Time, Is Never Time At All. You Can Never Ever Leave, Without Leaving A Piece Of You

When I'm old, I will brag to my children about several things. There will be stories of life before the internet. Tales of purchasing tapes, audio and video. Demonstrations of the ability to write in cursive (Really, when was the last time you used cursive for anything other than your signature? Fifth, sixth grade? You learned it in fourth as though that was how all written communication was, but by seventh grade, everything was either typed or required to be printed. At this point, it only serves two purposes, to sign credit cards, and to give teenage girls an activity when they become infatuated with a boy [Like you didn't write out your last name with his last name. Go ahead, lie to me and say you've never done it.]. I honestly don't think my children will learn cursive. Really, I want to know how early in school teachers start requiring typed assignments. Jake, Jared, you've got to keep me up to date on this.).
In the sports realm, I will bore them of tales of the 2005 White Sox. I will dazzle them by telling them I saw Santana pitch in his prime. They will marvel that I was at Wimbledon while Federer dominated the world of tennis.
I hope they'll ask me of the utter beauty of Ken Griffey Jr's swing. (Arguably, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. No really, if it were a girl, it would probably be among the top ten ever. And to see it live, it makes you want to pick up a bat and hit until the blisters pop, and then keep hitting until the those areas become calluses. It made me believe in the goodness in humanity. I miss it a lot.) I wonder if I'll have to tell them about why Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens aren't in the hall of fame.
One thing is for sure though. They will ask, "Dad, do you remember watching Tiger Woods?"
Yes, yes I do actually. I will have to ask them what they want to know about. How he is among the elite few who not only lived up, but far exceeded the hype? More than likely, they'll want tales of just how great he was. How he was the most intimidating guy to put on spikes. Or how about how just about everyone he played with would fold in the final rounds. How he would make difficult shots seem easy, and easy shots seem pedestrian. How records were re-written from the moment he first teed off.
I'll pull up clips of him sticking that 4-iron stiff on the green from some 230 out. He'll see the best nike golf commercial ever made. (How amazing was that chip? Don't answer. Just savor the memory? It always goes down smooth.)
The boys will give the upper-cut fist pump after their first home run. My girls will give the less ostentatious form after they score their first goal. Truthfully, they might know Tiger the player before they know of Tiger the jungle cat. He's just that good. It's simply amazing. And watching him for the first time ever, come from behind in the final round of a major (Yes I know he started with the lead, but he was trailing while being the last guy on the course), to force an 18-hole playoff, there is no doubt that my children will ask me about him, just like I asked my dad about Joe Montana. He's just that good.
So, what will you tell your kids when they ask about Tiger? Word.