This is what I like about golf (as opposed to what I don't like about it, which the Blob has addressed numerous times):
Sooner or later it humbles everyone.
Sooner or later, it will take kick your schoolbooks into the gutter, turn you upside-down and shake your lunch money out of you. And by "you," I don't mean "you." I mean Tiger Woods.
The game batted him around like a kitten batting around a ball of yarn Saturday at the Memorial, extracting a supremely human 44 out of him on the front nine. He finished with a 79, and then, in typically jerkwater Tiger fashion, blew off the media afterwards.
No matter. We'll always have the memories.
We'll have the memories of the day Tiger Woods played golf like, well, the rest of us goobers. I've shot a 44 on nine holes. So have you. So has everyone you know who's ever picked up a golf club.
It's the ultimate proof that, at bottom, golf is crueler than building a Wendy's next to a fat farm. And it's also the fairest of games, in that it plays no favorites in parceling out its cruelty.
So at least it's got that going for it.