Dawn breaks over Long Island. I am stuck in an Uber in standstill traffic on the road leading into Bethpage Black, the site of the Ryder Cup. The competition has reached its second, pivotal day. My friends and I abandon our ride and walk to the course with a stream of ticketholders. Spirits are high, as if on the way to a music festival. The cops direct us down residential streets, with people selling three-dollar beers and coffee at the end of their driveways. America!

Through the gates at last, I find a spot just below the first tee. Here we are, the golfing men of the world, dressed in our golf shirts and golf polos. The classic Who song “Baba O’Riley” is playing on the loudspeakers: “Sally take my hand, we’ll travel south ‘cross land . . . .” The grandstand and the elevated first tee box form a natural amphitheater. There are clusters of Europeans singing, plenty of American flag overalls, and phones pointed in every direction. The players in the morning foursomes — Xander, Rahm, Hovland — send their tee shots over our heads, trying to cut the corner. 

I only know professional golfers from television but they certainly seem like intense, interior athletes. So it’s a little weird to cheer on Scottie Scheffler as though he were a Roman gladiator. I mean, the guy has spoken eloquently about how golf is just one part of his life, and not the most important part. And that very perspective contributes to his otherworldly skill.

The Americans hit their tee shots and stroll down the fairway, with the alternate shot format giving off a speed-dating vibe. The Europeans look more comfortable with each other. The loudest cheer is for Michael Jordan, trailing the last foursome. The gods are walking among us. 

All of the warnings about large crowds following four sets of golfers turn out to be true. The groups of European men in coordinated outfits know what to do. They deploy themselves like SWAT teams, securing spots in the grandstands for upcoming holes. The key move is to find a seat that also has a view of a large jumbotron showing the action on other holes. I post up on the 13th green and sit with my fellow Americans as we let out collective groans. It wasn’t even 10 a.m. and chance after chance was slipping away. My brother texted me: “This thing might be over by noon.”

I’ll admit that it was fun to cheer loudly for bad shots. Tommy Fleetwood hit some kind of hideous shank on thirteen and we stood up and pumped our fists, chanting “U.S.A.! U.S.A!” The ball appeared to be in a terrible position, and then Rory walked over and coolly chipped it to the edge of the green. At its best, the partisanship was at the right level: a hearty cheer for America with the recognition that we’re sitting around a golf course, watching ridiculously paid athletes, waiting for our friend to come back with some Michelob Ultras. 

For every funny remark — “We love you Patrick, take your time!” — there were many clunkers. Rory, with his obvious and blazing talent, drew most of the negative attention. I wasn’t expecting American fans to write sonnets, but is yelling “F.U. Rory” over and over again really the best we can do? By the afternoon session, Shane and Rory looked annoyed but unrattled, walking close together like two friends in a hostile schoolyard. At the 15th tee, I watched Rory point to the scoreboard, a sea of blue.

Between sessions, I surveyed the course. I had been to the U.S. Open at Bethpage and was now shocked at the gentleness of the rough for the Ryder Cup. I suppose the idea was for the Americans to bomb drives without consequence but it turns out the Europeans don’t mind a fluffy lie either. (And they can bomb drives too.) I stood in the fairways to see the approach shots from the same perspective as the players. The pins, the slopes, and the intimidating bunkering told just how good they are.

Sitting on a shaded fescue hill, listening to British accents, I thought about how rare it is to spectate golf. We play often, and watch the shots of playing partners, but most of us tend to focus on ourselves and our inner game. How often do we show up at a course without clubs, just to watch? And we all sense that the golf we see on television is a manufactured highlight reel, plus the commercials are getting worse. (A curse on the genius who came up with “Playing Through.”)

Golf in person displays the interstitial moments of the game, and, wow, these guys take a long time over putts. Examining every inch and slope to see into the future of the break. On the fairways and tee boxes, the build up to each shot was meticulous, like a surgeon getting prepped. Just before the actual hitting of the ball, you could feel the focus descend, a kind of locking in, a stillness. 

That stillness is what stood apart from the whole circus. I spent a good hour alongside the 5th fairway, watching the afternoon groups come through. A decent drive left an approach shot that was maybe 150 yards uphill to one of the smaller greens on course. The crowds were mercifully sparse, and, if you ignored the cameras, the players looked like any one of us out for a round, surrounded by trees and grass. 

The professional swings presented an optical illusion, the effort out of sync with the result. Each player had a graceful movement that twisted the torso and sent the ball fizzing through air and space. I kept looking at the wrong place in the sky; the ball flight was much faster and higher than expected. These swings could not be denied or heckled. They were the pinnacle of hours of practice, the expression of a dedication that could only be admired.

Michael Agger is an editor at the New York Times, and he still watches too many swing videos on YouTube.