From Muhammad Ali’s brutal final bouts to Tiger Woods’ limping resolve, sporting icons often struggle to bow out gracefully. What drives them to fight on? And what’s left when the cheers fade? Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, Mike Tyson – these are just some of the one-time heavyweight greats who just couldn’t hang up their gloves.
In Ali and Frazier’s cases, those last few fights left lasting physical damage. The Thrilla in Manila – widely regarded as the fight of the century – was Frazier’s third-last bout, but even at the age of 31, should’ve been his final one. A knockout by George Foreman was followed by a five-and-a-half-year retirement before he laced up the gloves again for one final fight – a 10-round draw against Floyd Cummings in which Frazier took a great deal of punishment.
Ali fought on for 10 bouts after outlasting Frazier, the most damaging of these was his penultimate fight when Larry Holmes was brought to tears in the dressing room after Ali – perhaps already suffering the onslaught of Parkinson’s disease – was unable to mount an effective defence and Holmes’ pleas for the referee to stop the fight fell on deaf ears. Either way, Ali was never the same afterwards, nor was Frazier.
Tyson’s refusal to call it a day might not have taken the same physical and neurological toll that Ali and Frazier suffered; instead, it was his legacy that was tarnished, culminating in a retirement against Irishman Kevin McBride six rounds into his 58th professional bout and shortly before his 39th birthday.
We’ll never know if Ali and Frazier would both have enjoyed healthy and happy lives had they both called it quits after Manila, but we know that Tyson ended up getting knocked out and quitting against fighters who weren’t fit to hold his spit bucket, never mind lace his gloves in his prime.
But it’s not an easy thing to admit that the game is up – not when you’ve had a taste of life at the top. Your name still rings out, the crowds still respond, you still feel those butterflies and the surge of adrenaline, but unfortunately, your fists and your feet don’t lie.
That’s what’s kept Tiger Woods going. He knows that his name still carries weight, that his presence will draw fans in their droves, and he still feels that buzz of excitement when he hears those roars on the first tee. But his fists and his feet are no longer there.
It’s hard to pinpoint quite when Woods should’ve called it a day. Was it after winning The Masters in 2019? A feat that brought a lump to the throat of this writer when he embraced his mother, son, and daughter at the side of the 18th green? Was it after the Presidents Cup later that year, when he went 3-0-0 as playing captain? Was it after undergoing yet another back surgery in December 2020? After the car crash in February 2021 that almost took his life and his right leg?
Or how about after the 2022 Masters when, making his first tournament start in 18 months and walking the hilly terrain of Augusta National with a pronounced limp, he somehow made the cut?
Thankfully, golf is not like boxing. Tiger’s brain – at least the neurological functioning of it – won’t be majorly affected if he gives it one more go once he recovers from his ruptured Achilles, for which he underwent surgery – not like in boxing, where each punch sends the delicate sac of tissue crashing into the protective skull that surrounds it.
For those of us who grew up with him, Tiger’s legacy will always be that he’s the greatest to ever play the game. He transcended the sport, and almost singlehandedly brought golf into the mainstream in countries and neighbourhoods where it was previously nothing more than a game played by rich, white men.
That he was never fully comfortable being Tiger Woods only made him all the more relatable, even if his skills with a club and ball, and the vast riches they brought, were anything but.
But that man is long gone, lost in a series of crippling setbacks that only somebody with the mental fortitude, work ethic, and raw talent Woods’ possessed could even come close to overcoming.
Tiger’s competitive edge has dulled. The physical demands of a PGA Tour event, let alone a major, now stretch beyond his reach, testing a body that once defied limits. His recent Achilles surgery casts doubt on any 2025 major appearances, and by year’s end, he’ll turn 50, eligible for the seniors circuit – a milestone that feels more like a crossroads than a celebration.
Woods’ career merits a champion’s exit, not a ceremonial cameo. For over two decades, he made winning his craft, yet the spotlight he commands today feels misaligned with that relentless drive. The Open Championship in 2027 at St Andrews looms as a fitting stage for a farewell, echoing Jack Nicklaus’ 2005 goodbye on the Swilcan Bridge – but two and a half years is a long wait for a body already pushed to its brink.
Persisting could blur his legend. Further wear might mirror the physical decline of Ali and Frazier, while lacklustre showings in ventures like the TGL risk leaving younger fans with memories of a diminished icon – akin to Tyson’s late-career stumbles against Kevin McBride, Danny Williams, and Jake Paul.
Tiger Woods has earned the right to script his own exit, a champion’s farewell befitting a career that redefined golf. Yet, as the echoes of Ali, Frazier, and Tyson remind us, clinging to past glory can exact a steep toll – whether on the body, the mind, or the legacy itself.
The Open Championship in 2027 at St Andrews offers that poetic stage for Woods to follow Nicklaus into the golfing afterlife. But with his battered frame and the clock ticking, the question looms: will he step away as the transcendent titan we revere, or risk fading into a shadow of his former self? He deserves the former – a departure that honours the brilliance he brought to the game, untainted by the frailty of overstaying his welcome.
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