By 
Thanksgiving, 2009. That was the low point. Not for Tiger.
For us.
Tiger ran over that hydrant and all hell broke loose. That one-car collision brought down more than a water dispenser. It razed all the walls around one of the most famous and accomplished people in the world. In its aftermath, Woods apologized to his wife, to his sponsors, to his fans. It should have been the other way around.
What gave us the right to spy on him? To read his private text messages? To hang on every interview his various girlfriends gave to Vanity Fair and the network morning shows and TMZ?
When Tiger Woods came off the 18th green at Augusta on Masters Sunday earlier this year, there was pandemonium. The ground shook. The chanting filled your ears. All you could see was the back of some guy’s Under Armour golf shirt. We were screaming at him and he was screaming at us. There was so much pent-up emotion, winner to crowd and crowd to winner. In the cacophony (this is surely a minority report) was an apology, from us to him. And an acceptance of it, from him to us.