Like great music, literature or theatre, sport has the potential to be transcendent. On rare occasions everything else drops away and you become fully immersed in the drama unfolding around you. Your field of vision narrows to what is right in front of you and your heartbeat, respiration and adrenaline levels start to respond solely to the prospect of victory or defeat. Your upper rational brain knows it’s only a game, but somewhere down in the caveman basement the involuntary response is primeval, tribal and sometimes truly exhilarating.
I was lucky enough to spend last weekend within the bubble of Medinah Country Club just outside of Chicago getting swept up in the drama of the 2012 Ryder Cup. Even with the perspective of only a few days, last weekend is being acclaimed as not only the greatest Ryder Cup ever, but also one of the outstanding sporting spectacles of the last decade. In the era of reality TV when manufactured drama is the norm, this was the unscripted and unpredictable
real deal.
The narrative was simple. The US team dominated the first two days, the Europeans hung on by a thread only to come roaring back on Sunday afternoon to claim a historic victory. But just like any theatrical plot, the golf games were merely a vehicle through which the real human drama could be delivered. The emerging stories of individual failure and redemption. The recognition that some players get an inch taller as the pressure mounts while others wilt and second guess what would normally be second nature. The realisation that there are those who rise up and seize the moment, and those who simply seize up over a terrifying three footer.
Within the broader arc of the story certain images are indelible. Ian Poulter single handedly reversing the momentum in the gathering gloom on Saturday night and howling at the sky as he birdied the last five holes. Nicolas Colsaerts, a journeyman pro from Belgium, shooting the round of his life on Friday afternoon to carry a struggling Lee Westwood to Europe’s only point from that session. Justin Rose sinking an enormous putt on the 17th on Sunday afternoon en route to snatching a point from the great Phil Mickelson. Martin Kaymer with his arms raised on the 18th having drilled the five-footer to retain the cup. And one that may not have made the TV screens. Francesco Molinari’s caddie sitting with his back to the bag on the fringe of the final green staring back down the fairway calmly enjoying a celebratory cigarette as the world’s media engulfed the victorious European team mere feet behind him.
What happened away from the ball was just as memorable. The 20-minute wait for an overcooked burger made by a feisty American woman in front of me who improbably had spent years living in Freuchie, Auchtermuchty and Kirkcaldy. The great migration late on Sunday afternoon as the crowd converged on the 18th hole, flowing over the golf course like some baseball-capped floodtide. The raucous celebration around the final green on Sunday evening as the massed European fans worked their way through a full repertoire of football chants customised on the fly to honour each member of the European team. Finally, as darkness fell, the spirit of the Olympic opening ceremony came to Chicago via a full-throated rendition of ‘Always look on the bright side of life’ conducted by Ian Poulter as he sprayed the European fans with champagne.
Despite the rising tension on Sunday it still felt safe for us to be in the minority. Maybe it was just good mid-western manners, but around us the American crowd was vigorously partisan without ever getting unpleasant. So often at major US sporting events (try a Friday night at Yankee Stadium) there is something just the wrong side of machismo at work. An edginess that can manifest itself as ‘in-your-face’ aggression that tolerates no opposition and can occasionally lead to the invasion of Middle-Eastern countries based on sketchy evidence. Clearly there were isolated incidents over the weekend where that type of attitude led to abusive comments, but in the case of a comment to Justin Rose about his father, it was great that the person who walked over and rebuked the fan was Phil Mickelson, Rose’s US opponent.
Yes, there was some cheering of missed European putts, but there was also a fair amount of cheering of missed American putts coming from European fans – it just wasn’t as loud given the crowd composition. Let’s be realistic, if you have a beer cart every 50 yards and your team is in the middle of a historic meltdown, there will be idiots in a crowd of 45,000 who are going to exercise poor judgement and that is the price you pay for an atmosphere as electric as it was on Sunday afternoon.
As the excitement ratcheted up on Sunday it also struck me how unique this event is even within the broader world of sports. The great sporting spectacles of World Cup finals, Wimbledon championships and American Superbowls tend to be discrete events that build towards a climax with little room for pause or reflection. In contrast, the Ryder Cup with its three-day format has time to build the drama in cycles with plenty of time for both players and spectators to process and interpret what is happening during the Friday and Saturday night breaks in the action.
After the drama of late Saturday afternoon when Europe grabbed a tenuous lifeline, we were off to downtown Chicago for beer, live music and much discussion of the right singles order for the Sunday. You just don’t get that type of relaxed analysis opportunity during the 15-minute half-time of an Old Firm game.
The lengthy days (close to 12 hours of play on Friday and Saturday and seven on Sunday) also give the spectators the luxury of customising how they want to participate in the drama. On Friday and Saturday the wake-up call for us was 5.30am so we could be at the course to see the first groups tee off at 7.20am. As the massed ranks of spectators filed through security each morning they fanned out across the course, each group with their own plan for the day.
Some crowded around the first tee. Others picked a match and followed it around the course guaranteeing they’d be there for the vital moments. Others (like us) picked a spot to camp out for each session and then let the matches come to them, trading breadth of perspective for a great seat at a vital hole. Finally, there were invariably those who headed straight for the hospitality tents, seeking to negate the benefits of actually being there by spending most of the day watching events unfold on a big screen with a glass in hand.
Of course, in this age of technology, even if you were camped out at a particular hole, you were never really out of touch. Our communication tools of choice were small PGA-supplied radios tuned to BBC 5 Live. They not only gave us a reassuring commentary with a European echo chamber quality but also offered the slightly bizarre experience of sitting in the sun behind the 12th green listening to the news that Clyde had drawn 3-3 with Nairn in the Scottish Cup.
Like any great Shakespearian drama, the resolution of the conflict came down to the 5th Act on Sunday afternoon. After four sessions of two-on-two competition the match would be decided – as always – by the 12 singles on the final day. Gladiatorial combat in well-pressed slacks and polo shirts. But all great dramas need lighter moments to ease the tension. On Sunday afternoon that light relief was provided courtesy of Paddy Power the Irish bookmakers, who – much to the chagrin of the American fans – commandeered the skies over Medinah to indulge in some sophisticated sky writing that re-tweeted the thoughts of European fans. After ‘it’s not over yet’, ‘spirit of Seve’, and ‘remember Brookline’ came the immortal ‘good luck Tiger from Linda, Jocelyn, Cori, Rachel, etc. etc’. Just what you need when you are struggling to get your game together; your philandering highlighted at 10,000 feet for the amusement of 45,000 golf fans.
In the end it’s as easy to trivialise golf as it is to trivialise nearly all sports. Grown men knocking a little white ball around on manicured lawns cheered on by predominantly middle-aged white males and governed by petty bureaucrats in Pringle sweaters harrumphing over minor breaches of etiquette. If you want the best comedic indictment of the game just look up comedian Robin Williams and his famous golf routine on YouTube.
On the other hand, there will likely be those who read too much into last weekend. Tiger surrendering a half point to Molinari won’t help the Italian debt crisis and the fact that a German sunk the winning putt for a Spanish captain will not lead to a kumbaya moment between the Bundesbank and the Spanish government over the fate of the euro.
Ultimately, I know that the whole thing doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things. A European victory won’t cure cancer or help starving children. I’m fully cognisant of the fact that a spectacular Sunday comeback doesn’t solve a single work problem for me or help my wife and I bring up smart well-adjusted children. But like the aftermath of all transcendent experiences, be it the finale of a Beethoven symphony or turning the last page of a great book, the world on Monday morning seemed a little better and easier to deal with than it was last Friday.
Alan McIntyre is a Scottish-born partner in a New York-based financial services company
