The early birds catch the Tiger

American practiceJohnny Watterson was one of the early risers to see the heavyweights of the American team hone their preparations ahead of Friday's epic encounter

For a Tiger hunt, best rise early in the morning. Before most had arrived at The K Club he was gone.

Paired with Jim Furyk, Scott Verplank and Brett Wetterich in the first practice fourball, he left the opening tee box before 8am yesterday. Only a trickle of people watched as Tiger Woods and his American team cut through the bright morning sunlight to breathe life into this Ryder Cup week.

It has been months of what was to come. Now it was here, in uniform, performing. The cast of stars had finally appeared on stage ripping golf balls out into the Irish countryside.

He streaked off like the Pied Piper, and hundreds soon followed, the rookie Wetterich and the experienced trio mixing jokes and banter; assistant captain Corey Pavin slapping backs and spreading quiet words like a sage among students.

A loose but intimate posse of brothers, the Americans departed up the fairway like the nose of a small comet, the fast-growing crowds forming a tail behind.

By the time they reached the turn, the trickle had turned to hundreds, and the hundreds had swollen to thousands, and with Phil Mickelson and Chris DiMarco behind in the second group alongside David Toms and Chad Campbell, people were shuffling backwards and forwards eager to get close, unsure of the best positions.

Choices were stark. Race ahead and see where Tiger's ball landed just to get a close-up glimpse of the man who had given them the reason to be there, or jostle by the tee box to watch the detonation of power and control before savouring Mickelson's immaculate approach work from behind.

It was a group of players not doing very much at all in a competitive sense and the fans arrived simply to witness the epiphanies of the pure strike, the controlled draw, the effortless length and the projection of absolute authority that America's best professionals can bring to a golf course.

On the ninth, Furyk - Tiger's likely partner in the opening fourballs - drove to under the boughs of the large tree that marshals the fairway. An elevated shot impossible, the 2003 US Open winner nonchalantly planed the ball under the branches and controlled it no more than six feet from the ground for 150 yards or so to the apron.

On the same hole, Tiger went over the green from lush, wet, four-inch rough, then pitched back a ball that ran violently toward the pin, too violently toward the pin.

"He's bladed that one," said a shrill voice from somewhere in the northwest corner of Ireland. And as the words came out the ball power-

braked dramatically and barrelled to within inches of the cup.

While Tiger was the divo, Mickelson and the New York scrapper DiMarco made an almost equally attractive chorus line, Mickelson's burnished face and semi-permanent smile unafraid to engage the crowd and a sharp contrast to Tiger's impenetrable green-to-tee glare.

"Hi, guys, I'll sign after the round," chirped the Californian left-hander as he stepped off the par-four sixth green to walk to the seventh tee through a clutch of young autograph hunters.

"Hi, guys, after the round, okay? Here's a souvenir," he said as he thrust a golf ball into the midriff of young Séamus Duff.

"My lad's got a Tiger autograph," offered the father of another boy, Liam O'Dea. "Not many of those around."

If the Americans came to threaten and posture and strike terror into the Europeans on yesterday's first practice day, they did a lousy job, and even Tiger's typically narrow focus on his march around the course melted away. A snatched peaked cap signed and thrown back to its lucky owner, a belly laugh on the tee box, a shared joke with his caddie and minder, the hulking Steve Williams, made yesterday's round a semi-social event. They were taking a peek, getting the feel of the geography of the course and learning how to deal with its darker side.

On the sixth as Wetterich was at the top of his backswing after his team-mates had launched their drives, a remark from one of the group was enough to make the 33-year-old debutant fall away in mid-swing.

He didn't point the finger but smiled at his tormentors. In their way the Americans were blooding the new boy, armour-plating him against what he might have to face come the weekend, where a partisan crowd should ripen the proceedings.

On the approach shots, two or three balls were thrown down and hit to see the best angles to the pin.

On the greens they would putt three, four, five balls; they would roll them to the corners at imaginary flags where they expect the placement to be at some stage over the three days; Furyk would putt at his caddy's feet and Fluff Cowan would kick the ball back.

All three groups were putting, pitching and surveying the contours and grains of the greens before moving on.

The final fourball of Vaughan Taylor, Zach Johnson, Stewart Cink and JJ Henry, the "who are they?" group, followed like the tail-enders at the St Patrick's Day parade. A motley crew of talent they were, but unfamiliar faces to an Irish gallery.

Cink was charged with guiding the three rookies through the turbulent wake of the two groups; ahead, Tiger Woods, the slickest, the most removed but always, always making the biggest waves.