On the eve of Tiger's Augusta presser, I thought this column has been about the best column I've read about this whole saga. Especially these two paragraphs.
And count me among those who still consider Jack Nicklaus the best who ever lived, and will continue to think so until that majors record is broken. It has to be the majors record, right? It can't just be total victories, because then we'd all be talking about Sam Snead. But nobody talks about Sam Snead. Which is too bad, because Slammin' Sammy played the game of golf with a great deal of joy. Tiger plays it with none.
And I think that lies at the heart of nearly all these troubles -- that there is something joyless and lifeless in Tiger Woods. That he is a profoundly lonely man deformed around his father's ambitions, that he is a man with a great physical genius and a withered little soul, who thinks of himself as a scorecard and a magazine cover and a revenue stream. (Remember, mythology is not just for the creation of heroes, but for the telling of cautionary tales, too. Maybe that's the last truth of Tiger Woods.)