My dear nephew,
Sorry it’s taken me so long to write, but I got dreadfully blotto with Lord Derby after the Ryder Cup, and the old gout has been giving me terrible gip. Also, I’ve been at a bit of a loss for words. The world is full of morons, is it not? If you believe the Yankee rags, it’s fairly obvious that the whole damned game of soldiers was your friend Curtis Strange’s fault, you know, the fact that the European team played better than his, and all that.
I’d be grateful if you would forward this little epistle to him, to let him know that at least in the minds of those who understand why the game is played, he is held in the highest esteem. It’s true though; I did hear him encourage the Europeans. In his address at the opening ceremony he wished them the best, and very eloquently expressed his desire that the better team might win.
Personally, I’m somewhat neutral here, in that I’ve never been a fan of the European Union, but for the sake of the cup, I’m delighted that Sammy’s team won, and yet I’m saddened by the reaction of many of the word-manglers on the other side of the ditch. What a shower of arseholes, if you’ll pardon my French. Unlike the Captain, they showed no class whatsoever, not giving credit where it was due, and laying blame where it didn’t belong. Cretins.
I’m told that many of them feel that Curtis incorrectly filled out his singles order form, and that they have been holding a flame to his bum ever since. The rotters are just looking for an inexpensive place to place the blame, and it’s living proof that good news still doesn’t sell newspapers.
But don’t you worry my boy. Tell Curtis, and his wife Sarah (who, incidentally, I thought looked absolutely ravishing all week) that Gussett of the Wood thinks of him and his team with pride and joy. Why, his comments at the closing ceremony were dead on the old diddy for all of us here at Scrought’s Wood.
His demeanor and grace throughout the contest accurately reflected the spirit of Sir Samuel, (who was a wonderful old codger) and is the very reason he started the blasted thing in the first place. Lose with grace, win with humility, and you will find friends wherever you go.
Personally, I find the theory put by the sports hacks to the American public tenuous, at best. I believe that if all 24 names had been loaded into my old elephant gun and fired at that chap with the iron bladder on the first tee, the result would have been exactly the same. When one side plays better than the other, it usually wins. I grant you that’s a hard cup to drink from at times, but nevertheless, it’s one that holds water.
I watched the whole thing my on the telly in the bar at the club. Someone put that chap Montgomerie in a good mood I’ll tell you, for he was bloody invincible. An absolute hero he was, and for what it’s worth, you might want to think about apologizing to him. As I recall, you’ve been a little cynical in his direction. No doubt about the fire in his belly when it comes down to leading the troops from the front!
As for Langer, I haven’t seen a jerry in control like that since Kaiser Bill annexed the Sudetanland in 1914. What an admirable man he is. From my angle it was clear that the American team was farting into old hurricane Samuel from the get-go, and Captain Strange had bugger-all to do with it once the bell rang on Sunday.
Not that the Yanks didn’t love their leader. That young Toms fellow is quite the silent assassin, and the other two greenhorns, Cink and Verplank, looked like the Ryder bug bit them in the itchy spot too. All three will be back, and better for the experience. All in all, I think it might have been the most perfect of the 34 meetings to date, certainly from a golfing quality standpoint.
Bloody Norah, when we watch a major championship, we might be lucky to see a great shot every 10 minutes. In this one, there was one every 10 seconds. It was a privilege to see the two teams do battle, and I want you to impress upon Captain Strange how much the boys at the club and I enjoyed the show. Bravo, and a pox upon anyone who would cast an aspersion in the direction of any of those lucky enough to be involved. That young Woods is starting to get it, too. The Ryder Cup is not the fifth major, it’s the first, and before he’s done, he’ll have one of the great records in it. Mark my words, you heard it here. I can’t wait for the next one.
Bloody good show!
Always with love,