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The worms were surfacing. The fairways were soaked. And Tiger Woods, mid-trash talk, proceeded to flush every club in his bag without a trace of mud on the clubface. Darren Clarke still remembers the scene. Germany, practice round, Tiger’s prime. The kind of conditions that expose every flaw in a swing—wet turf, no pesticides allowed on the course, worms appearing across the range. Mud pickup was inevitable. Except Tiger proved otherwise.

“The most amazing display of ball striking I will ever see,” Clarke said, recounting the moment on Golf Channel’s 5 Clubs podcast, describing a 45-minute display that remains the most extraordinary ball-striking performance he has ever witnessed.

Woods went through his entire bag, lob wedge to driver, and didn’t miss a single shot. Not one. Then he called Clarke “a really bad name” and walked off. Clarke inspected the divot pattern Tiger Woods left behind: dinner-plate clean, no mud visible, just brushed grass.

Butch Harmon coached both players during this stretch—Tiger at the peak of his imperious run through the early 2000s, Clarke establishing himself as one of Europe’s most formidable competitors. But their connection ran deeper than shared instruction. Tiger made a habit of seeking Clarke out whenever he played in Europe.

“He would always find where I was and stand beside me,” Clarke recalled. The trash talk flowed freely—”give me dogs abuse, and I would give him dogs abuse,” but beneath it sat genuine respect. That respect extended beyond practice ranges.

Tiger Woods and Darren Clarke’s bond extended beyond trash talk

Clarke recalled seeing Woods on the practice range during the 2006 Ryder Cup at The K Club, just months after Tiger’s father Earl had died. Clarke had lost his wife, Heather, six weeks earlier. Two men in grief, acknowledging each other’s pain while competing across team lines.

“It was obviously very emotional,” Clarke said. “Tiger lost his dad as well, not much before that. And we saw each other on the range earlier that week. It was special.”

The Germany practice round crystallized both sides of Tiger’s character during his prime—the technical ruthlessness and the intentional cultivation of peer friendships. Clarke wasn’t intimidated. He’d beaten Tiger 4 and 3 in the 2000 WGC Match Play final, one of the few players who could handle the banter and look Tiger in the eye while doing it. But even Clarke, a major champion with 27 professional wins, walked away from that wet German range in awe.

“Even lob wedges, wedges, everything,” Clarke said. “It just pecked everything off the top and absolutely flushed every shot. I’ve never seen it before and I’ve never seen it since.”

The divot pattern told the story like a round dinner plate. No mud. Just grass, brushed clean. Tiger’s precision on display in conditions designed to expose imperfection. Clarke’s measured tone—self-assured but reverent—captured the dynamic between them. This wasn’t fanboying. This was one elite golfer acknowledging another’s untouchable skill.

Tiger back in those days was just imperious, Clarke said. He was just brilliant. And even decades later, the memory of that practice round hasn’t faded. The worms, the wet turf, the flawless execution, the trash talk, the dinner-plate divot pattern. A window into dominance that felt both ruthless and deeply human—Tiger seeking out a peer who could handle the abuse, then delivering a technical masterclass that left even that peer shaking his head.

Clarke’s final reflection says it all: “I love playing with him.”