I won’t venture to guess how many people have really been waiting for this day, but this morning’s papers bring news of yesterday’s announcement from Tiger Woods: he’s coming back for the Masters. Far too much opinion has been offered on this matter already. I won’t go there.

Meanwhile, the experts are high again on one Kobe Bean Bryant, the oft-titled “best player in the game,” whose nearly 28 points per game have again powered the Lakers to the top of the Western Conference and have the professional guessers speculating as to the possibility of an eleventh title for coach Phil Jackson.

Ah, Tiger and Kobe.

Linked by greatness. And by sexual calamity.

Two men needing forgiveness. As you and I do, of course--in the salvific sense of having not one breath of a chance without Jesus.

I’ve been emailed a number of times in recent months by those who want to know whether this message is being sent particularly to Tiger. I’ve never had any contact with Tiger myself, but I cross paths with some who do, some who care about his soul. They assure me that messages have been sent Tiger’s way, not only in the Brit Hume sort of public opinion, but through personal avenues. We know that, for now, Tiger has chosen to return to his Buddhist roots, rather than “look to Jesus,” as they say. Keep praying.

But the Lord’s forgiveness is not really what I am talking about here.

I wonder instead about us, the folks who buy the tickets and watch the ads that foot the TV bills and read the magazines that tout the greatness of these guys. I wonder about our willingness to forgive.

In a way, it should be easy for us to forgive a Tiger or a Kobe for admitted transgressions. Their actions didn’t crash down upon our homes, except for having to break the news to our kids that yet another “hero” has, take your pick, (a) kicked sand in the face of his marriage, (b) toted a gun like an apocalyptic movie warrior for no safe reason, (c) abused--or even just “experimented with--any of the long list of drugs we’ve warned our kids to steer far clear of, because no smart person would get involved with that garbage. We won’t extend the list. You get the idea.

Their actions, though, haven’t sent my wife to counseling or court or the jewelry store. They haven’t required me to head to rehab. They haven’t made my children the target of juvenile derision or deranged photogs in their schools.

No, all their actions have done is make me ask of myself: How much can I forgive? How much can I forget?

Jesus told Peter to forgive those seventy times (or seventy times seven). But street wisdom sounds pretty good, too: “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”

Maybe the twain do meet.

I should forgive, because I need so desperately myself to be forgiven, for habits of my heart and mind—the invisible source of visible sin. And for the sins themselves.

But perhaps I should not forget. Perhaps I should remember the grave sins of others, as lessons and warnings to me, as echoes of my own fragility. Perhaps I should remember, too, so that I cease this endless American penchant for attaching labels of awe to men who are in too many ways just like me.