The fervent hordes progress with unshakeable faith from the altar of the tee to the shrine of the green. They dress the same. Talk the same. Think the same. Their eyes shine with the joy of the true believer, writes Miriam Lord at the K Club.
Yea, though they walk through the valley of the squelching of muck, they feel no distress: for Tiger is with them. Their Pádraig and Sergio comfort them. Westwood, Monty and Woods - they will follow them for all the scores of their day, and then they will dwell in the clubhouse forever, boring for Ireland about the time they went to the Ryder Cup.
Golf. It's a cult. If you don't believe, you will never understand.
In terms of faith and adoration, unquestioning obedience, reverence for rules, outpourings of joy and crowd control, we are witnessing a golfing version of the Eucharistic Congress at the
K Club this week. For the less zealous, it's more like an Electric Picnic for the sensible shoes generation.
From the crack of dawn yesterday, fans began streaming on to the course, laden down with the various accoutrements necessary to see them through two gruelling rounds of hero worship. That they willingly offered up their mobile phones to security men at the turnstiles bore true testament to their unswerving commitment to the game.
This is an overwhelmingly, but not exclusively, male celebration. From the grandstands to the four corners of the course, from the tented village to the vast media marquee, the sheer maleness of the occasion is impossible to escape. It brings with it a tedious fascination with the most minute details of the play, and a near- obsessive tendency for over-analysing everything from body language to wind direction to stance and swing.
Then there is the touching adulation that these grown men freely bestow on their idols, trailing them from hole to hole like lovesick puppies. Think teenage girls and Justin Timberlake, but with basso profundo yelling and without the vomiting. It is a happy occasion for these guys in their matching "weatherwear", who think nothing of rushing along with the herd, stopping at intervals to crane their necks so they might catch a glimpse of Phil Mickelson addressing the ball. Speaking of balls, Tiger's went into the Liffey twice and the home crowd nearly wept for joy. For some, just to see Tiger Woods is enough. But to actually witness him at close quarters hitting a drive is to sample heaven itself.
Periscopes, which look like customised bicycle pumps and come in a long leatherette pouch, are walking out of the shop in the tented village at €50 a throw. The men wear them dangling from their belts as an antidote to their girly patterned jumpers.
There are some things which all self-respecting spectators must have. First, there is the large identity tag around the neck, often used to house a pair of spectacles and a passport as well. Secondly, there is the Ryder Cup radio, which can also be worn around the neck, filling the fans in on what is happening when they are seeing very little from their crowded hillocks.
"This is really an event made for television, isn't it?" we overheard a gent whispering to his friend at the seventh tee. A rare moment of doubt.
Finally, no self-respecting golf disciple goes anywhere this weekend without a third item around their neck - the binoculars. All the better to see the big screen 100 metres away, showing them what they are unsuccessfully trying to witness through a tall lady's visor.
The radio provided live commentary and great entertainment. Reporters had to whisper, so as not to disturb the multi-millionaire golfers going about their business.
RTÉ's Des Cahill, stealthily creeping across the grass as he wheezed quietly into the microphone, sounded like an emphysemic David Attenborough trying to get close to a family of gorillas.
Is it too late to petition RTÉ to get Charlie Bird on the job? Following their chosen pairings around the full course is a little too demanding for much of the crowd. Men made the arduous journey to Straffan only to pitch up at the bar and watch the golf on television all day. Why? Because they are communing with their own. The equivalent of the wide boys at the back of the church.
A pint costs €5, while the various fast-food outlets are charging reasonable prices for the usual deep-fried offerings. A large "seafood and champagne" restaurant operates above the main food court. A bottle of champagne costs €120, the house wine is €26, and a Marquis de Riscal Gran Reserva - "cigar box notes, lovely maturity on the palate, fine balance with impressive length" - is €77. The half-lobster swims in at €42, a crab platter at €28, while a "roasted red pepper" costs an eyebrow-raising €22. Real golfers are not vegetarian.
The corporate suite brigade grinned down from their high-rise boxes on the edge of the 18th green. Guests included the usual suspects from the roll call of gala balls, political fundraisers and the Fianna Fáil tent at the Galway Races. "This event is more cultured and refined than the Galway Races, and all the worse for it," confided a zillionaire builder who begged not to be named because "I don't want to upset Michael (Smurfit); he's going around like a child in a sweetshop today."
Former US president George Bush watched from the clubhouse balcony and basketball legend Michael Jordan chewed on a large cigar as he trailed his friend Tiger Woods, while there were unconfirmed sightings of actors Leonardo de Caprio and Robert Redford. Former tánaiste Mary Harney, who escaped from the unfolding political drama back in Dublin, was thanking the God of Good Timing for her recent decision to give up the PD leadership.
As for the golfing faithful, they went home with joy in their hearts, even if it was a long day and they wished they had brought a chair. Just like the Pope's visit, in a way. They'll be talking about the Ryder Cup for just as long too.