To Lydia, best of wives, best of women. To Dede, my amazing wife, who endured, inspired, believed—and, best of all, loved. CONTENTS PROLOGUE CHAPTER 1 THE END CHAPTER 2 FAMILY MATTERS CHAPTER 3 A STAR IS BORN CHAPTER 4 THE PRODIGY CHAPTER 5 WHO IS TIGER WOODS? CHAPTER 6 THE NEXT LEVEL CHAPTER 7 THE AMATEUR CHAPTER 8 RICH FRIENDS CHAPTER 9 RAMPING UP CHAPTER 10 HELLO WORLD CHAPTER 11 MASTERFUL CHAPTER 12 MANIA CHAPTER 13 CHANGES CHAPTER 14 EXPLOITED CHAPTER 15 INSTINCTS CHAPTER 16 I GOT IT CHAPTER 17 ANY QUESTIONS? CHAPTER 18 TRANSCENDENCE CHAPTER 19 COLD CHAPTER 20 IN THE BUBBLE CHAPTER 21 CHANGES II CHAPTER 22 UNPLAYABLE LIE CHAPTER 23 LOSS CHAPTER 24 TICK, TICK, TICK CHAPTER 25 IT’S JUST PAIN CHAPTER 26 MIRACLE WORKERS CHAPTER 27 CRASH CHAPTER 28 FIRESTORM CHAPTER 29 THE RECKONING CHAPTER 30 CONSTANT STATE OF SHAME CHAPTER 31 SEPARATION CHAPTER 32 ONLY HUMAN CHAPTER 33 POINT OF NO RETURN CHAPTER 34 INTO THE ROUGH CHAPTER 35 MAKING THE CUT ACKNOWLEDGMENTS NOTES LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS INDEX ABOUT THE AUTHORS PROLOGUE Standing between two gravestones, Mike Mohler drove a posthole digger deep into the dirt, twisting it like a corkscrew. It was Friday, May 5, 2006, and warm temperatures had softened the earth at Sunset Cemetery in Manhattan, Kansas. Clump by clump, the balding forty-four-year-old sexton meticulously dug a grave, piling the dirt beside it. In twenty-four hours, the ashen remains of the city’s most famous son would be laid to rest there. Hardly anyone knew the burial was happening, and Mohler aimed to keep it that way. The night before, Mohler had been home watching television when his phone rang. It was about nine p.m., and the caller didn’t identify herself. “We have a burial coming your way,” she said. An odd way to begin a call, thought Mohler. Especially one made to his home at such a late hour. “What’s the name of the deceased?” he asked. “I can’t tell you that,” the woman said. “Well, I can’t help you if you won’t give me a name,” he told her. “I can’t do that unless you sign confidentiality papers,” she said. Mohler told her that wouldn’t be necessary. The state had required him to sign documents promising confidentiality when he became a sexton seventeen years earlier. “I need to know who I’m burying to even know if they have a plot here,” he said. She assured Mohler that the deceased had a burial plot. Then Mohler heard a male voice in the background say: “Just tell him who he’s burying.” “I’m calling on behalf of Tiger Woods,” the woman told Mohler. “His father has passed.” Lieutenant Colonel Earl Dennison Woods died of a heart attack at his home in Cypress, California, on May 3, 2006. He was seventy-four years old and had been in failing health, his body weakened by cancer and his longtime affection for alcohol and cigarettes. A Green Beret who served two tours in Vietnam, Earl achieved worldwide acclaim for his almost mythical role in raising the most famous golfer of all time. He was notorious for making outlandish statements, like the time he predicted in Sports Illustrated that his then twenty-year-old son would have more influence on the world than Nelson Mandela, Gandhi, or Buddha. “He is the Chosen One,” Earl told the magazine. “He will have the power to impact nations.” Those were overwhelming expectations. Yet Tiger repeatedly said that no one in the world knew him better than his father, the man he frequently referred to as his “best friend” and “hero.” Together they shared one of the most memorable moments in sports history. Immediately after Tiger sank his final putt to win the 1997 Masters by a record twelve strokes, Earl gave him an iconic bear hug. In what was the most-watched golf broadcast in US history, an estimated forty- three million viewers—almost 15 percent of all American households— witnessed father and son sobbing in each other’s arms as Earl said, “I love you, son.” Dozens of golf telecasts had similarly ended with the two of them embracing and Earl whispering those same four words. But Mike Mohler didn’t watch golf tournaments. He just wasn’t a fan of the game. He’d never even picked up a club. Still, he admired Tiger Woods, and he took great pride in digging the elder Woods’s grave. Using a cemetery map, Mohler had located Earl’s burial lot—block 5, lot 12, grave 02—right between his parents, Miles and Maude Woods. Since taking over as sexton in 1989, Mohler had dug more than two thousand graves. Earl’s would be a lot smaller than most: he had been cremated. Tiger and his mother, Kultida, were flying from Southern California with a shallow ten-inch-by-ten-inch square wooden box that contained Earl’s ashes. Mohler was ready for them. After nearly an hour of digging, he had fashioned a grave that resembled a miniature elevator shaft. It was twelve inches long by twelve inches wide, and forty-two inches deep. Using a shovel, he scraped away the loose dirt from the sides, making the edges ruler- straight. The next day, at around noon, two limousines pulled up to an old section of the cemetery. Tiger; his wife, Elin; and Tiger’s mother got out of the first car, and Earl’s three children from his first marriage exited the second. Mohler and his wife, Kay, met them. Near the end of the twenty-minute ceremony, Kultida handed Mohler the wooden box containing her husband’s ashes. He placed it in the hole and added cement. With the family looking on, Mohler carefully packed the hole with dirt, leveled off the top, and covered it with a piece of sod. The family then filed back into the limousines and—after a brief stop at Earl’s childhood home—returned to the airport. Days later, when word got out that Earl Woods had been interred, the local business that produced headstones and gravestones—an outfit called Manhattan Monuments—anticipated an order for a large granite monument. They called Mohler, but he had no information. Neither Tiger nor his mother had left any instructions for a headstone. At first, Mohler thought the family just needed time to figure out what they wanted. Everyone grieves differently, he knew. But five and then ten years passed, and the family still had not ordered a grave marker. “There is no gravestone,” Mohler said in 2015. “Not for him. His grave isn’t marked at all. The only way to tell where Earl Woods is buried is to know where to look for the corner markers buried in the earth. You have to have a map to find them.” In the end, Earl Dennison Woods was buried in the Kansas dirt in an unmarked grave. No stone. No inscription. Nothing. “It’s like he’s not even there,” said Mohler. Tiger Woods was the kind of transcendent star that comes around about as often as Halley’s Comet. By almost any measure, he is the most talented golfer who ever lived, and arguably the greatest individual athlete in modern history. For a fifteen-year span—from August 1994, when he won his first of three consecutive US Amateur Championships as an eighteen-year-old high school senior, to the early-morning hours of November 27, 2009, when he crashed his SUV into a tree and effectively ended the most dominant run in the history of golf—Woods was a human whirlwind of heart-stopping drama and entertainment, responsible for some of the most memorable moments in the history of televised sports. Woods will forever be measured against Jack Nicklaus, who won more major championships. But the Tiger Effect can’t be measured in statistics. A literary comparison may be more fitting. Given the full spectrum of his awe-inspiring gifts, Woods was nothing less than a modern-day Shakespeare. He was someone no one had ever seen or will ever see again. Woods’s golfing legacy borders on the unimaginable. He was both the first golfer with African American heritage and the youngest golfer in history to win a major championship. He won fourteen majors overall on his way to seventy- nine PGA Tour victories (second all-time behind Sam Snead) and more than one