Out of Bounds

I was reading through an article in the NY Times this morning, or rather, Marc was reading bits and pieces aloud to me, as we do with the Sunday paper.  The subject was Tiger Woods and the collapse of his empire: golf courses in Dubai, Mexico, and Asheville, NC dead in the water.  The loss of endorsement from Accenture, Gatorade, and AT&T.  “That was some expensive ...” Marc said, marking the end of our high brow conversation.  But he’s right.

I’ve given way too much thought to the motivations behind his self-destruction.  Maybe I’m misunderstanding the pull of sex for a man, but I have to think that there is something more to it.  I like an orgasm as much as the next mammal, but there’s a limit to the strife I would cause in order to achieve one.  Especially since I’m married and I can usually get it when I want it.  And I’m self-equipped.

Tiger was married.  Two kids, just like me.  Since I’m not a super-star golfer/celebrity/man/gambler with the likes of Michael Jordan and Charles Barkley, this is where the similarities end, but I have to consider that we are both people, raised by people, and start from there.

Columnists and bloggers alike have shared considerable theories; some complex, some simplistic.  But something occurred to me as we read the paper this morning, trying to get full adult sentences communicated to each other while simultaneously reprimanding the kids, “Don’t touch that!  Stop hitting your sister!  Put that down!”  In all of the books on raising children that I’ve read, and I poured over dozens of them religiously each time I was pregnant - determined to get this Mommy thing right, I was instructed to create boundaries.  Boundaries were the magic word that would reel in my children when they got too fresh or wild, would provide the comfort of knowing what was right and what was wrong.  Within those boundaries they would feel safe, and our lives would have order.  Boundaries - it was like a magic word, the key to a happy home, family, childhood.  Of course, boundaries are hard to enforce, and despite my diligent research, I’m not sure if I’ve ever gotten this Mommy thing down.  

Yet, as these two subjects became fused during our Sunday breakfast, I realize that maybe they are connected.  Was Tiger simply too successful, flanked by minions who didn’t provide boundaries?  His father, noted for being a hard-ass when it came to practice, demonstrated limited judgement over his own extra-martial life.  Was he equally permissive when it came to Tiger’s social upbringing?  Or did his passing signify the end of the enforcement of the boundaries set up, leaving Tiger to flounder, calling, texting, sexting trying to find exactly where a safe place to mark the wrongs and rights of his behavior lie?  

After all, what is scarier that limitless possibilities?  And what is more comforting than a clear path, marked by specific limits?  Without the guideline of a speed limit, how are you to know how fast is safe?  Especially if your car goes from 0-55 in three seconds and the cops just want to take your picture.

Tiger should have made his way to this house.  As soon as he pulled out that infamous Blackberry, I would have told him, “Don’t touch that!  Put that down!  Don’t hit that!”  

I could have saved an empire.