Some extraordinary golf was often overshadowed by the Donald, colourful fans, crazy MCs and tempers flaring
I was out by the practice green late afternoon on the Monday of the Ryder Cup, and so was Bryson DeChambeau. He was on his own, signing autographs for the handful of people on the other side of the railings, and there was this one woman leaning over towards him, a bottle blonde, late middle-aged, in a tight white dress. She was only a couple of feet away from him but she was screaming in his ear like she was trying to reach someone across the far side of the golf course. “We love you Bryson! Bryson! We love you! We love you for everything you’ve done for the Donald! We love you for everything you’ve done for the Donald!”
It was a long, strange week, and when I think back on it now the golf is entirely overwhelmed by technicolour memories of the weird scenes around the grounds of Bethpage Black and in the surrounding town of Farmingdale. I wish I could say that the things I remember best are that approach shot Scottie Scheffler hit from 180 yards at the 10th, or the 40ft putt Rory McIlroy made on the 6th, or Jon Rahm’s chip-in from the rough at the 8th. But they’re not.
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