We’ve all been there: the first tee, the dimpled white orb sitting serenely on its throne, the shimmering green fairway, sirenlike in the distance. We’ve all felt the weight of the club in our one-gloved grip, the flex of the shaft; envisaged the crack and ping of contact.
The 37th Ryder Cup starts today and that exact same feeling of expectation will be experienced by each of the European elite as they take on the much-scorned might of American golf.
Of course, I had to stop the personalised introduction at a rather crucial place for it to have any validity, as after that point the comparison quickly wanes. Whereas the performances at Valhalla will doubtless fuel our self-delusion, the lowly amateur might expect, in decreasing order of embarrassment to a) thunk out a large divot in front of the tee, b) shank the ball wildly into some bush, or at best c) make delectable contact only to lose the ball in grey sheet clouds “Did anyone see where mine went?”.
The Ryder Cup is a rare thing, offering as it does, a chance to beat the Americans at a sport which they really do play.
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