Those words came echoing back this week when we learned Tiger Woods was having surgery on his left leg and would be lost to us for months, perhaps the rest of the year. That is gloomy news. America adores Woods, or should. He's only 32 but in his fairy tale of a young life, he has taught us how to fly.

He doesn't just thrill us, although Lord knows, he can. With his athletic artistry, his work ethic, confidence, intelligence, lifestyle, grace, he has given us someone in a high place to whom we can turn our eyes without fear of being disappointed. He's going to do something wonderful and do it right. We can count on it.

His father, the former Green Beret, said he would be more than a star golfer. We cut our eyes at each other when his dad said it, but he was right.

Tiger does things on a golf course we've never seen and in the doing, he shows us possibilities. Yes, it is possible to hit out of a bunker, over the trees and the water and onto the green. There is magic out there to be had, not just on the course but down life's roads.

And while he didn't intend to do it, he left us with a treasured memory to sustain us while he's away.

Playing on a knee in which there was torn cartilage and a leg that had two stress fractures, Tiger won his 14 {+t}{+h} major championship, beating Rocco Mediate in a playoff for the U.S. Open title Monday.

For as long as they talk about Tiger, they will talk about this one, how he winced in pain when he hit shots, sometimes doubling over. How he struggled with his game but salvaged it with bursts of brilliance. How he didn't tell us he was so damaged until it was over.

It was one of the most gripping of all the U.S. Opens. Our national championships are generally about man's bitter struggle with an angry course but, thanks to a Tiger who was flawed and affable everyman Mediate, this one was rich and warm and human, filled with drama. Tiger proclaimed it, “My best.” It was certainly one of our best.

His doctor said he shouldn't have played, but think of what we would have missed if he hadn't. A couple of months from now, we wouldn't remember who won. Instead, we won't ever forget.

If he can be fixed, he will be back next year to continue his pursuit of Jack Nicklaus' record of 18 major championships. And we all know how that's going to turn out, don't we?

My aerie where I write contains hundreds of items like badges and books and golf scorecards and photographs.

One that gets scant attention, because it is around a corner from where I suffer, is a baseball bat, a Louisville Slugger with the world "Powerized" and a lightning bolt branded in its blonde skin.

On the rare occasions that I do take it down and heft it, though, the years fall away and I am a barefoot kid in short pants and no shirt playing in the dust of an unkempt field somewhere back yonder, when, as a poet named Mary Gilmore wrote, "My world was larger then, quieter, safer, and greener, too. Daddies were taller, trees were shadier, trips were longer, and Saturdays were a long way apart."

One of the regrets of my career, and my life, for that matter, is that I let baseball get away from me -- not the playing of it, but the passion of it that engulfs so many.

I've always thought I could have been a good player because I was good when I was a kid, good enough to play with adults and better than most of them.

I made the high school team but I'm almost certain that was because I was then writing for the old Charlotte News, covering high school sports. I had already spent too much time away from baseball, skipping from childhood to my teen years, and I couldn't catch up. Then, when a crazy wild pitcher plunked me in the ribs with a fastball during batting practice, I decided to devote my time to editing the school newspaper, working for the News and clerking at the Big Star grocery.

I spent many years covering Charlotte's minor league teams and the bat is a souvenir of one of those teams, the 1976 Charlotte Orioles. I wrote about Cal Ripken, Minnie Mendoza, Harmon Killebrew, Tony Oliva, and Graig Nettles, and those summer nights still echo in my memory. That was a good beat to work. The games mattered to us because we knew the players, and we didn't have pro football or pro basketball shouldering the team aside.

The arrival of those two sports giants, along with the removal of the local nine from what is now Southend across the state line into South Carolina, greatly diminished the baseball team. It became easy to stay away.

I keep an eye on the Yankees, Red Sox, Cubs, White Sox, Braves and Phillies, read essays about the stars, keep track of pennant races, but I don't read a lot of box scores, don't play in a fantasy league, couldn't name three guys who play for the Cincinnati Reds.

And that's not the way I would have had it. I wish I had embraced it with more passion, but life happened.

I know there is a deep spiritual meaning in baseball. I stand in awe of its history and tradition. I understand and applaud every parent who takes a kid to a game -- not kid league stuff, but a game in a ballpark where everything is man-sized and infielders can turn impossible double plays and home runs fly forever.

I let it get away or it let me get away. But from time to time, I take down the bat and I'm a player again. I take a stance and wait for an imaginary fast ball, one that doesn't get me in the ribs.

IN MY OPINION Ron

Green Sr.

Days after winning her 72nd LPGA Tour title, Annika Sorenstam, 37, one of the best female golfers the world has seen, told us this would be her last year on the tour. The next day, Justine Henin, 25, the No. 1 women's tennis player in the world, winner of seven Grand Slam singles titles, announced she was done.

Sorenstam said, "The time is right."

Henin said, "There are no regrets. I did everything I had to do in tennis."

How do athletes know when it's time to quit, especially when they're on top? How did Sandy Koufax bring himself to hang it up at age 30 after winning 27 games that season? How did Jim Brown come to quit at age 30 after his MVP season in 1965? How did Brett Favre, seemingly over the hill, know to keep going for yet another season until he brought the Packers to the brink of the Super Bowl?

For most, it has to be a daunting prospect, life in the real world, life without the cheers, life trying to find something to fill the void where there was glamour and excitement and challenge, the feeling that there was still something to be won. One day you're a star, the next you're a guy in the checkout line at the grocery. One night you're turning heads in a Paris restaurant, the next you're at a neighborhood book club discussing Nora Roberts.

Brandy Johnson was a world class gymnast until one day she was suddenly terrified of doing her usual routines on bars and beam. She said, "My brain was telling me it was time to quit."

Life after gymnastics turned out well for her, but she said, "A lot of girls are lost after gymnastics. They've spent their whole life doing something they can't use anymore."

What is it that whispers in an athlete's ear that it's time to go home?

For Sorenstam, a beloved figure with a swing as reliable as daybreak, it was apparently a desire for normalcy, to settle down, to enjoy family life, maybe have a baby. Lorena Ochoa has rocketed to stardom, to No. 1 in the world, but it wasn't the presence of the young star that prompted Sorenstam's retirement. The week before she announced that this would be her last season, Sorenstam played three of the four rounds with Ochoa and was 12 shots better in winning the Michelob Ultra Open in Williamsburg, Va.

Henin just wanted out.

Her young life had been filled with tumult. Her mother died when she was 12. She was estranged from her family by an unpopular marriage that resulted in divorce. Her brother was in a serious auto accident and that, along with the divorce, brought the family together again.

"She used tennis as an outlet for her emotions," said her longtime coach, Carlos Rodriguez. "Finally with her life now reconciled, she no longer has the fire that drove her to success."

Sorenstam's departure is a graceful exit. Henin's is an escape. Sooner or later, everyone has a reason to walk away. Knowing when? For some, it's an easy call. For most, it hangs in the air like smoke, real but hard to grasp.

IN MY OPINION Ron

Green Sr.

"Shortest fuse on the PGA Tour," is what one tour veteran said.

No surprise then that when Perez had finished off a 73 in Friday's second round of the Wachovia Championship, the second round in a row in which his putter had treated him with hateful indifference, he let the ungrateful club fly at the bag.

When he got to the clubhouse, he kicked a garbage container.

Perez thought he had missed the 36-hole cut by one stroke and was done for the weekend. You don't have to be a hot head to abuse inanimate objects when that happens.

But the cut line changed and he lived to play another day, although tied for last place with 21 other guys. This meant he had to be on the tee Saturday morning at 7:54. That was fine with Perez, an early riser. There was not a lot of wind and the greens were smooth. Of course, there's also a lot of privacy at that hour. Many a ticket holder was probably still at home having a second cup of coffee.

It didn't take long for Perez to collect a gallery, though. After he birdied five of the first seven holes and his exploits lit the leader boards up like neon, people were coming through the trees like they were being sucked up by a vacuum cleaner.

This is what you hope for when you buy your ticket, someone gone berserk out there, making this impossible game look easy. The man with the boxing glove was punching par in the nose.

He wasn't done after that torrid start. Some would go into a protective mode. Not him. He stuck his chin out.

"I started 1 over par," he said, "and when I got back to 5 under, I said, `Let's play.' That's what makes Tiger Woods so unbelievable. If he's 1 under or 12 under, it doesn't matter. He's going for more.

"You're playing good, why get nervous? You've got to be aggressive out here. It's a cut-throat game."

He made the turn in 30 strokes, 6 under, then birdied the 10th, bogeyed the 14th and eagled the 15th to stand 9 under par for the day, needing only to play the last three holes -- the dreaded Green Mile, one of golf's toughest finishes -- even par to set a course record. He parred the 16th but bogeyed the last two for a 65 and just like that, he had come from last place to a place where he could contend for his first pro championship today.

"I really can't say I could have done any better," he said, but only after he had kicked another garbage container to let the gods of golf know he was not happy about those last two holes.

We all know it's a goofy game, but some things are just plain crazy. How can you shoot 72-73 and wake up the next morning playing like, well, Tiger Woods?

"Putts go in," said Perez. "I had 30 and 32 putts the first two rounds and I had 25 today. I hit it as good as anybody. Everybody hits it great. But the short game is the whole thing out here."

When they go in, he goes low. He's had a 64, three 65s and a 66 this year. They just don't go in often enough for him to win. He can console himself, though, with the $643,000 he's won this year.

There's one more day to go. Who knows what he'll wake up to today? Ron

Green Sr.

Any place you'd rather be?

This is worth calling in sick, postponing surgery, showing up late for your wedding rehearsal, jumping bail.

Not just for Mickelson, for the whole show, although Mickelson's not a bad choice. He will entertain you. Like nobody else in spikes.

He came out in a red shirt cut to reveal the results of his diet and conditioning and promptly made a manly birdie, swatting his tee shot into bare ground under a tree, playing a picture-pretty shot to the green and holing a 10-footer for birdie.

The same guy played the par-5 15th hole in seven shots. He thinks he's magic and sometimes he is, but sometimes he makes seven trying to pull off a shot that would dazzle Houdini.

To cap his day, he hits a simple shot into the creek running along the 18th fairway and all he can do is grin and make another double bogey. But it's only Friday. Mickelson's still in it. Way back but still in it. Maybe.

There aren't a lot of Sunday-style roars out there on this Friday. It's too early. The only real drama is the cut. For spectators, Friday is a walk in the park before the smoke fills the air. But if you're in the right place, you see some good stuff. Jay Williamson knocks his tee shot into the cup on the 247-yard sixth hole. In case you're wondering, it is a par-3 .

George McNeill shoots 6-under-par 30 on the front side. Jim Furyk, who has had a win and a second here, shoots 32 on the front en route to a 67 and a tie for fourth, from which he enters the weekend as the favorite.

David Duval, who fell from world No. 1 to a life of missed cuts, has always been baffling and he is no less Friday when, after shooting 79 on Thursday, he plays the back nine -- his first nine -- in 33, then shoots 40 on his second nine.

The list of players who miss the cut has more sparkle to it than the leader board. Included among those slamming car trunks are Masters champion Trevor Immelman, former Masters champions Jose Maria Olazabal and Mike Weir, along with former PGA champion Davis Love III, No. 4 in the world Steve Stricker, Justin Rose, Paul Casey, Luke Donald, Stuart Appleby, Chris DiMarco and Shigeki Maruyama.

Friday's a day off for the people with tickets, but for these guys it's a weekend off, one they didn't ask for.

IN MY OPINION Ron

Green Sr.

They have to putt.

And as good as they are -- and they are very good -- even the pros gathered at the Quail Hollow Club this week for the Wachovia Championship have a tenuous relationship with their putters. Putters are just not to be trusted.

Ben Hogan grumbled that golf is played in the air and putting was an unfortunate adjunct. Sam Snead's stroke got so yippy, he invented a style called sidesaddle.

Vijay Singh, one of the world's best players today, has tried a belly putter and a long putter and experimented with various grips. Thursday, he got to 5 under par before a bogey on 16 and a double-bogey on 17 left him at 70. With him, it's often the putter, but not this time. A drive into trees and an iron into water were the culprits on 16 and 17.

Some days, for pro and hacker alike, it's a red hot love affair with the putter, the next divorce is not out of the question.

Phil Mickelson is feeling so good about his putter this week, he might send flowers. His putting "felt terrific" Thursday and the result was a 4-under-par 68.

He has been working with short-game guru Dave Pelz and he generously shared with us the knowledge he gained.

Pay attention.

Mickelson said, "as you know, face angle means a lot more than stroke, and my face angle wasn't lined up. It was lined up at address, but it wasn't staying square throughout the putt, and it was noticeable when I started working with Pelz and we had a couple of devices to check that, because the device we used called a laser aimer to check my alignment was good, but it wasn't starting where I wanted to, so it was coming off a little bit during the stroke."

Got it?

Mickelson also added an inch and a half to his putter because he has grown taller in recent years, thanks to stretching exercises, he said. At times like these, it feels easy to Mickelson.

Sometimes, for some, it seems impossible. A couple of seasons ago, Tour pro Henrik Stenson double-hit so many putts on the 17th hole of the Deutsche Bank Players Championship, he lost count of his strokes. He was credited with a 12 but later refused to sign his scorecard because he wasn't sure the figure was correct.

Sports psychologist Dr. Dick Coop told Golf World this story:

"He was one of the best orthopedic surgeons in the Midwest and he had the yips. I asked him what he thought about just before he took the putter back. He said, `You don't want to know.' I told him I needed to know if I was going to help him. He said, `Suicide.' "

A better option might be one a friend of mine once tried. After three-putting 11 straight greens, he threw lighted matches into fallen leaves, trying to set the course on fire. And those of us playing with him understood.

IN MY OPINION Ron

Green Sr.