Americans love their Irish stereotypes almost as much as they love their Irish music, their Irish dance, their Irish coffee and their Irish stew.

When an Irishman made a rare appearance in the gold medal round of the Olympic box-offs at Barcelona in 1992, the Americans there were delighted at the answer from the Irish trainer who was asked why this didn't happen more often.

"Because," said the trainer, "we usually fight better when there are more stools around."

By late Saturday night the Americans here were growing more and more comfortable with a strapping Ulsterman named Darren Clarke. Clarke had mixed uncommon length off the tee with a deft touch around the greens while toppling David Duval in the semi-finals at La Costa.

Few Americans knew that even if Clarke had lost he would have cashed the biggest paycheque in the history of Irish golf. Fewer still knew that Clarke lives in London now and takes lessons from American swing guru Butch Harmon, the same coach who, piece-by-painstaking-piece, built Tiger Woods' swing into the most efficient repeating action in the world.

What they did know was that Clarke would be playing "David" yesterday to Woods' "Goliath" in the 36-hole final even, though the burly Clarke bore a stronger resemblance to a giant than a giant-killer.

After drumming Duval 4 and 2, someone asked Clarke if he planned to "chat up" the deadly serious Woods during the match. "I'll slag him off if he doesn't," Clarke shot back with amusement dancing in his eyes.

The Americans weren't sure what to make of Clarke's merriment or his phraseology. But they liked the sound of it. And they wanted more. Never mind that Clarke had ruined ABC television's much-hoped-for dream match-up pitting Woods and Duval, the world numbers one and two respectively. Americans like underdogs. Most of them consider all Irishmen to be underdogs. At their parties they love to repeat the line that God made whiskey to keep the Irish from ruling the world.

And here was Clarke, in his post-match press conference, demonstrating his workout regimen by repeatedly hoisting a mock pint of Guinness to his mouth, and putting it back down, and hoisting it back up again. Never mind that Clarke's agent, a bright and winningly-crafty Englishman named Chubby Chandler, assured everybody that his player would have just one beer on the veranda and one wine with dinner.

Clarke was the Irish guy who was going to try to make the golf world safe from Tiger Woods, the 24-year-old manchild who had won six straight tournaments and princely sums while charming the US advertising community into predicting one day he would be the world's first billion-dollar athlete.

Chandler, a former journeyman on the European Tour and one-time drinking partner of Irish legend Christy O'Connor Sr, had coaxed four shots on each nine out of Clarke last weekend and had beaten him out of $175. "A stuffing," Clarke called his 6 and 5 loss at Chandler's hands.

Stuffing? Americans always like it when they hear new words to describe old scenarios. Darren Clarke also told us he's never going to be as skinny as Tiger Woods. He told us he doesn't have any clean shirts left. He told us that he had plane reservations back home every night of the week because in matchplay, when you lose, you hit the road.

And he told us, when we asked what was needed to beat Tiger Woods, that he was "going to give him a kick before we go out and play".

Meanwhile, the winner was going to get $1 million. And America was squinting at Darren Clarke and seeing a goodlooking, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, deep-voiced bear of a man who was more character actor than matinee idol. They were seeing in him bits of former heavyweight champion Jack Dempsey and pieces of late actor Robert Shaw.

And they were liking the confidence that was coming from his camp on the eve of his date with Woods, even though the cynical local swells believed, in the end, he would turn out to be nothing more than a fatted lamb being led to slaughter.

The Butch Harmon connection was fascinating. Harmon is under contract to Woods and freely admits his first priority is Woods. But it was with Clarke and Chandler, not Woods, that Harmon dined the night before the final. It had become a nightly ritual this week in California. They would eat, drink and discuss the wagers they would phone back to the London bookmakers before the start of the next day's play. Harmon had cleared $10,000 before Sunday arrived.

Speaking of winnings, even if Clarke lost to Woods, he would haul home $500,000, the king's ransom they would be paying the runner-up. So another person wanted to know if Clarke's wife, Heather, had already started spending the money.

"No, not yet," he deadpanned. "The shops are closed."

Americans have come to expect spontaneity from Irishmen. They didn't know Clarke can be monstrously morose on his bad days. What they knew was he was giving them spontaneity in heaping helpings.

Woods has learned to talk in homogenised sound bites that will put you to sleep. Clarke was talking about food bites. He admitted he was dreading the physical conditioning programme Harmon and Chandler have planned for him.

But he wouldn't admit to having any fear of Woods. And maybe this was what the Americans admired the most.

Question: "Have you ever felt or been intimidated on a golf course by anybody or anything?"

Unblinking, Clarke fixed the questioner with a dark stare that bore a hole.

Clarke: "Of late, no."

This time there was no amusement at all. The Americans held their breath.