Tiger Woods will spend the winter licking his wounds and pondering his revised feline moniker—now dubbed the “Lion Cheetah” in the blogosphere for his reported string of marital indiscretions.
And although I wouldn’t want to be walking in his shoes right now, as a biracial black guy from California just a few years older than the golf legend, I sort of am Tiger Woods.
Well, not really.
On the surface, I should have been part of his fan club from the beginning. But his early public persona as a cross-cultural messiah was a “no sale” for me. Rooting for Woods didn’t just mean admiring his dominance on the golf course; it felt like cosigning his too-convenient status as a racial conscientious objector.
But a dozen years and one scandal later, Tiger doesn’t carry that banner anymore. As Jenée Desmond-Harris writes, he got the post-racial life he always wanted. Now he’s just another talented athlete with personal demons. And now I might be able to pull for him.