THE LUNAR REPORT - "PERFECT" February 22, 2010
It’s tough being the perfect guy. The perfect son. The perfect golfer. My high school basketball coach always told us to “strive for perfection.” Coach Johnson told us that we would never get there but that we would get a lot closer than otherwise if we just strive for it.
I was a good kid. Growing up, I always wore freshly pressed clothes. My Mom even ironed my underwear and handkerchiefs. That’s right. Handkerchiefs. In the left rear pocket of my freshly pressed slacks. Every day. I always said “please” and “thank you” and “yes, Ma'am,” and “yes, Sir.” I made good grades. I did as I was told by my folks and my teachers. I polished my shoes. I had clean and combed hair.
Until my teen years, I don’t believe my Dad ever showed any real unhappiness with me. But my Mom. I have only one recollection of letting that woman down while growing up. As a young teen, I sighed one time when she entered the room. My Mom is very sensitive. She was crushed. I smiled, mostly, the other 24,178 times she entered a room after that.
I was her favorite. I AM her favorite. I know that. My brother and sister know that. They continue to remind me. My Dad knew it as well. The perfect son? I was not. But I sure felt like my legacy in our small 5 person family depended on my ability to reach perfection. So, I did as Coach Johnson told us to do. I did strive for it. I got as close as anyone. Closer than the others in our family, to be sure. The pressure has been incredible ever since.
Sometimes, you just have to be real. Being real lets the perfect one know that he’s human after all. Part – a major part – of being real for the “perfect son” is to do some things totally out of character. In private or around others who understand. I have done some things that I am not quite proud of. I am not ashamed of them. They were just things that would not make my Mom very proud either. But I did them. And they felt good. They felt human. They felt necessary.
Look, I am just the youngest little dweeb in a small southern family. My pressure came from a couple of struggling southern parents and a couple of dweeb siblings. I would have crumbled – absolutely – from the pressure of millions of golf fans and billion dollar sponsors, who all KNEW I was the best thing since Michael Jordan. I was just a son. Tiger Woods reached his level of perceived perfection in an environment where wearing a shirt with a collar is as important as your swing or smile.
Yeh. The man screwed up. But I’m guessing that in a strange sort of way, it felt good to him. To not have to be perfect for a while. To just be human for a change.
The times I have screwed up? Well – those times felt perfectly appropriate.
I was a good kid. Growing up, I always wore freshly pressed clothes. My Mom even ironed my underwear and handkerchiefs. That’s right. Handkerchiefs. In the left rear pocket of my freshly pressed slacks. Every day. I always said “please” and “thank you” and “yes, Ma'am,” and “yes, Sir.” I made good grades. I did as I was told by my folks and my teachers. I polished my shoes. I had clean and combed hair.
Until my teen years, I don’t believe my Dad ever showed any real unhappiness with me. But my Mom. I have only one recollection of letting that woman down while growing up. As a young teen, I sighed one time when she entered the room. My Mom is very sensitive. She was crushed. I smiled, mostly, the other 24,178 times she entered a room after that.
I was her favorite. I AM her favorite. I know that. My brother and sister know that. They continue to remind me. My Dad knew it as well. The perfect son? I was not. But I sure felt like my legacy in our small 5 person family depended on my ability to reach perfection. So, I did as Coach Johnson told us to do. I did strive for it. I got as close as anyone. Closer than the others in our family, to be sure. The pressure has been incredible ever since.
Sometimes, you just have to be real. Being real lets the perfect one know that he’s human after all. Part – a major part – of being real for the “perfect son” is to do some things totally out of character. In private or around others who understand. I have done some things that I am not quite proud of. I am not ashamed of them. They were just things that would not make my Mom very proud either. But I did them. And they felt good. They felt human. They felt necessary.
Look, I am just the youngest little dweeb in a small southern family. My pressure came from a couple of struggling southern parents and a couple of dweeb siblings. I would have crumbled – absolutely – from the pressure of millions of golf fans and billion dollar sponsors, who all KNEW I was the best thing since Michael Jordan. I was just a son. Tiger Woods reached his level of perceived perfection in an environment where wearing a shirt with a collar is as important as your swing or smile.
Yeh. The man screwed up. But I’m guessing that in a strange sort of way, it felt good to him. To not have to be perfect for a while. To just be human for a change.
The times I have screwed up? Well – those times felt perfectly appropriate.
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I was an only child.
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