Say It Loud, Scribe Is Not Tiger Woods

I am Tiger Woods. I am Tiger Woods.

I am Tiger …

This is my mantra as I step to the tee, a 7-iron in my sweaty hands.

Head down. Deep breath.

Relaaax.

Whoever hits a hole-in-one on this 169-yard par 3 wins a trip for two to Jamaica.

How tough can it be? I have a Tiger in my tank.

I’m halfway to the Caribbean. I smell the pungent aroma of jerk chicken. I feel the sultry breezes.

Cigars. Rum.

Whack!

It is a glorious, sun-broiled Monday. I’ve just hit a screamer off the lush, multitiered sixth hole of the world-famous Coeur d’Alene Resort Golf Course.

I am playing in the 13th-annual Dakotah Direct March of Dimes Golf Classic. Like everyone else on the planet, I have a bad case of Tigeritis.

Actually, I hate golf. I hate its glacial pace. I hate the aggravation. I hate everything about this impossible game - especially the golfers.

These realities didn’t enter into the equation when I agreed to join a foursome and compete in this prize-laden tournament for charity.

Tiger has changed me.

His infectious smile. His brilliance. His endorsements. …

Tiger Woods has hypnotized the non-golfing masses into thinking we, too, can be just like him.

NOT.

“Better get another ball,” yells Tony Petragallo, the caddy assigned to baby-sit my team of Linda Cunningham, Lori Webster and Javier O’Brien.

We watch my shiny new Titleist soar over the green like a southbound jet. It disappears down a bushy embankment, toward the laughing waters of Lake Coeur d’Alene.

“Bon voyage,” it seems to sneer. “I’ll drop you a postcard from Jamaica.”

Tiger Woods should be jailed for encouraging unsuspecting people - especially the innocent youth of America - to commit senseless acts of golf.

Hitting a ridiculously small ball with an awkwardly wedged piece of metal makes as much sense as pounding a nail with a wire clothes hanger.

Any alleged health benefits of tromping around a golf course are negated by what this so-called sport does to your blood pressure.

A few nerveless freaks - like Tiger - master this heinous game. The general hacking public doesn’t have a chip shot of a chance.

In normal sports - i.e. tennis, basketball - you can redeem your inevitable blunders in seconds.

Screw up a golf shot, and you have maybe 15 minutes to stew in the juices of failure. Slowly, your self-esteem sinks lower than a porn star’s morals.

The Trojan War took less time than it takes to play 18 holes. Is it any wonder John Daly has a drinking problem?

By the eighth hole my own sobriety is headed into the rough.

Alcohol distribution is one of the perks of playing on a $175-a-round golf course. The fairways aren’t the only things lush thanks to a grinning woman who drives by every so often to medicate the miserable.

She is out of morphine, alas. I choose a double shot of tequila with orange juice. The $6 price is scandalous, but it’s either drink or beat myself to death with a sand wedge.

My team seems to have been hand-picked for incompetence. We slice, hook and dribble balls everywhere but toward the damnable flags.

Petragallo jogs 10 miles chasing our errant shots. That’s another nice thing about playing on a $175-a-round golf course. Caddies must hunt down your balls.

After hours of playing fetch, however, Petragallo’s once affable disposition fades like an old shirt.

Our golf-impaired quartet finishes dead last out of 26 teams. During the awards ceremony, while the crowd hoots, we accept bottles of ketchup for this dubious distinction.

“Catch-up.” Get it?

Our humiliation is for a great cause. The tournament raises $20,000 for the March of Dimes.

Which proves good can come out of any evil - even golf.

I am not Tiger Woods.

, DataTimes