The Ryder Cup 2023: When Europe Beat America at Golf, Ego, and Geopolitical Cosplay
The Ryder Cup: A Weekend Where Continental Egos Are Stroked, Then Deflated, All for a Tiny Gold Trophy
By Our Man in Marco Simone, Nursing an Espresso and Existential Dread
MARCO SIMONE GOLF & COUNTRY CLUB, ITALY — If you squinted past the emerald fairways and corporate skyboxes this weekend, you could almost see the entire 21st-century order distilled into one gaudy match-play sideshow. The 2023 Ryder Cup pitted the United States against “Europe,” a geopolitical fiction that now stretches from the Arctic Circle to the Mediterranean and, conveniently for the accountants, includes tax exiles on the Iberian coast. For three sun-drenched days, the world’s most pampered athletes pretended to “represent” the rest of us, while the rest of us pretended to care about a sport whose dress code still clings to 1920s colonial cosplay.
Thursday’s opening ceremony featured a military flyover so thunderous it rattled the prosecco flutes in hospitality. The Italian Air Force—yes, they have one—painted contrails of red, white, and green across the sky, a patriotic gesture immediately undercut when the PA system blasted “Sweet Caroline.” Nothing says European unity like a Neil Diamond anthem beloved by Boston Red Sox fans and wedding DJs from Galway to Gdańsk.
Europe entered as underdogs, which in modern sport means they had slightly fewer private jets on the tarmac. Captain Luke Donald, a man whose charisma is best measured in decaf lattes, promised “controlled aggression,” a phrase that conjures hedge-fund managers playing paintball. The Yanks, captained by Zach Johnson, a devout Iowan who once thanked God after missing a three-footer, countered with raw statistical muscle: world rankings, strokes-gained data, and enough launch-monitor jargon to make Silicon Valley blush.
Day one belonged to Europe, whose players holed putts with the serene indifference of men who’ve already stashed their appearance fees in Dublin mailbox companies. Jon Rahm, Spain’s reigning volcano of emotion, punctuated a halved match with a fist-pump so violent it registered on seismographs in Reykjavik. Meanwhile, the American press corps—an agitated flock in Vineyard Vines—scribbled furiously about “course-setup bias,” as though the Italians had sneaked out overnight and replaced every fairway with mozzarella.
Saturday brought wind, rain, and the inevitable geopolitical subtext. With Ukraine’s counteroffensive grinding on the same news feeds that carried the Cup, it felt slightly obscene to watch multimillionaires complain about a “cross-wind on 15.” Yet there was Viktor Hovland, Norway’s answer to tax reform, draining a 30-footer while wearing a rain hood that cost more than the average Moldovan salary. The U.S. clawed back, thanks to a Patrick Cantlay putt so long it required its own Schengen visa. Cantlay, who refused to wear a team-issue cap (allegedly over a sponsorship tiff, or perhaps because hats muss his hedge-fund hair), instantly became the villain Twitter deserved: a walking metaphor for American individualism wrapped in Loro Piana.
Sunday singles arrived like the final act of a Verdi opera: inevitable, loud, and soaked in destiny (plus aperol). Europe needed 14 points; the math felt as fraught as ECB interest-rate policy. Rory McIlroy, fresh from a parking-lot shouting match with an American caddie that would’ve made Naples cab drivers proud, channeled his rage into a 3-and-1 clinic. By the time Tommy Fleetland—sorry, Fleetwood—sealed the clinching point against Rickie Fowler, the grandstands erupted in a polyglot roar equal parts “Olé” and “It’s coming Rome.”
And just like that, the Cup was Europe’s again, hoisted against a backdrop of fireworks that could probably be seen from the Tunisian coast—where, incidentally, migrant boats continue to land. The victors sprayed champagne priced higher than Moldova’s GDP per capita, while the defeated Americans filed onto their carbon-offset charter, muttering about “getting back to the FedEx Cup grind,” a sentence that would make a medieval peasant weep.
What does it all mean? In the macro view, nothing. The Ryder Cup changes no borders, balances no budgets, feeds no refugees. But in the micro, it is a perfect mirror: a continent forever pretending to be one, a superpower discovering limits, and the rest of us watching, half-horrified, half-enchanted, as the planet burns politely in the background. Same time, two years hence, in New York, where the stakes will again be imaginary and the outfits tragically real.
Until then, arrivederci—and remember, the 19th hole is always open, even when the real world isn’t.
