-iron shot, I was hooked.

Ever since then, no one’s been able to get a club out of my hand. Not only do I love being out on the course, surrounded by nature in a beautiful setting, the game gives me a special language that I can speak with my father, something that I treasure deeply. And despite Roy McAvoy’s (Tin Cup) warning that “perfection is unattainable,” I enjoy tinkering and experimenting with my golf swing in hopes of discovering that one magic move that will unleash my full potential.

But more than anything else, I am captivated by the individualistic nature of the sport – that I’m out there alone, and it is all up to me to overcome the hazards, the elements, the breaks, and even my inner demons to get that little white ball into the hole.

Each time I tee it up is like taking a long look in the mirror and being put face to face with every facet of my personality. I learn more about myself – my strengths, my weaknesses, my integrity, my spirit – in 18 holes than I ever could on Dr. Melfi’s couch.

The game has this uncanny ability to expose your true character, testing you in every way imaginable. It will deflect a perfectly-executed shot into the water. It will defy you to bounce back from a double bogey that’s completely your fault. It will present you the opportunity to cheat without anyone knowing. And the way you handle all of this – the misfortune, the adversity, the ethics – can reveal who you genuinely are as a person.

Sadly, the exact opposite appears to be true of Tiger Woods.

On the golf course, Woods is the embodiment of a champion, possessing an iconic combination of talent, skill and athleticism that has propelled him to play the game at arguably the highest level ever. With a mental and emotional approach that rivals his physical gifts, he can seemingly will himself and his golf ball to do whatever is needed to succeed (case in point: winning the 2008 U.S. open on a broken leg).

But with the recent revelation that he has been unfaithful to his wife, cheating on her with enough mistresses to field a couple of starting basketball lineups, the public persona we’ve witnessed on the fairways was evidently nothing more than a façade.

When the news first broke, I immediately dismissed it, figuring it was just the work of some tabloid publication scrounging for exposure. After all, I had seen the American-dream portraits of Woods with his family. I had watched the commercial in which he eagerly awaits the delivery of a tiny set of Nike golf clubs for his unborn child. I had witnessed the scene at the British Open, where he fell into his wife’s arms, overcome with emotion from winning his first major title since losing his father.

There was no way he could’ve done this.

“It’s Tiger,” I assured myself.

That sentiment of belief carried a lot of credence, having been built over years and years of Woods being in the limelight. From the moment he walked onto the stage of The Mike Douglas Show at the age of two, he's been a part of our lives. We may have only watched him on a TV screen or from behind a gallery rope, but we got the sense we knew him, and we cheered him on as if he was our best friend.

The personification of hard work and determination, he was the poster child for everything that was right with the world, showing us that true greatness is possible, inspiring us to keep reaching for the stars and going after our dreams.

Several years ago, when I was attempting to play golf competitively, he was the gold standard that I was always striving for. His undying self-belief and bottomless resolve to get better motivated me whenever I struggled to get up those last few reps in the weight room or thought about skipping that extra bucket of practice balls. All I had to say to myself was, “Tiger’s working,” and I was immediately back on track.

And during the tough times, when I couldn’t do anything right, and I doubted that I had what it took, I would wish that I could be more like him.

Now, I feel foolish for ever wanting that.

But beyond his failure as any sort of role model, what makes his infidelity that much harder to comprehend is that he is a golfer. Unlike other sports, where the prevailing attitude is, “If you’re not cheating, you’re not trying,” golf is a gentleman’s game, a game of honor, and every player who puts a peg in the ground is expected to uphold that.

That’s why we rake the sand traps and repair the green when our golf ball makes an imprint. We stay quiet while others are hitting. We call penalties on ourselves. And at the end of the round, we sign our scorecard, putting the weight of our name behind the number we post.

So while it may have a (much-deserved) rap for being exclusive and elitist, when it comes to honesty, golf rightfully holds its head high above the rest. And it’s shocking that a man who has devoted his entire life to the game could somehow miss out on its most basic lesson.

Look, I understand that he’s “far short of perfect,” and that everybody makes mistakes. As a young, good-looking billionaire, I’m sure he’s constantly presented with a buffet of women that any man would have a hard time resisting. And we don’t know what went on behind the closed doors of his Florida mansion…he could have a miserable marriage, or his wife could’ve threatened to go Lorena Bobbitt on him if he didn’t win The Masters every year.

There are a million different reasons why this happened, but unless he has a sex addiction – a real, medical condition he needs to be treated for – they all ring hollow to me.

Because when it comes down to it, you either do the right thing, or you don’t. You either act with character, or you don’t. You either stay true to your values, or you don’t. And the allure of forbidden fruit or the actions of others or any other excuse you can come up with should have no effect on the choices you end up making.

Fortunately for Woods, the world will eventually move on from this. We are a forgiving society, and it’s only a matter of time until our what-have-you-done-to-me-lately ADD kicks in. Sure, his first tournament back will be a circus, but once he starts winning majors again, most people will remember why they liked him in the first place – for his tremendous skill as a golfer.

But I will never look at him the same.

While he owes me no apology, he has violated a moral code that I believe in, and I cannot separate his ability as an athlete from the deceit of his infidelity. I see the whole man, and this will forever be part of the picture.

I had never doubted Woods before, whether it was his work as a philanthropist (which I will still applaud) or his capacity to overcome a five-shot deficit. But as more women come forward and more tawdry tales are told, I don’t know what to believe at this point…nothing seems implausible.

And if allegations suddenly pop up that he cheated on the golf course or was involved in shady business practices or took steroids to build his body, I’m not going to be able to automatically reject them anymore.

“After all,” I’ll cynically consider, “it’s Tiger.”