To me, Thanksgiving means all the wonderful things in life to savor and enjoy. Family, friends, food... and a remembrance of the car crash and subsequent bimbo-palooza that brought down Eldrick T. Woods from the Mount Olympus of sports and commercial endorsement.
Oh, how the time flies.
Still no majors since then.... but hey, he's a young* 37, there's plenty of time. Right?
I remember exactly where I was when I heard that Woods had been in a car crash and was in "serious" condition at an Orlando hospital. I was driving up to my driveway when my golf bro Gitter rang my cell phone with the news.
Holy, crap! My mind raced with thoughts of what it would mean if he never played again at a competitive level. Or perhaps was as bad as Hogan. Or... of course... the worst.
Well, turns out the crash was the LEAST of his problems.
The unfolding several weeks after that night, was beyond brain melting in terms of what we, the media, and fans, had FORMERLY thought about the multi-ethnic, can-do-no-wrong, golfing superstar.
I mean, hey, we were naive to think he perhaps didn't *dabble* just bit outside the lovely Swedish model-turned-nanny-turned-housewife. But the skanks just kept coming.
And the voice mail. And the porn stars. And the Perkins waitress! And the sex rehab clinic in Mississippi. And the "fake" Tiger his agent paid to try to throw the paparazzi off the trail.
Well, for the first time I can recall, there's a very specific (and thorough recap) of the "Three Nights in November" at the Woods compound in Florida, that began the unravelling. I am not sure where the NY Post's Maureen Callahan sources much of this very private intelligence on the whole mess, but I am sure there are now bimbo's (and perhaps Elin herself) more than willing to whisper out the facts despite payoffs, NDA's and sealed divorce records.
Sources close to Nordegren later told The Daily Beast that on Nov. 24, one day before the Enquirer hit stands, Woods put his wife on the phone with Uchitel, who insisted there was no truth to the imminent story. Nordegren and Uchitel spoke for 30 minutes.
Woods was satisfied; Nordegren was not. That afternoon, Woods left his cellphone unattended, and Nordegren scrolled through his call history. She found another name, Jaimee Grubbs, and called her. Nordegren got voice mail. She left a message.
“You know who this is,” Nordegren said, “because you are f- -king my husband.”
Nordegren didn’t tell Woods, and when he retrieved his phone, he, too, called Grubbs.
His call also went to voice mail.
“Hey, it’s, uh . . . it’s Tiger,” he said. “Can you please take your name off your phone? My wife went through my phone and, uh, may be calling you. So if you can, please take your name off that. And, um . . . just have it as a number on the voice mail. OK? You got to do this for me. Huge. Quickly. All right, bye.”
On Thanksgiving night, after Woods, an insomniac, took an Ambien and fell asleep, Nordegren took his phone and scrolled for Uchitel’s number.
She clicked on it and found a text from her husband: “You are the only one I’ve ever loved.”
It was now 1 a.m. on Friday, and Nordegren, described by friends as an exceptionally controlled person, thought for a moment. How could she be sure to catch her husband in this lie?
She began texting Uchitel — as Woods.
“I miss you,” Nordegren wrote. “When are we seeing each other again?”
Uchitel replied immediately, expressing surprise that Woods was up.
Nordegren called Uchitel immediately. “I knew it was you,” she said. “I know everything.”
“Oh, f- -k,” Uchitel said. She hung up.
Nordegren’s screaming woke up Woods. He was woozy, but he grabbed his cellphone and ran to the bathroom, locking himself in and texting Uchitel.
“She knows,” he wrote. “I’m going to be packing.” He told her it looked like divorce.
Nordegren was still yelling at Woods, demanding he come out. When he emerged minutes later, she swiped the cellphone, took one look at his last sent message — “divorce” — and exploded. She threw it at Woods, chipping his tooth. She pummeled his chest and scratched his face. He wrested himself away, and Nordegren reached for the nearest weapon — a golf club — and began chasing him.
By Dec. 11, 2009, two weeks after Woods’ accident, the number of known mistresses was up to 14. He lost endorsements with Nike, Gatorade, Gillette and Accenture — the latter alone earning him between $10 million and $15 million a year. He announced he was taking a leave from golf and on Nov. 30, he pulled out of the Chevron World Challenge.
By the end of the month, Woods had entered rehab for sex addiction.
Nordegren used the time to renegotiate her prenup and mull her marriage. The day after the accident, Woods had reportedly told a friend that Nordegren had “gone ghetto” on him and that he needed to “run to Zales and get a Kobe special — a house on a finger,” referring to caught-cheating NBA star Kobe Bryant’s gift to his wife.
Woods’ golf game fell apart, and his career has never fully recovered. He now earns about $54 million in endorsements — half of what he made pre-scandal, Forbes says — and has not won a major tournament since.
Woods reportedly confessed to sleeping with 120 women, but sources close to Nordegren say she remained on the fence about leaving him until April 2010, when a 15th mistress was revealed. Her name was Raychel Coudriet. She was a daughter of the couple next door and first met Woods when she was only 14.
Now, I can already see the emails and comments below being written right now. "Geez, Czabe, way to pile on. Are you ever going to let it go? Why do you hate him so much? And on and on...."
I don't "hate" Tiger Woods, because I don't know him and he's never done anything to me and my family. But I do think he's a truly awful person, and with every low rent act ON the golf course he pulls these days, it only confirms why all of the above happened in the first place.
Plus, there are too many juicy details here, that I had never before seen or read, and the Post story bundles it all up in such a well constructed Tiger Scandal 101
He's a guy to whom the rules simply do not apply. At least not in his mind. He treats nearly everybody in his orbit shabbily, and I suspect Lindsay Vonn will be the next one to find out.
"Oh, hurt your knee again? So sorry. I really wasn't looking forward to freezing my ass off in Sochi anyway, babe. So looks like I WILL enter the Honda Classic after all this February. Text me and let me know how it's going."