Jplay a game of golf. One shot, just like any other. Same tee, same swing, the caddy you know and the club you chose and the ball you like. A light blue sunrise and a vast green meadow. Is this really the hardest shot in golf, or does it just feel that way when everyone is watching?
Just before half past six, on a crisp Roman morning, Jon Rahm and Tyrrell Hatton enter the first hole with a beastly roar. But this is only the climax of a tableau that was set in motion some time earlier. Long before the opening shots, long before the Icelandic hand clapped, long before the gates opened and thousands of fans came leaping across the grass like wildebeest in a David Attenborough documentary. The first T-shirt is one of the founders of the Ryder Cup, and like all mythologies, it seems to have acquired new layers and details with each retelling.
The stories are countless. Scottie Scheffler stepped onto the Whistling Straits tee box in 2021 and realized he could no longer feel his arms. Ian Poulter shocked the crowd at Medinah in 2012. A petrified Tiger Woods begged Mark O’Meara not to give him the first shot at Valderrama in 1997. Peter Baker at The Belfry in 1993, looking out over a fairway where he knew it better than anyone, convinced himself that the tree in his eyeline had been planted there overnight.
My own favorite anecdote at the first tee goes back much further. It’s 1931 and Walter Hagen is at the Scioto Country Club, about to begin his Saturday singles match, when he is interrupted by a waiter in a bow tie and waistcoat, waddling across the street carrying a bowl of cocktail. . Hagen grabs the glass, throws it back in one go, locks in his drive and strolls to a 4&3 victory.
On the other hand, Hagen never had to tunnel into the arena, or plant his tee pin in front of thousands of cheering fans, or endure months of ominous preambles over a single golf shot. And in many ways, the story of the first tee is a parable of the Ryder Cup itself: not just the evolution of a match and its audience, but also of the folklore associated with it, a folklore so rich and well-nourished that it has hardened into reality.
The first thing you notice is the architecture. Marco Simone’s stand, with 5,000 seats, is slightly smaller than the one in Paris five years ago, but the idea is essentially the same. The two wings face not the fairway – where the ball goes and where most of the golf is played – but towards the tee box, enclosing it like a circular theatre. All those looks and all that noise are focused on one point.
First come the TV cameras and the officials, who mark and sanctify their territory. Then the starter Alastair Scott, carefully unpacking his clipboard and box of tee pins. Then the fans, many of whom have booked the ‘First Tee Experience’ ticket upgrade, which guarantees you a seat in the stands. Then a man with a wiper and a cloth, who is polishing the Rolex clock. Then the vice-captains and captains, the non-playing players, the pundits and the media, the women and the VIPs. Nick Faldo sneaks behind the ropes and munches on a mini croissant. Novak Djokovic makes videos with his phone. In the temporary NBC television studio just behind it, a dozen eager faces are pressed against the glass.
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You can see why the players are as eager as anyone else to fuel the legend. In a sport largely defined by even tones and textures, the drama of a packed grandstand at dawn must feel like the rarest of buzzes. For broadcasters and organizers, the hype is the perfect hook for viewers and premium ticket buyers. But for all the froth and hysteria, what unfolds is almost reassuringly mundane. Rahm finds the fairway. Scheffler finds the first cut, but he’s fine. The next six players all find varying degrees of safety. Nobody panics. Nobody loses their arms.
And perhaps, on reflection, we shouldn’t find this surprising. Modern players actively train themselves to deal with these moments of high stress. Rory McIlroy keeps track of his heart rate and sleep patterns every day. Rahm puts a time limit on his workouts to match the pressure of a big championship Sunday. Justin Thomas sets himself increasingly difficult challenges to boost the adrenaline. Sports psychologists are commonplace on tour these days. None of this is a perfect facsimile. But the best players are undoubtedly better equipped for the big stage than ever before.
It takes about 20 minutes for the circus to resolve. Djokovic and his entourage disappear onto the fairway. The women scatter. Scott puts his clipboard in a black backpack and starts checking his phone. A steward in yellow hi-vis announces that the grandstand is closed and shoos the few remaining spectators to the exits. The VIP tents appear to be sleeping. And all that mighty heart lies still!
This story may differ slightly from the official promotional story. But in the bigger picture, it may be possible to read a little too much into eight tee shots during a three-day competition. This was certainly the case at Whistling Straits two years ago, where all the players who found the fairway ended up losing their opening matches and all the players who missed the fairway ended up winning. Or as Xander Schauffele so aptly put it this week: “It is a special moment. But it only counts as one shot.”