Looking more relieved than exasperated, Tiger Woods removed his golf cap, changed out of his spikes and into comfortable tennis shoes, then hopped into his Lexus SUV.
It was 11:15 a.m. and his day at Firestone Country Club, a place where he essentially holds the mortgage after winning a PGA Tour-record seven times in the past, was already complete. The leaders would not be finishing for another seven hours. He uneventfully backed out of his parking slot, gripped the steering wheel and piloted the vehicle out of the lot without plowing into anything -- symbolically representing his best drive of the week, not to mention his smoothest escape. Talk about symmetry. Woods' fall from grace, which began last November when he crashed into a tree, now mirrors his painfully erratic play on the golf course, where he spent the week clanging shots into towering oaks to finish the Bridgestone Invitational in a career-worst 78th place, one slim spot out of dead last.
Let my Fred's Posse Ride: Georges, Naz, Hogue, Bryce, Nader, Monte, Matt, and McKay.
He uneventfully backed out of his parking slot, gripped the steering wheel and piloted the vehicle out of the lot without plowing into anything -- symbolically representing his best drive of the week, not to mention his smoothest escape
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