RIVER CITY JOURNAL: WHEN YOU'RE IN THE JUNGLE, ALWAYS LOOK FOR TIGERS

Tiger Woods -- in case you have been sailing solo around the world for the past few years -- is a golfer.

He is on the cover of just about every magazine except Ladies Home Journal, so you know he's a pretty good golfer.

Here's what I now know:

Tiger Woods hits golf balls just like I do.

Sure. I can hear your snickering. Go ahead. Laugh all you want.

But I have photographic proof.

Look at the photo that was in every Sunday paper in America last weekend. Some papers even put the photo on the front page.

Remember that photo?

I love it.

No one has ever taken a picture of me whacking at cattails and poison ivy.

But there was Tiger, tromping around with snakes and spiders, looking for his ball.

You have no idea how that makes golfers like me feel.

Here's a statistic for you:

Ninety-nine point seventy-six percent of all golfers in the United States hit golf balls the same way I do. And Tiger Woods.

Then I watched Tiger and that other fellow, whose name you have forgotten already (hint: Bob May), in the playoff of the PGA Championship. Did you see it?

I know some of you didn't see it because you were busy fixing refrigerated snacks for the party Wednesday night during the last episode of "Survivor."

You should have been watching something meaningful.

Like golf.

On the deciding 18th hole, Tiger hit a ball way right. The ball bounced around in a sycamore tree and finally stopped in the hardpan next to a cart path.

Been there. Done that.

Tiger took another whack at the ball. It went way left over into some high rough.

Been there. Done that.

With his next shot, Tiger's ball went into the sand next to the green.

Been there. Done that.

He blasted out of the sand, leaving himself a 2-foot putt, which he made.

Never been there.

Never done that.

OK. So Tiger got a little lucky.

That's the answer to why Tiger Woods has made more money than the sheik of Oman this year. And you know how high gas prices have been.

Luck.

Tiger hits the same nasty shots I do -- and the same shots you hit. But he's lucky. Real lucky.

Talent? Maybe he's got a little. I'm still waiting to see it.

So far all I've seen is a lot of luck.

Watching Tiger has given me some great ideas for the fantastic World Famous Downtown Championship Golf Course and Gourmet Catfish Buffet (All You Can Eat) that I've been working on so Cape Girardeau will have at least one reason for speeding motorists to pull off the interstate.

Example: The cart paths on my spectacular golf course are going to go right down the middle of the fairways. That's where most of us hit our balls anyway. See if this sounds familiar.

Whack!

"You're OK, Joe. Your ball is just on the other side of the cart path."

See what I mean?

Example: Along the cart paths I'm going to plant weeds and thorny shrubs and some blackberry briars.

Why?

Because it's an indisputable golf fact that most approach shots fail to reach the green in regulation because of high weeds and low limbs. Oh. Did I mention the trees I'm going to plant in the fairways next to the cart paths and the weeds and the briars?

Yes, this incredible golf course will have some immaculately trimmed zoysia too.

I'll use it for out-of-bounds markers.

Can't you see it? On my golf course, most of your shots will wind up in the short grass. And if you wind up in the cattails, at least you'll be able to ride your cart right up to your ball. Doesn't that make a whole lot more sense than what you've been doing?

Thanks, Tiger. I don't think I could have done it without you.

Don't ask me why, but ever since Tiger Woods started getting so much attention, I've been remembering a poem I had to study when I was in school. You know how my memory is. And you know how long it's been since I was in school. But here are some pieces-parts I recall:

Tiger, Tiger, burning bright/In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye/Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

When the stars threw down their spears/And watered heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?/Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

(Thanks to the late Bill Blake, writer of rhymes.)

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.