Tuesday 15^thMarch 1994. 9.35 am.

We arrive at The Navy Golf Course, Cypress, California in search of golf’s next big thing. We’re told at the pro shop that the chap we’re after is in the cafeteria having breakfast. Go on over and we’ll find him there. The cafeteria was like something out of Caddyshack — a damp, dimly lit affair which at first glance seemed abandoned save for a rather disenchanted looking chef leaning back on his elbows deep in thought.

In the corner of the cafeteria was a young man munching on a cheeseburger. He looked up with a surprised look on his face. “Tim. Is that you?” I agreed in the affirmative and sauntered over.

“Wow,” said Tiger Woods, wiping his hand clean and grasping mine with a firm but reasonable handshake. “You really made it all the way over here just to see me?”

No minders, no entourage, no dramas. Just Tiger Woods, and his cheeseburger.

“Well, you are going to be the next great golfer, right?” I replied.

“Sure,” replied Tiger. “And not the best black golfer either. The best, ever. Period.”

Tiger Woods was 19 years old. He’d just won the second of  three US Amateur championships and the ink was sill drying on a deal with Nike reported to guarantee  him $70m if he ever came close to achieving a 10^th of what everyone thought he was capable of.

The nation’s golf and sports press will scarcely be able to believe this now but do you know how I got to Tiger? I phoned up his agent Mark Steinberg at IMG and asked for his phone number. And, after Steinberg had received assurances about the nature of my enquiry, he gave me Tiger’s home number. So I phoned Tiger up, introduced myself and told him all about our new magazine we were launching called loaded. He told me it sounded like a cool magazine and he was right. For our first issue we wanted to feature a young, upcoming sportsman and we figured Tiger Woods could be that person. Tiger was thrilled that a UK magazine would want to launch their sporting agenda with little old him.

During the process of organizing the trip, I spoke to Tiger, Tiger’s mum and Tiger’s dad. We were on trans-Atlantic first name terms. On one occasion, his mum, Kutilda Woods informed me apologetically that Tiger was in the shower and maybe I should call back a bit later, and, no hang on, he’s rushed out of the shower, towel round his particulars and is trotting down the corridor to take the call.

When we met up he was charming and genuinely interested in what we were all about. But most of all, he had an aura of supreme confidence. We played 9 holes together and at one stage I even gave him cause to say “Great shot”.

But not very often.

Then we had a putting competition in which he demonstrated the tunnel vision that would serve him well en route to 14 major wins. But he saved the best for last by teaching me the secret of how to control a wild hook shot. It’s a weapon I’ve from that day to this. Just last week I used it to spectacular effect on a press trip to Palma, Majorca. My playing partners were gob-smacked. “Tiger Woods taught me that,” I said. Yeah, right, course he did.

After golf we went for dinner at Tiger’s favourite Mexican restaurant and he told us all about how he was going to shake up golf like no one’s business. And how he and his then girlfriend planned to use Tiger’s impending position in the world to do good things. I’m pretty sure that turned out to be The Tiger Woods Foundation.

When we parted, after spending over eight hours together, Tiger seemed genuinely sorry to see us go. “Make sure you come look me up when you’re next in town, it’s been fun,” he said as we embraced in a polite hug.

“I mean it, definitely make sure you look me up.”

So 10 years later, almost to the day, when I was launching GolfPunk magazine, I did exactly that. I was in town so I looked him up. It was perfect symmetry. The man who’d graced the pages of the debut issue of the most important magazine of the 1990s would be in the pages of the first issue of my revolutionary new golf magazine. Perfect. Except that, if Tiger was home, he certainly wasn’t in the mood to either remember me or acknowledge my presence. I wasn’t surprised nor remotely offended. 10 years had passed and several majors had been bagged. Tiger Woods was now the most famous sports person in the world.

Still, it would have been nice.

Tim Southwell is Editor of

Show Me The Golf