- The Washington Times - Wednesday, June 23, 2004

Steve Williams is the psycho caddie who labors at the side of Tiger Woods.

No click of the camera goes unpunished if Williams is within earshot of the annoyance.

A click elicits foam from his mouth and eyes that roll into the back of his head.

You go click and he goes nuts.

The psycho caddie is liable to kick the camera out of your hands or snatch it from you, as was the case in two separate instances at the U.S. Open last weekend.

Williams is as subtle as a pit bull and as stable as a crackhead looking to score the next fix.

His reward is a dog biscuit and a pat on the head from his owner behind closed doors.

His owner’s tacit approval is indicated by the incredible length of the leash.

Williams will wade into a gallery to seize the offending item, with no assurances from Woods that his pet won’t bite.

The laws of the land stop at the gates to the country club.

Williams is granted asylum inside the gates, as if he were a political refugee fleeing a repressive regime, as opposed to a figure of repression who belongs in an asylum.

It is a good thing Williams follows in the path of the icon of golf. His behavior is criminal, just awaiting a charge from a no-nonsense district attorney.

There is no justification for his lack of interpersonal skills, regardless of the game’s delicate sensitivities.

Quiet, please?

Williams adheres to the sentiment with all his fiber, dating to the Skins Game in 2002, when he threw a guilty lens into a pond at the Landmark Golf Club.

Williams is accumulating a Sean Penn-like record with shutterbugs.

Yet he remains free on the appeal of Woods.

Williams is bound to pick on the wrong photographer one of these days, and the sooner, the better. A punch in the nose just might bring clarity to his primitive demeanor.

He either should be behind bars looking to forge a peace with the hairiest, tattooed inmate on his block or in a padded room taking his medication.

Williams makes both the game and his employer look small, assuming golf remains the sport of fussy gentlemen.

Nothing unhinges a golfer like a blade of grass that lacks sufficient luster.

It is a curious manner that goes against the customary sports landscape. A questionable blade of grass or a click of the camera is the least of the distractions before most athletes toiling in foreign stadiums and arenas.

Try picking up a pitch and hitting a home run as thousands of cameras flash at once.

The disconnect in golf is hard to accept, especially with Williams at large and kicking.

Williams owes his financial welfare, as does Woods, to the anonymous crush of humanity that fills a gallery.

A photograph, news or otherwise, is part of the exchange. It is a tiny intrusion that enhances the wealth and fame of the principals as they jet from one garden spot to the next.

That aspect of the equation is beyond the intellectual grasp of Williams, as it so often is with the famous and those who work in their behalf. The one-time nobodies do everything they possibly can to become famous and then, once there, they request to have their privacy respected and hire goons to be human walls.

Williams is a goon who takes the joy out of a sedated game.

He uses a sledgehammer to kill a gnat.

He is the heavy metal lead-in to a Harry Connick Jr. concert.

As the arbiter of golf etiquette, Williams rules with an iron fist and a kung fu foot.

A stern look probably could eliminate most inappropriate clicks, if Williams ever considered an alternative to seizing private property.

Williams has come to be the two-legged hazard of golf.

He has a license to steal, kick and possibly wring a person’s neck if a putt by Woods goes awry following an inadvertent cough.

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