Golf

It’s easy to be sceptical about top sportsmen turning to psychologists for help. A bit precious, no? After all, what’s wrong with the good old Fergie hairdryer treatment to unmuddle the thinking of some bewildered player? But when you hear Rory McIlroy extolling the virtues of the man who gets inside his cranium you start to think a little differently. Dr Bob Rotella, a craggy sports shrink from Vermont, is, it turns out, one of the key members of McIlroy’s team and they have been working together for years. McIlroy paid a very handsome tribute to Rotella after his second successive Masters victory.

It’s never been easy to warm to golfers, an overpaid, self-obsessed bunch who rarely fail to ask for more. And it’s even harder to warm to American golfers, who have now insisted on picking up half a million or so for playing for their country in the Ryder Cup. Nice, eh? And this weekend’s Ryder Cup, at the savagely hard Bethpage Black course on Long Island, could, in Donald Trump’s hyped-up MAGA-land, go over the top as it did in Brookline in 1999. On that occasion beered-up US fans (and players) behaved outrageously, swarming over greens, heckling Europe’s players and generally being obnoxious. Well, with a bit of luck this year will be very fruity, too. There’s nothing in sport quite like a Ryder Cup: it’s a team event for individuals.

In the exhilarating event of Somerset managing to sneak past Surrey and being on their way to claim their first county cricket championship since the Norman Conquest – or since Vic Marks was playing – they would owe one of their captains from long ago, an eccentric gentleman by the name of Jack Meyer, a big debt of gratitude. Without Meyer it is unlikely that Somerset would have snared Archie Vaughan, the 18-year-old son of Michael and the hero of Somerset’s nerve-racking win over Surrey, the defending champions, last week.

Spare a thought for Manchester United’s Erik ten Hag. He’s got a fairly crummy, injury-hit team who appear to have given up running (apart from Alejandro Garnacho who is still young enough to think that it’s OK to belt down the left wing and then deposit the ball somewhere, though not in goal). His new owner is pictured in the stands with his head in his hands and he has to cope with the choleric visage of his predecessor Sir Alex Ferguson watching on with an expression of scarcely controlled contempt, while two former United godfathers, Gary Neville and Roy Keane, fulminate in the Sky commentary box about how crap the manager is.

At last the Ryder Cup is here – well, in Rome – and with it Europe’s biennial chance to stick it to the Americans in a sport that matters in a format that we can all relate to. Even if you regard golfers as extremely well-off people largely determined to make themselves better off, the frenzied emotions and belting patriotism of the Ryder Cup should be enough to challenge even the most surly of gloomsters. And while Americans have to seek solace and comfort in the company of other Americans, it takes something special and inspiring when an Irishman can join forces with a Swede and be cheered on by an Austrian and a Dane.