It is admittedly an unseemly habit that flares up roughly every time a European team loses on U.S. soil, a tradition as noisy and irritating as a seasonal cicada. It doesn’t reflect well on its practitioners.
It’s the whingeing – the predictable complaining about American Ryder Cup fan behaviour (note the spelling). It’s a weird coincidence these outbreaks only occur in years when Europe loses – 1991, 1999, 2008, 2016 and 2021. My goodness, we’ll never stop hearing the sustained whimpering about 1999.
There was nary a whisper of dissatisfaction in 2012 after the “Miracle at Medinah.” Any rational person would find it hard to believe the Chicago-area crowds were saints – the very model of golf decorum. It would be rather off-brand of them. Same goes for 2004 outside Detroit. Or 1995 in Ohio.
Ironically, these cries emanate from a place that gave the world hooliganism. Unique to this year, they often came from peoples’ impression seeing “rowdiness” on TV – as though TV isn’t an amplifier that can make a handful of protesters look like a million-man march and let the viewers see what the camera wants them to see.
On the ground at Whistling Straits, the Wisconsin crowds were among the most behaved Ryder Cup crowds I’ve ever experienced – at home or abroad. There were occasional boors shouting taunts about Shane Lowry’s size or Ian Poulter’s ego, but that handful who like to hear themselves can be found everywhere.
The Ryder Cup is simply not like other golf events. It is inherently partisan, and rightfully so. There are two sides – us and them. Fans root for their tribe, period.
What galled European observers most were two things – a few “boos” in the first-tee arena (often playfully encouraged by European players such as Paul Casey) and the relative silence after quality European shots. And this is precisely the point of the Ryder Cup that the etiquette sect misses.
The Ryder Cup is simply not like other golf events. It is inherently partisan, and rightfully so. There are two sides – us and them. Fans root for their tribe, period. It’ll never be the Masters or Open Championship where fans simply root for great golf and cheering for misses would be uncouth.
You think Manchester United fans at Old Trafford roar approval of a proper goal struck by Liverpool? Or vice versa at Anfield? Perish the thought.
That’s what Ryder Cup is – Premier League and NFL and club and collegiate rivalries all rolled into one biennial partisan show of U.S. vs. Europe. Do I need to explain what “versus” means? It means “against.”
At most Ryder Cups, there is at least some measure of balance in attendees. The pandemic rendered that not the case at Whistling Straits. It was overwhelmingly an American presence outside the ropes. So when the players from Team Europe struck a good shot, there were few continental fans to appreciate it. American fans weren’t shouting their approval. Nor should they.
This is what makes the Ryder Cup unique, and why the players love it to the point they never want to be excluded. For once, they get the chance to experience playing for team and not just themselves. The best ones relish the crowd “abuses.” They get to feel the energy of a sporting event between rivals, and not just a tournament. It’s why Lowry uncharacteristically roared and pumped fists after birdies at the Straits, and why Justin Thomas cupped his hand to his ear in Paris and why Patrick Reed shushed the crowds at Gleneagles. It’s what makes Poulter’s eyes bulge or Rory McIlroy cry. It motivates players in emotional ways even a major championship cannot.
The crowds in Wisconsin – save a fractional sample of overserved yahoos who can be found anywhere aside from Augusta National – behaved exactly as they should have. The U.S. team should expect and welcome the first-tee boos and the partisanship in Italy in 2023, and you’ll not hear a peep of complaint when they do.
Scott Michaux
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