I promise this column is not about Tigers Woods. You and your children may continue reading. In fact, I encourage it.

With that said, I’ll tell you straight away this column is not about role models.

(Side note on “straightaway”: It’s a lovely turn of phrase I stole from University of Minnesota golf coach Brad James, an Australian native I heard speak a few weeks back. I love it, though I’m not sure I’m using it correctly. One thing’s for sure. I could listen to Australians speak all day. Lovely brogue.)

It’s too entirely too simplistic a notion — and too crowded a bandwagon — to be critical of those living life with the advantages of a public persona, i.e. celebrities, entertainers, professional athletes. Of course, it’d be nice if all lived as positive examples of human behavior, but that’s simply not human.

I want to take this thought down a slightly divergent path. I often think about someone blessed with some type of gift who chooses, at least from a spectator’s perspective, not to take advantage of that gift. Yes, Tiger Woods has accomplished a lot in his career of choice, and in so doing, more importantly, has benefited many people through his Tiger Woods Foundation. I hasten to jump on another popular bandwagon and criticize him for his recent transgressions, mostly because criticizing him seems too easy, too cliché and too pointless. Wrapped inside that public persona is a human being. I can’t forget that.

What I can question him for is something much less important, but in many ways more intriguing. If, as he says, he had taped to his bedroom wall a list of Jack Nicklaus’s majors golf victories, why wouldn’t he see his recently revealed spate of indiscretions as a danger to his pursuit of that record?

Call it jealousy, if you will, but I loathe when those blessed with genius in any arena make choices not to take advantage of — or misuse — that genius.

We can all probably recall from our own high school days someone who was blessed with unusual speed or power, good hands or incredible coordination, someone who won all sorts of local adulation from community members. Most likely, we can also recall someone who showed great promise at an early age — say the early teen years — who chose not to use those skills for reasons no one could ever fully understand.

To be clear, there are many things more important than high school extracurriculars. That doesn’t stop those of us not blessed with such a skill set from being jealous of those so blessed, and from wondering, sometimes aloud around water coolers or over coffee, why that person chose to abstain from taking part in an activity they were so naturally gifted to play. Granted, we can never know each person’s exact situation in life. In some cases using that blessed skill set for survival is necessary, and more pressing than using it for some menial sport or contest.

In the mid-1990s I wrote a sports column as part of my duties for a daily newspaper in west central Minnesota. I won awards for two columns I wrote in 1999; both were about star high school athletes who chose, at varying points of their sports journeys, to walk away completely. One was a high school basketball star who wowed people with his leaping abilities and deft touch before quitting the team midway through his junior year, partly because he was struggling academically, partly because he was overly stubborn and partly because he just didn’t enjoy the spotlight. The “what might have been” stories about that athlete still abound to this day in that area of Minnesota.

To avoid editor Tim Engstrom moving my column to the sports pages today, I want to mention another example, a non-sports example of this same phenomenon. A few years back I received a message from a friend telling me I had to read “A Million Little Pieces,” a memoir about his battle and recovery from drug addiction, by James Frey. I read it. My wife and I shared one book, and often stole it from one another when the other momentarily set it down. We were enthralled.

For those who don’t recall the story, here is a quick review. Frey’s memoir became a best-seller, certainly in part thanks to its recognition by Oprah as her book club choice, which turns any piece of writing into an instant best-seller. Shortly after Oprah originally hailed the book, it was revealed by the Web site, www.thesmokinggun.com, Frey had fabricated portions of the story. A large controversy about the importance of truth and about Oprah’s image ensued.

Despite that, anyone who has read the book has to realize Frey is a gifted writer. He wrote in a style rarely seen before, and the book was as widely read and discussed as any in many years, although good luck finding people now who’ll admit to reading it. That’s like admitting in the 1980s you were a Milli Vanilli fan (I was) or today finding a fan of Tigers Woods’ golf prowess (I am).

Nevertheless, Frey wasted his talent, frittered away his opportunity like the Vikings did their Super Bowl hopes. Those of us who believe in the power of the written word, and who see the written word not only as something sacred but also as a livelihood, can only sit and wonder why Frey would do such a thing.

The human brain is beautiful, partly because of its complexity. It’ll never be completely understood, which leaves open eternally the search for some measure of understanding of why some choose not to use the genius with which they are blessed.

Albert Lea resident Riley Worth is a teacher at Albert Lea High School. He can be reached at rileyworth@gmail.com.