Television, like the rest of us, loves contrasts. Black and white, rich and poor, and, of course, big and small. This, amidst the many reasons for its continuing success, is one of the core reasons The Ryder Cup remains such a vivid and satisfying contest.
No image of the many millions transmitted to a global audience from The K Club in Ireland captured this thought better than the occasional friendly collision between Captain Tom Lehman of the United States and his European counterpart Ian Woosnam. When the tall American said something to his opposite number, Woosie had to tip back his cap just to look up to Lehman’s face.
The contrast between the two men, Lehman, a man with the face of a Roman senator and the voice of a battlefield general; Woosnam, whose ruddy complexion and broad border tones underlined a youth spent labouring in his father’s fields, was richly satisfying to those of us who treasure these things. It was, however, the only concession of any kind that the diminutive Welshman made all week.
Lehman may have been representing a nation that can boast almost half the estimated golfers on the planet but despite his attention to detail and close regard for what his players desired, he could do nothing to reverse the recently established tradition of the modern Ryder Cup which decrees that Europe’s finest dozen golfers come, play and conquer.
Across three days of intense competition, the contest, set against wilful weather and played out to a sensational soundtrack supplied by the most committed crowd ever heard, raised the bar for Europe yet again. Two years earlier in Detroit, Bernhard Langer had inspired a record victory for the visitors, Europe winning 18V - 9V, and the general consensus was that we would be lucky to see anything vaguely similar again in our lifetimes.
In the event, we had to wait just 24 months for a repeat. Had Paul McGinley not sportingly conceded a hugely missable putt to J.J. Henry after a clown in a wig and not much else spoiled the Irishman’s personal campaign on the 18th green, then Europe surely would have established a fresh record with another half point. Does it matter? Not really.
McGinley, as decent and honest a man as you would wish to find, did the right thing in the circumstances. Woosnam, despite gently chastising the Dubliner afterwards, knew it, too. This Ryder Cup benefited from such presence of mind and clarity of vision, despite the elation and noise that swept around McGinley as his countrymen celebrated an overall victory already sweetly secured.
Minutes later the entire contest was over, anyway, a defiant Chris DiMarco finding the water twice as he searched for a killer blow against an exhausted and ‘flu-affected’ Lee Westwood, who had led by five holes at one stage but came to the final tee just one up. DiMarco’s reluctant but inevitable concession highlighted not just his own competitive instinct, but reinforced the view that he and the rest of his team were, by then, in shock.
This, to be blunt, was partly at their own inadequacy to rise to the moment but it was also at the realisation that the European Team was undeniably superior in almost every way. This is no facile gloat at the demise of honourable opponents who eloquently acknowledged the better equipped side won, but a detached analysis of the way things were in Ireland. And, more to the point, of how they seem likely to remain for some time to come.
American golf has a problem. How can it dominate the sharp end of the Official World Golf Ranking and produce players of the sublime quality of Phil Mickelson and Tiger Woods, only to see them wither so dramatically in the face of a European Team that had only one player, José Maria Olazábal, who had won a Major Championship? Furthermore, what can they do about it?
While it is tempting to add - ‘who cares?’ - such temptation must be resisted. That Europe’s traditional role as David to America’s Goliath has been reversed is undeniable no matter how you look at things. What we on this side of the Atlantic must now look forward to is the revival of America as a truly coherent force. It was never easy in Ireland but, in the end, it was much less demanding than many of us who fuss over this grand, old game could ever have imagined.
Yet while the PGA of America officials conducted a private postmortem on a colossal effort gone wrong, the powers that be in Europe retreated to their inner sanctums with a serious sense of a job well done. For this, of course, credit must be spread everywhere. The Ryder Cup is now a stupendous project, at least six years in the planning and two years in the execution. There is much that can go wrong at any one time but it says much for the imagination and work ethic of so many people that almost everything went absolutely right in this glorious corner of Co. Kildare.
What no-one could control, of course, was the weather. Ireland, at any time, is an unpredictable beast. There are forty shades of green because there are forty types of rain to nourish them. This can vary from gently dismaying drizzle that soaks while pretending to caress to the violence of a full-on storm. For this week, the weather gods decided to put on a show.
Initially it was so shocking that fierce winds and rain closed the gates to the public before they even opened on Wednesday morning, Health and Safety officials rightly concerned about all aspects of safety. Understandably, some frustration abounded but it turned out to be merely a brief interruption to what turned out to be a wonderfully vibrant week for the Irish.
This was their moment and how they rose to the occasion. Mud, rain, car parks that had to be closed, roads that offered frustration rather than progress; none of these mattered. The locals were in buoyant mood and nothing was going to dismay them. They never actually sang ‘We Shall Overcome’ but they damn near tried everything else. US President Bill Clinton, a celebrity American backer on a soulful Sunday, admitted he had never seen or heard anything like it. Stripped of the need for hyperbole or a resonant soundbite, the simplicity and sincerity of his reaction said it all.
The crowd, to their immense credit, never descended into tribalism, their forceful support for all things European tempered by a discerning appreciation for any decent American shot. A few days later, as he prepared at The Grove for the World Golf Championships - American Express Championship, Woods said it had been the best sports crowd he had ever performed for, their enthusiasm almost overwhelming.
Ah yes, Woods, the great American enigma. His dominance in every other golfing arena is unparalleled but once again he did not quite bring this force of nature to, arguably, the greatest stage of them all. His involvement was the cornerstone of Captain Lehman’s cunning plan and in the build-up he seemed to react positively to an intelligent leader’s urgings.
He even interrupted his own carefully planned schedule to make the trip with his colleagues to The K Club for a practice get-together in August, and before that had dug into his own pocket to take America’s four rookies out to dinner. Apparently, he proved an engaging host for that meal but once again he failed to bring the real thing to the bigger table.
Quite why this should be is for him to ponder, but there is no doubt that the one ingredient often lacking is a gambolling sense of fun. Woods, privately, has an engaging and sharp sense of humour but he is a truly serious golfer, and while no-one suggests that The Ryder Cup is anything less than serious, it does present a chance for players to have fun during a week shorn of the need to make a cheque or notch another victory on the long march to posterity.
The Europeans grab such an opportunity with both hands and seem, on occasion, hard-wired to enjoy themselves above everything else. The scene used to be set by Severiano Ballesteros before Colin Montgomerie took on the role. Monty still clung on to the post in Ireland but only just. Fast approaching, indeed already there, is the hectic figure of Sergio Garcia, whose bustling golf and vibrant joie de vivre illuminated the tournament as never before.
Still only 26, Garcia is maturing but thankfully not that fast and retains an impish charm. He remains the favoured naughty child, a young man hell bent on enjoyment and the sheer, delicious tasting of the moment. It is an attitude that is infectious to those with an eye for the big picture and one that the Spaniard will take into several Ryder Cups to come.
He may be slightly more subdued than in previous years and a tad more mature, but simmering under the surface is the same juvenile attitude that upsets some and inspires others. “The kid has what all greats need in any sport – passion,” said Nick Faldo. “Sergio is Sergio,” observed Lehman, sagely.
While Garcia was out there strutting his stuff on Saturday afternoon alongside the quieter Englishman Luke Donald, Swedish rookie Robert Karlsson called by the Media Centre for a chat. Karlsson is 11 years older and eight inches taller than the Spaniard but in terms of experience it is Garcia who is the wrinkly one.
While Karlsson has swung between success and failure over the last decade, Garcia has won here, there and everywhere and banked millions. We are still waiting for the first Major but it is, surely, no more than a matter of time. Or maybe it is not, maybe he needs the charge of a Ryder Cup to pop his cork properly? At The Open this summer, for example, he played alongside Woods in the final round and may as well have stayed at home.
In Ireland, however, he was at the races every minute of every day while Woods struggled to book in properly. In the build-up, Garcia consistently said he hoped he would come up against Woods at some stage. On the first afternoon he did just that in the foursomes. It was not really a contest.
So I asked Karlsson who made the most noise back at the European HQ each morning and evening - he looked back at me and grinned. “Guess,” he said. I declined. “Try Garcia,” he responded. “Clarke, Westwood and Monty all talk but the most noise comes from Garcia. Yes, he is talking a lot.”
But does anybody listen? And, more to the point, does it matter? Apparently not much. “We listen a bit but he is more the team entertainer. He’s just a big heap of energy swirling around the room. He makes us smile.”
Smiling is what set the Europeans apart from their American rivals. The visitors’ idea of team bonding is a lot of high-fiving and gravely voiced ‘heys’ so that at any moment you expect one of them to lift a golf towel off a bag and start flicking backsides. The Europeans, on the other hand, bond in the way we always have on this side of the Pond...by taking the mickey out of each other. We only ever hurt the ones we love and the Americans simply don’t get it.
It is why Lee Westwood deflates Montgomerie when the old warhorse threatens to disappear up his own sense of self-importance. He pulls his leg. And the Scot, to be fair, loves it. The next American to do this in a Ryder Cup may be the first. It is something they need to work on. Everyone, meanwhile, rips Garcia when he gets going but the affection is as obvious as the barbs are sharp and the baby of the Team responds with a big grin every time.
Woosnam astutely partnered him with Olazábal. The senior Spaniard had written his Ryder Cup curriculum vitae already thanks to a partnership alongside Ballesteros that is part of the contest’s most revered folklore, but he responded to the younger man’s presence brilliantly, feeding off his enthusiasm and slipping in a quiet word of caution when necessary. Together Garcia and Olazábal were an unstoppable fourball unit.
But then, each European contributed significantly to this victory. In an unpredictable week the most assured event was the very first morning fourball match that pitched Padraig Harrington and Montgomerie against Jim Furyk and Woods. Here, the considered predictions suggested, was the match that would set the tone for both Teams. In a strange way, it did.
The American duo won but instead of inspiring the men behind them, it galvanised Europe. If this was indeed going to be tough then they would simply get tougher. So it proved. Europe won every segment of this Ryder Cup so that not once did Lehman’s battered Team go into a hurried lunch or a subdued supper feeling anything other than dismay. Whatever they tried, they were bettered.
Paul Casey’s hole in one on Saturday to close out his foursomes match alongside David Howell and against Stewart Cink and Zach Johnson may have been equalled by Scott Verplank’s own ace at the same 14th hole against a momentarily dejected Harrington on Sunday, but by every other measurable statistic the Europeans were superior. By the time Woosnam attempted to hold the old trophy, a bottle of champagne and a pint of Guinness at the same time, almost every record was being amended.
The Captain’s plan to confer with his senior Team members worked brilliantly and in the end, he played it by the heart as much as by the head. So often, as it had done before in his career, it all came off. Darren Clarke, on the other hand, tried very hard to play by the head and for all but the last few minutes of his personal campaign he managed superbly.
Woosnam and his lieutenants had inserted the big man in the middle of the singles order so that he had a chance of holing the winning putt. It nearly worked, too, but Henrik Stenson – an implacably impressive Swede – took the honour when he beat Vaughn Taylor on the 15th green as Clarke approached the 16th three up against Johnson.
It did not matter. Half of Ireland, and a few more besides, gathered beside the Liffey to watch Clarke win anyway. When Johnson quietly conceded, bedlam broke out. Clarke, meanwhile, dissolved into tears and so did everyone else. Following the tragic death of his wife Heather in August, Clarke was there largely because of the urgings of friends – including Woods - and because Woosnam had the wit to pick him and his close friend Westwood. Each of those Captain’s selections embroidered this Ryder Cup magnificently.
Half an hour after his tearful victory Clarke helped lead the celebrations from the clubhouse balcony, his laughter interrupted only by his inclination to swig from a pint of Guinness or a bottle of champagne; it was a picture of a man offered a short and happy break from a bleaker reality.
Tears followed by laughter. Another contrast from this wonderful Ryder Cup well worth remembering.
Bill Elliott
The Observer
Reproduced by kind permission of The 2007 European Tour Yearbook which can be purchased through europeantourshop.net
