Elin Nordergen had flown on a Gulfstream G5 into New Orleans on a flight from Stockholm. She brought one suitcase, a small one, with certain traveling and identity essentials. Elin had gotten into the habit over the years to travel light and merely purchase what she needed on arrival. She took a taxi to the nearest Volvo dealer in New Orleans and bought a white 2010 Volco c70 with leather seats. Using her iPhone’s mapping, she had made her way to Interstate 10 going north, crossing over Lake Pontchartrain, eventually hopping onto Route 11 which took Volvo into Mississippi. Then she veered onto Interstate 59, going north to Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Elin was searching for the Pine Grove Gentle Path Facility where her husband, Tiger Woods, was being treated for his “problem.” Though the Pine Grove center treats its patients in groups, Tiger was given a private “cottage” residence. This did not conform to Pine Grove procedure, but the risk of media encroachment justified the special treatment. Tiger’s offer to make a generous contribution also persuaded the Pine Grove management to satisfy Tiger’s request.
Elin was leaning again a dark green wall in the cottage where Tiger was housed. Tiger was sitting on a couch, his buttocks perched on the edge of the couch, his hands on his knees, his legs to together. It was not a relaxed position, nothing casual about it. This was there first meeting since Elin had left for Sweden and purchased a house on Faglaro Island about an hour’s drive from Stockholm. Elin was wearing black sweatpants, Reebok running shoes (no more Nike for her), and a black running shirt covered in a black leather jacket. The blond hair was long as it draped over all the black. Her legs were crossed, her back leaning on the wall, her arms crossed.
“So what is this place?” asked Elin.
“You know what it is,” said Tiger.
“Well, actually, I don’t. It says clinic. (Elin made quote signs with her fingers.) Like a golf clinic, yes,” said Elin, trying not to be sarcastic.
“It’s a clinic for sexual addiction,” said Tiger.
“Oh yeah. What is that? Is that like an illness? Do you have an illness, Eldrick,” said Elin.
“Could you not call me that,” said Tiger.
“It’s your fucking name, Eldrick. Maybe you should start using your birth name. Isn’t it more honest,” said Elin.
There was a moment of awkward silence.
“So tell me about what they do here for your problem,” said Elin.
“They have group therapy, and they do shame reduction work and trauma work,” said Tiger.
“Shame reduction work? You mean they are trying to make you feel less shame,” said Elin.
“It’s part of the therapy,” said Tiger.
“You’re joking,” said ELin.
“It’s part of the process. I cannot overcome my addiction to sex without first dispensing with the shame,” said Tiger.
“They should fucking make you feel more shame. It is shame that got you to come here,” said Elin.
“But it will be the eradication of that shame that will permit me to leave,” said Tiger.
“And trauma work? what trauma did you go through, Eldrick? Tell me that? Like I didn’t have any trauma. Like the kids,” said Elin.
“Maybe you can check in with me. We can go through this together,” said Tiger.
“That is not happening,” said Elin.
“I have to talk about you and our relationship here. With the doctors, with the other patients when we are in group,” said Tiger.
“You talk about me? You better not talk about me. This is your problem, not mine,” said Elin.
“No, listen. After I described things to them, it might be the case that you are suffering from sexual anorexia,” said Tiger.
“What the fuck did you say?”
“Sexual anorexia is a pathological fear of intimacy, a fear of sexual interaction,” said Tiger.
“We have two children, Eldrick. What kind of goddamn fears do I have? None. And you don’t talk about me to them. It is none of their business,” said Elin with rising anger.
“Sexual anorexia is a serious problem,” said Tiger.
“Oh, and they are trying to blame this on me, is that it. What a load of crap,” said Elin.
“And you have paranoid tendencies, Elin. That little bit you pulled with my cell phone and texting Rachel, that was deceitful,” said Tiger.
“It’s Rachel, now? You can just say her name in front of me,” said Elin.
“It’s part of the shame reduction therapy. It is working,” said Tiger.
“They call this place “Gentle Path,” said Elin. ”Like this thing you are going through is supposed to be ‘gentle.’ They are making this easy for you. Making you think that what you have is a disease, and to come to terms with it, and then just recover, gently, easily,” said Elin.
“Yes,” said Tiger.
“Let me sum up my diagnosis, Eldrick. You are a prick. An asshole. A liar. And the last fucking thing this recovery should be for you is gentle,” said Elin.
Elin moved to the front door of the cottage. Tioger watched her as she walked. He noticed how she walked, the sway of her hips, her long shimmering blond hair.
“Do you want to make love?” asked Tiger.
Elin turned to face Tiger. She looked at him. And then she opened the door and left. Eldrick Tont Woods placed his forehead into both his hands and his body’s posture bent forward. He did not cry. Crying was forbidden at the Pine Grove Clinic.
Lynn Swann waited for President Bush to finish touring the Harley-Davidson motorcycle plant in Springettsbury, Pennsylvania, a small town in York County. Swann, a former wide receiver for the Pittsburgh Steelers football team, was running for governor of the State of Pennsylvania as a Republican candidate, and wanted Bush to assist him with his campaign. Swann did not want Bush to get too involved, but just enough to satisfy the hard-line Republicans in the State. Swann, personally, thought Bush had screwed things up, and wanted to tell him a few things. Swann was waiting in the Harley-Davidson cafeteria, as pre-arranged, because Swann wished to have a few private moments with Bush. Swann sat at the Formica-topped table drinking a Diet Coke from a bottle, and had removed the red cap and placed it in his pocket because of the My Coke Rewards code that he wished to give his nephew who was accumulating these Coca Cola internet points that could be redeemed for God knows what. The door opened and President George W. Bush walked in wearing old-style motorcycle goggles.
“Hey Lynne. These are cool, don’t you think?” asked Bush. Lynne Swann stood, not realizing that he was holding the Coke bottle in his hand. Swann was so started, he did not offer a hand for a greeting.
“Yes, Mr. President. They look very cool,” said Swann. Bush removed the goggles.
“So you need some help with the campaign. Well, I’m here for you,” said Bush.
“Sir, yes. Help would be good. I fear we Republicans are going to take a beating in November,” said Swann.
“Oh, it’s too early for that. Things change. Hey, do you think I can have the red cap of your Coke bottle. I collect those caps,” said Bush.
“What? You do? Jeez, so does my nephew. But if you want it,” said Swann.
“Yeah. I want it. I’m up to four thousand and some odd points,” said Bush.
“Four thousand. You drink a lot of this stuff,” said Swann as he held up his bottle of Diet Coke.
“No. No. Mostly just collect the bottle caps. They are payback for all the stuff I do for people like you. I don’t ask much. Now, you got that red cap?” asked Bush.
�Yes,� said Swann as he removed the red cap from his pocket and handed it to Bush.
“Thanks,” said Bush.
“Sir, may I give you an impression I have about your foreign policy,” said Swann.
“You know, Laura won’t let me get a motorcycle. But after today, I am thinking about it. They are so cool,” said Bush.
“Yes. Yes, they are. About your foreign policy,” said Swann.
“You’re running for governor, Lynne. What’s it you want about foreign policy?” asked Bush.
“Well, my impression, sir, is that you were totally right to insist that the Israelis not leave southern Lebanon creating a power vacuum there,” said Swann.
“Thank you,” said Bush.
“But in my view, sir, America has created a power vacuum throughout the entire world because our tits are stuck in a ringer in Iraq,” said Swann.
“Our tits?” asked Bush.
“Sorry. I mean to say that the world perceives that we are so mired in Iraq that we cannot cope with anything else. Iraq has shown our limits. Look at Iran. Look at Syria. Look at North Korea. Look at Russia. Look at China. Look at the insurgents in Iraq. They all think they can do whatever they want because —”
“Our tits are stuck in a ringer. I like the ring of that, no pun intended,” said Bush, cutting off Swann.
“Yes. I do hope you agree with my assessment,” said Swann.
“You’re running for governor, Lynne. I get plenty of foreign policy stuff from my people,” said Bush.
“Then may I suggest that you are not getting, well, that you are not seeing it from my perspective,” said Swann.
Your perspective? Like I said Lynne, you are running for governor. Are we going to the Amish section of Pennsylvania today? I want to meet some Amish folk,” said Bush.
“Yes, sir. You will meet some Amish folk,” said Swann.
“Oh, good. I want to ride in one of those horse and buggy things that they have,” said Bush.
“Then, Mr. President, let me see if I can put it to you this way. I suggest that you abandon making democracy the hallmark of your foreign policy and return to the tried and true power, military and economic alliance approach to foreign policy. Return to the good old fashion way of doing things. It will serve us best in the long run,” said Swann.
“Never. I am establishing the Bush doctrine. It is hard work, Lynne. Like catching a hail Mary pass. It is hard work. And it is the right thing to do,” said Bush.
“With all due respect, sir, America is weakened by the Bush doctrine, Mr. President,” said Swann.
“Lynne. Lynne. There is no Swann Doctrine, now is there,” said Bush.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Swann.
“You are not even governor yet, and you are trying to come up with some doctrine to replace my doctrine. But you are not even in the position to have a doctrine. Only I can have a doctrine. Now, that horse and buggy ride. Let’s go do it,” said Bush as he turned and walked out of the cafeteria.
Lynne Swann stood there, holding his Diet Coke bottle, a bit stunned at the conversation. He finished the remaining Coke, put another $1.25 into the vending machine and got another Diet Coke. He twisted off the red cap, put it in his pocket and tossed the full bottle into the waste basket.
George W. Bush and Laura Bush were sitting at the pitted red oak square table in the dining room of Building B at Camp David in Maryland. Jenna Bush was standing at the long table against the pine paneled wall which contained a large decanter of black coffee and several trays of donuts and bagels and hot trays of scrambled eggs and bacon and hash brown potatoes.
“So, it’s Father’s Day. What do you want to do?” asked Laura Bush.
“Fishing. I want to go fishing with my son,” said President George W. Bush.
“Ha ha. You want to go fishing with Jenna?” asked Laura.
“No. I want to go fishing with my son. With my son. But that ain’t going to happen now, is it? That just ain’t going to happen,” said Bush.
“George, maybe it would be best if we did not go down this road right now,” said Laura.
Jenna walks up to the oak breakfast table and takes a seat with a china plate full of two glazed donuts (300 calories each) and a cup of coffee with cream and sugar.
“Jenna, I want you to know I love you,” said Bush.
“Yes Daddy. I love you too,” said Jenna as she chomped down on a hunk of one of the glazed donuts.
“I love you very much. More than you could know. But the situation, the problem is that you are not, well, you are not a son, my son. So that is a problem,” said Bush.
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” said Jenna.
“He’s not saying anything,” said Laura.
“Do you know what a clinch knot is? An improved clinch knot?” asked Bush of his daughter Jenna.
“Is this a fishing thing?” asked Jenna.
“This is Father’s Day. Father’s Day. You need to know how to tie a lure to fishing line,” said Bush.
“Right. OK, Dad. Well, then, teach me,” said Jenna.
“Laura, see what I mean. We need to have a son,” said Bush.
“It’s a little late for that,” said Laura.
“Can you like stop eating your donuts for a second to listen to me. I need for you to be my son, Jenna. Not really. But the spirit of a son. I need it for my, for my, for my well being, my self esteem. Like right now, on Father’s Day, I need you to be my son right now real bad,” said Bush.
“What do you want? You want me to go fishing with you?” asked Jenna.
“More than that. I want you to know how to fish. To know the essence of fishing. The beauty of it,” said Bush.
“Dad, be real. It’s a stick with a string and hook attached and you toss it in a lake or a river and jab a hook in the mouth of a poor little fish. Like what’s the essence of that,” said Jenna.
“See Laura. See Laura. I need a son,” said Bush.
“Yes George, I would agree. You do need a son,” said Laura.
“I have a present for you,” said Jenna.
“Oh yeah,” said Bush.
“But I haven’t gotten it yet. Mom’s going to take me shopping,” said Jenna.
“It’s Sunday. You’re going shopping on Sunday?” said Bush.
“I’m taking Jenna to Manhattan on the helicopter. No media announcement. Quiet. Stores are open,” said Laura.
“Go to Capitol Tackle and get me some fishing gear. It’s on 23rd Street,” said President Bush.
“We are going to the new Apple store on Fifth Avenue,” said Laura.
“Yeah. I want to see it, plus we can get you the new video iPod,” said Jenna.
“This is Father’s Day. This is a low-tech day. I want fishing stuff,” said Bush.
“What fishing stuff do you want, Dad?” asked Jenna.
“Anything. Anything related to fishing so I can know, so I can feel, so I can sense that I did something related to fishing on Father’s Day, OK? OK?” said Bush.
“Let’s do it Mom. That’s what Daddy wants,” said Jenna.
“We’ll see,” said Laura.
“Get me a lure. Any lure. I need to hook something,” said Bush.
“You got it Dad. A lure. I’ll get you a lure,” said Jenna.
“One with lots of colors. Shiny colors. Crankbait,” aid Bush.
“Crankbait?” asked Jenna with a mound of donut in her mouth.
“It’s got a big lip that forces the lure to drop in the water as you reel it in,” said Bush.
“Crankbait takes a dive, is that it. Sounds great. Happy Father’s Day,” said Jenna.
“Thanks,” said President Bush.
The Hula Popper hit the stream with a plop. George W. Bush jiggled the line which was attached to his seven-foot Loomis rod with Shimano spinning tackle firmly in his right hand. Bush was sitting on a folding chair next to a stream that was moving slowly in the Arkansas humidity. The Ozarks were a place where Bush escaped, little known to the media. Even his retinue of White House staffers was unaware that Bush helicoptered into Arkansas to catch fish. Trout. Brown trout. Rainbow trout. Trout is what Bush liked, but not on a fly rod or with waders. Bush liked to sit down with a Diet Coke and some chips in an easy chair with light tackle in hand. And he never used live bait. Lures are what he liked. The colors. The candy colored lures reminded him of toys he had when he was a child. Bush�s father was a saltwater man, fishing for big game off of fast moving Cigarette boats in the wild and cold waters of Maine. Not George W. Bush. George W. Bush preferred the quiet of a stream and the subtle sounds of freshwater. Bush also thought that fresh water fish were smarter than their saltwater cousins. The big ocean fish were, as far as he could tell, big and stupid. He liked the sharp-eyed thoughtfulness of trout.
Bush sat there sweating in the cool early morning still air of the notorious Ozark humidity. This secret stream was solace to Bush, particularly now with his popularity plummeting. The public face he offered, that is that he did not believe the polls or that he did not care to govern based on polls, was more face than heart. The negative polls hurt. He did not want to admit it. He shared these thoughts with Laura who told him that it was human to feel the pain of unpopularity. But Laura also cautioned her husband that the polls might not be accurate. Bush thanked her, but knew different. The polls meant something.
Bush kept thinking that trying times test a man�s commitment. Think of Lincoln. Bush thought of Lincoln. Lincoln did the right thing. Lincoln stayed the course even when things were really bad. As Bush jiggled the Loomis rod watching the Hula Popper lure bounce in the water, Bush asked himself if he could reasonably compare his troubles with Lincoln�s. Could people have said that Lincoln lived in a bubble? Could people have called the Civil War a war of choice? Would Lincoln have stayed the course if he knew his popularity was low and dropping? If that was true, that is. Bush did not really know much about Lincoln’s popularity back when Lincoln governed. He figured Lincoln was not popular in the South. But was Lincoln popular in the North where thousands and thousands of war casualties came from? As Bush jiggled his Hula Popper, he smiled, thinking he was fishing for the truth and not trout. So elusive at times. Turth and trout. When you are in the muck of it all, where do you place the lure? How do you know what trout lies below the surface? It�s easy to be critical.
�You really should put waders on and get into the river,� said the secret service agent who was standing a few feet away.
The comment startled Bush who forgot that seven secret service agents were stationed at various points in this corner of the Ozarks.
�It�s too dirty. I don�t like to get dirty and deal with the water and everything,� said Bush.
�You can�t catch fish unless you get into the water, sir, and that lure you’re using probably is a poor choice,� said the agent.
�I do just fine,� said Bush.
�You did not catch anything the last four times we have been here, sir,� said the agent.
�Fishing has nothing to do with catching fish,� said Bush.
�What does it have to do with, sir?� asked the agent.
�It�s therapy. It�s the process. It�s about being in nature,� said Bush.
�Your lure is in the middle of the stream. Trout will not hang out in the middle where the sun is hitting. Try over there in the shadows,� said the agent as he pointed to a spot on the stream that lied under the leafy roof of a large tree.
�I know what I am doing. This is where I like to place the lure. This is what I do. I like to come here and cast into the middle of the stream, sun or no sun,� said Bush.
The secret service agent decided not to pursue the point. And Bush returned to his thoughts about Abraham Lincoln. Stick with what you are doing. Stick it out. I mean afterall, Lincoln got the worst poll news of all, a bullet in the brain, and look how he is viewed today, thought Bush. Lincoln’s an icon. Stick it out. Stick it out.
The Hula Popper kept bobbing. Not a trout in sight.
The soccer stadium north of Tehran was empty. The 77,000 seats were made of plastic and were hot in the midday sun. Over the years, some of the seats had buckled from the pounding heat. There was a soccer game scheduled for tomorrow, but today the big bowl was lifeless. Nothing was moving but for a flock of starlings that had gathered in the upper stands at the western end of the oval arena. Sitting in the middle of the soccer field on the brown grass was a faded red soccer ball. About three feet away sat a white leather baseball. The red soccer ball and the white baseball, alone together in an empty Iranian soccer field.
�What are you doing here?� said the soccer ball.
�To talk,� said the baseball.
�You shouldn�t be here. This is a soccer field,� said the soccer ball.
�I want to understand this soccer. It seems endless and sloppy and all those tie scores, no winners and losers. Explain,� asked the baseball.
�You wouldn�t understand. You only see the beauty of things if it has a structure, if it has a winner and a loser,� said the soccer ball.
�But what is sport without a winner and a loser,� said the baseball.
�Ties are important. It is two teams searching for the beauty of a tie, to find that balance where there is competitive common ground,� said the soccer ball.
�Give me a break. You�re telling me you search for a tie and not to win. Yeah right,� said the baseball.
�Of course we want to win. We want it. But we don�t have to win. We can finish a game without winning. But you have to win,� said the soccer ball.
�It�s impossible to follow soccer. There are too many teams in too many different clubs and leagues with no organization. And the names are nuts. Chelsea, Tottenham, Manchester United, Newcastle United, West Ham United. What�s with the united thing in so many names?� said the baseball.
�Typical. All you know is the English soccer teams. Soccer is all over the world, played in every country with all different kinds of leagues, played on different size fields, in cold weather, in hot weather, played all year round, never ending,� said the soccer ball.
�Too much diversity. Soccer needs organization, set up with one set of rules. It�s too unruly,� said the baseball.
�Soccer is the world. Unruly, messy, hard playing, life in all shades with all different cultures meeting on one field with one ball and two goals,� said the soccer ball.
�Baseball has statistics. You can wrap your arms around baseball, and study it like a science,� said the baseball.
�Yes. Yes. True. Soccer is not like that. You can never wrap your arms around it. It is too big. Too undefinable, too nuanced to be subject to statistics or mathematics. That is what makes it human,� said the soccer ball.
�No. No. That is what makes it inhuman. Baseball is an attempt to create order, to impose order on the universe,� said the baseball.
�Yes. Yes. You are right. You are always trying to impose order. But it cannot be done. Baseball is a fantasy. Soccer represents mankind as it really exists,� said the soccer ball.
�I am going home. I do not understand this place,� said the baseball.
�I think you should go home. I think you do not belong here,� said the soccer ball.
�We will never understand each other,� said the baseball.
�Not true. Soccer understands baseball. But baseball does not understand soccer. It is human to try to impose order. Soccer knows this. What you cannot accept is the disorder,� said the soccer ball.
�Bye,� said the baseball.
�Maybe someday we can kick a ball around together,� said the soccer ball.
�Not today. Not today,� said the baseball.
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