Now that the Canadian doctor who treated Tiger Woods’ injured knee has gotten pinched with HGH and Actovegin, Tigergate has started to swell into something so huge I don’t even know what to call it anymore. Tigerport?
Naturally, suspicions and accusations of Woods playing performance-enhancing ass-darts are spreading faster than H1N1.
But what exactly are they based on other than him having been given platelet-rich plasma therapy (PRP), a legitimate blood-spinning treatment, by Dr. Anthony Galea?
He’s not a second baseman who went from having warning-track power to hitting 50 home runs. And he’s not punking Usain Bolt on the running track.
His driving distance average has gone up over the years, but so has the overall average of the tour. Tiger’s rank in this stat has actually fallen slightly.
So unless the whole tour is on the sauce—not out of the question, but only one player popped on the PGA’s first PED test a year ago—his power shouldn’t be running any red flags up the juice pole.
Most of the chatter that has been decorating Woods’ with a doper tattoo is about his renovated physique. He’s being compared to Barry Bonds in that both went from being twerped to buffed.
But we seriously need to stop fingering him based on his biceps. And for fook’s sake, let’s dispense with the Barry Bonds comparisons.
Athletes lift weights. Tiger’s been doing it since the 90's and has made no secret of it. If you lift weights, unjuiced, for ten years you’re going to put on muscle—not freaky muscle, but muscle.
Tiger isn’t freaky big. He’s 6’2”, 185—about the size of an NBA point guard. And his gains have come gradually—30 pounds in a decade.
He’s not like a baseball player who shows up at spring training wearing 25 pounds of muscle that he didn’t own the previous October.
Barry Bonds is 6’1”, 230. Enough already with the Bonds talk.
If every athlete with Tiger’s build is going to come under suspicion, let’s all just cancel our ESPN subscriptions right now and focus solely on our co-pastime—hooters and booties, where enhancing can actually be looked at as a good thing—a very, very good thing.
The issue to be sorted out is that Woods received an apparently legitimate medical treatment from a known peddler of PEDs—and that is a conundrum.
If Woods wants illegal performance enhancers, he doesn’t need to wing anyone in from the Great White North to get them. He can score HGH as easily as Snoop Dog can sniff out a bag of weed.
Even so, there has to be a reason why Galea is known as the Magic Man for his PRP treatments that have American athletes humping his leg to get them.
What might that reason be? There are enough doctors here in the States who practice PRP. How much more skilled than these can Galea possibly be at spinning blood?
Unless, or course, his treatments consist of more than just blood-spinning.
Medical doctors don’t smuggle illegal drugs over international borders to pimp them on street corners. Ultrasound and other medical equipment were also found in the drug bust.
Galea specializes in human tissue repair, and this is what his connection is to American athletes. HGH and Actovegin are known for their ability to speed the healing of human tissue.
So does this make Tiger Woods guilty of doping? Not at all. But it raises a big fat eyebrow.
Of course, there’s always the possibility that someone comes forward and lifts the curtain on the whole show, leaving Tiger standing in the spotlight with his pants down and a needle dangling from his green-jacketed behind.
Mary Anne Catalano, Galea’s assistant who was arrested for attempting to drive the PED-enhanced vehicle over the border, has already rolled over on Galea faster than Rachel Uchitel on Tiger while making a position change during a three-minute quickie.
Whether she or anyone else knows something we don’t regarding Woods, or if there is even anything else to know, is impossible to say.
Tiger will eventually be back on the tour seeking redemption for his libidinous sins, and now it’s going to be with something ranging from a black cloud of suspicion to a fine mist of wonder following him around like the ass on a BBW.
And if it does turn out that there is something more to know, and it is made known, and Woods comes back, the only redemption he’ll find is a Shawshank Redemption because every hole he plays is going to be “500 yards of shit-smelling foulness I can’t even imagine—or maybe just don’t want to.”
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