Ryder Cup

The big picture but too many vowels to sing

"Europe, Europe." People swilled the unfamiliar word around their mouths and discovered, at an unfortunate moment, that it really did have too many vowels for chanting.

But they tried all the same as Phillip Price sunk a 25-foot putt and Sam Torrance crept to an inch away from the cup. Now they believed.

They sat, 2,000 of them, in front of the big screen. They lounged on a lawn of dry grass and, as time went on, even settled on the awkwardly shaped grey gravel of the pathways.

It was not quite grassy Henman Hill; it had more the demeanour of an afternoon music festival, beer and chips on tap.

Some had been there from the beginning, pushing through the gates as dawn broke.

Grant Wallace, resplendent in brown-and-white golfing trousers, had flown all the way from Canada but was forced to sit out yesterday with one leg up on a wooden chair because of the sudden onset of gout.

The big screen was his saviour and the next best thing to following Tiger Woods around. He claimed not to be worried that he and his wife were the only supporters of America around. "We can handle it on our own," he said.

And he was right. Though they were vastly outnumbered, there was never really any anti-Americanism, apart from the roar of unsympathetic laughter when a stricken Curtis Strange was shown, at the end, sitting alone in a suddenly ridiculous golf cart, with his head in his hands.

The crowd had grown as the early holes became redundant. They were presented with European flags by someone trying to install multi-state patriotism, and it seemed to be working. Some put them in their hats, some in their belts. It was nothing quite as slick as the passing stars-and-stripes sequinned hats and George Bush T-shirts, but a good effort by the Europeans nevertheless.

The crowd could sate their hunger and thirst and even their gambling instincts; the betting van was a 30-second stroll away. The odds changed with every hole. At the start of the day the United States were 2-5, Europe 5-2, odds on which someone placed a £10,000 bet. And you could get 13-2 on the virgin suicides: that Niclas Fasth, Paul McGinley, Pierre Fulke and Price would all lose. At 2pm the US were 7-4, Europe 4-7 and it was a real game.

By the time Phil Mickelson missed from three feet at the 6th everyone had put down the morning's astonishing newspaper revelations and, when Jesper Parnevik birdied the 13th, the atmosphere was almost bawdy.

The man with the wide behind was told to get out of the way of those lying on the ground and the bloke inexplicably cheering for Gérard Houllier was shouted down.

Those with radios sometimes knew what had happened ahead of those watching screens, so cheers went up in slow sequence.

And then Sam Torrance came on to the screen, shoulders heaving, moustache twitching and eyes watering as he was told on his headphone that Price had won.

"Sammy, Sammy," shouted the crowd. "They're going to do it for you, Sam."

Paul Azinger had to hole the 17th to stay in the match and, when he did, he won generous applause from the gallery on the ground and open-mouthed astonishment from a passing American.

But it was only a matter of time. The crowd sat with their hands on their heads, expectant but still a bit doubtful, as McGinley hit a 10-foot putt for the last vital half-point. It went slowly but it went in. And there was, briefly, pandemonium.

Then the Warwickshire police took their positions and everyone was going to go home.

But they did not. The bars stayed open as the coaches started to trundle away in slow motion, leaving hundreds of people to stay and drink. And they did, singing long into the evening.

Today's best video

Today in pictures