Michael Jordan is the origin story of contemporary sport. The immortal logo, the beauty, the predatorial need to conquer, the shoe sponsorship that changed everything and the immeasurable cultural impact he left on America: all changed the way the world presents and absorbs elite sport. In the quarter century since he last played basketball, Jordan has become as much of a ghost as a human being: a rumour more than seen, an aura, a puff of cigar smoke.
The concept of what it is to be a human being as well as an elite sportsman was pushed to its very limits by the golf crowd at Bethpage Black on an ugly, unforgettable Saturday defined by the baiting of Rory McIlroy.
What the Irish man, and, to a lesser extent his playing partner Shane Lowry, tolerated during their afternoon four-ball against Justin Thomas and Cameron Young was jaw-dropping. At some point, their day changed from highly charged golf game to psychological assault.
In the years I covered sport for The Irish Times, I was fortunate to be present for many unforgettable days and nights when partisan emotions ran high. But nothing, not World Cups nor Olympics nor boxing nights nor even Ulster championship days in Clones, where barbarism begins at home, did I witness anything like this. As the saying goes: never saw the like of it in me life.
READ MORE
The jeering and chanting had started in the morning session, prompting McIlroy to turn from the tee and yell “Guys, shut the f**k up”. But by noontime, the 20-dollar beers and the cocktails had begun to kick in and it was 24 degrees and muggy and the 40,000-strong hordes who trekked out to this Long Island Valhalla were turning antsy.
The score board was lopsided in Old Europe’s favour. So, they needed to vent their love of USA somewhere, somehow. And as the most celebrated and most expressive player in the current game, Rory McIlroy was the obvious choice.
On the thin wedge separating the second green and third tee, hundreds of us were packed together trying to catch the best of both worlds. It was hot, hard to see anything. A small vocal crowd of Irish lads gave a chorus of “Ole, Ole, Ole” as the Irish pair approached the green but were quickly drowned out by American voices.
“Don’t choke Rory. Don’t cry.” That was the mild stuff. Much of what was directed at McIlroy is neither morally nor legally worth recording. After Lowry’s tee-shot on third: “You blew it!” “Have some McNuggets, Shane” came the running commentary for McIlroy. “You stink.” “A lot of pressure Rory” – followed by “No good!” “Waaaay right”.
None of this, on paper, reads particularly horribly. But what separates golf from other sports is the closeness of the crowd to the athletes, and the tradition of respect on which golf is based. For five hours yesterday, it seemed as though McIlroy had many thousands of belligerent Americans trailing him and waiting for him with the sole intent of traducing him and making his day a misery. At times, he did look forlorn. And in moments, Shane Lowry, glowering at his antagonists, looked just one more choice insult fired at his pal from going full Eric-Cantona-at-Selhurst-Park.
It should be said that as an event, the Ryder Cup is a kind of dream. The organisation and its staff are a marvel: easy-going, friendly and the tournament is an example of how to transport 40,000 people who all want to be at the first tee with a cold drink early. The train from Penn Station, in Manhattan, to Farmingdale, the closest stop to Bethpage, was doing brisk business from dawn right through to the afternoon session. It takes about an hour to get to that genteel suburb, all Hansel and Gretel houses and USA flags, where a fleet of coaches then transports fans from the train station to the course itself. The crowd was Ray-Ban-ed and polo-shirted and Ralph Lauren-ed to beat the band. In the shuttle bus, two women held a loud, earnest conversation about the marital futures of their pals.
“I can see Mallory getting married at Aspen.”
“Agree. Totally. Or on Augusta National.”
But inside: forget about the Kentucky Derby. In modern American sport, the Ryder Cup is decadent and depraved. And what a scene. The uncle Sam T-shirts, dungarees in stars ‘n’ stripes and any number of USA hats, the boozing and the old white-guitar-rock staples blasting out through the loudspeakers at the first transform what is notionally a golf tournament into a celebration of a very specific American tribalism.
As McIlroy and Lowry advanced into the thick of all this, the chants of “U-S-A, U-S-A” were loud and insistent and at a grandstand on the 14th, where the Pouring Bar was doing a brisk service, the crowd even broke into a squiffy, halting rendition of God Save America. Earlier, I’d noticed a young American carrying a beer and wearing a T-shirt that read: ‘Saturday is for America.’ And this is true: it’s the day when the nation as Pleasure Dome is at full throttle, a day to blow the suds off a few and let loose. And if you’ve paid $750 (the baseline ticket cost) for a one-day outing at the Ryder Cup, you are going to live it up.
The crowd at Bethpage Black is almost exclusively white. One of the very few non-white people in attendance at the tournament happened to be the most famous sportsperson in the world. As we waited for McIlroy and Lowry to appear on the crest of the hill above the sixth green, there was a hushed murmur and then, out of nowhere, Michael Jordan appeared. A few minutes earlier, I’d overheard a guy urgently delivering the news that “Michael Jordan is in the NBC booth RIGHT NOW smoking cigars” into his phone.
Clearly intrigued by the gathering hostility directed at the Irish duo, the GOAT had obviously decided to descend to grass-level to spend a few minutes among the mortals. He’d been driven by buggy and then almost stealthily ducked under the ropes and walked right past us. Jordan in his retirement is a huge man but still moves with that slouchy litheness of his. He had gone past people before most registered whom they were witnessing, so the roars of thrilled delight followed in his wake. “Holy F*cccck” screamed a man standing beside me.
“I’m from Chicago and that’s the first time I’ve ever seen HIM.”
Jordan offered a few waves and took a place directly under the massive box sign for the sixth tee so that it shielded him from the eyes, the cameras. He wore neutral brown so he was almost incognito: a lion in the rough.
By the time the Irish pair made it to the green, the presence of sporting immortality and the pulsing mood of nationalism pitched the sense of US fervour into a different dimension. The din was unrelenting. All pretence of respect was fading. Twice McIlroy delayed his putt. Thomas and Young, who did a terrific job of ginning up the crowd along the fairway and then signalling for quiet and respect on the green, again had to direct the crowd to shut it. “The GOAT’s watching, Rory,” someone yelled.
“Don’t f*ck it up.”
Over the next four hours, a phenomenal procession of fans ignored the tournament, which was falling into Europe’s hands, to concentrate on this compelling four ball. Lowry, monstrously defiant, sank a series of early putts to quench the noise. An unearthly putt on the 14th gave McIlroy the release valve he needed and he screamed to the skies in a moment that will become famous.
Speckled throughout the golf course were Irish fans and Tricolours. At times, it was tempting to believe this was Ireland, not Europe, against the USA. Near the 11th, an American guy yelled “You Irish ran New York for years.” It was impossible to know whether this was a compliment or an accusation, but there were intimations of Daniel Day Lewis’s old line in his role as nativist leader Bill the Butcher: “I don’t see no Americans. I see trespassers. Irish harps.”
By the time the match had reached the 18th, the sun was setting and so was American belief. Thickets of crowds were haring towards the exits, for the buses and the consolations of Manhattan. We stood in the viewing area above the 18th as McIlroy and Lowry completed their win. The Europe fans greeted McIlroy by singing “In your head, in your head, Ror-y, Ror-y” to the chorus of the old Cranberries classic.
The day was closing on a good-humoured note and it ended in raptures for McIlroy and Lowry. But it might not have done. Few sportspeople have worn their heart on sleeve in the way McIlroy has. Few have provided as much entertainment and vulnerability. There remains the question of whether one of the most accomplished players in the history of his sport deserves the kind of treatment he got from the golfing public at Bethpage, regardless of his fame or his titles or the fact that he is as rich as Croesus. There are limits, and they were forgotten by the crowd.
In his godly days, Michael Jordan loved the baiting and the catcalling and the lip from opposition fans and players. “Woofing”, he used to call it.
On Saturday, he would have recognised, in McIlroy and Lowry, the steel and thrill of overcoming the hostility of the crowd.
Jordan reached his zenith in 1998. He’s a 20th-century phenomenon: a totem from America’s dream decade, the 1990s. And increasingly, it is beginning to look as though the 20th century was America’s one hundred years in the sun.
And there was, surely, some of that creeping uncertainty contained within the baiting that followed Lowry and McIlroy over their five-hour ugly, beautiful, walk through Bethpage. Beneath the old chants and the shouts of USA lay a sense of anxiety and shrillness that did not exist when Michael Jordan was untouchable, and America was secure in its sense of self as the big shaggy dog that the world knew as clumsy but well intentioned and loved.
No, the American sounds on this Long Island golf day were different than just woofing, and bleaker too.
