Crazy scenes. As his caddie, Billy Foster, goes for an unsolicited bath in the gurgling lake beside the 17th green, the voice of reason pipes up. "This is silly," says Darren Clarke, taking a step back from the mad-cap shenanigans. "Why are they throwing him in? We have only retained it, we haven't won it yet." He's right, of course. Bernhard Langer's win over Brad Faxon merely ensures the Ryder Cup is staying on this side of the pond. The hysteria is premature and, as his words sink in, his fellow-Ryder Cup players exit the madness of the European supporters, drunk on delirium, and race up the 18th fairway, in the rain, to surely see Jose-Maria Olazabal seal victory. Wrong move.
"Go on, Mrs Woosie," yells a spectator as a slimmed-down Glendryth, accompanied by a rain-soaked Heather Clarke, also dressed in designer Escada Sport gear but without the benefits of waterproofs or umbrella, races in pursuit of players who are not usually renowned for their speed. This time, they fade into the distance, like Michael Johnson in Nike gold spikes. Halfway up the fairway they stop in their tracks, Clarke, Lee Westwood, Per-Ulrik Johansson, Thomas Bjorn, Ignacio Garrido and Ian Woosnam, and their sidekick caddies.
Moans from greenside confirm, better than any radio signal that Lee Janzen, unbelievably, has just won the last three holes to beat "Chema," as Olazabal is affectionately called by his Spanish worshippers, on the last hole. It ain't been won yet.
The rain in Spain is pouring down on millions of pounds worth of golfing talent and, so, like lost souls in limbo, they stand in the middle of the fairway and wonder where to go. Ironically, some 50 minutes later, that selfsame spot is occupied by the European colleagues-in-arms as Colin Montgomerie, fittingly, secures the winning half-point to give the team a 141/2131/2 win eked out of an afternoon singles of twists and turns. But no one has a crystal ball, and these players - masters of the game - just want to be wherever the win is secured. But where? Guidance is required.
"Where's Seve?" inquires Clarke, assuming the role of leader as the realisation dawns that Olazabal has lost after being two up with three to play. "In the buggy," replies Westwood, spotting the chief-in-arms careering towards them. Seve is the Forrest Gump of golf, magically appearing at whichever part of the course requires him. Was there more than one Seve in Valderrama? When they were making clones of "Dolly" the sheep, did they make one of Seve too? The man was everywhere, inspiring and cunningly leading his charges to the magic land.
Like kids in a playground, they all clamour on board, the wives and girlfriends squeezing into another electric cart, to suss out where the winning of the Ryder Cup would occur. Charging around like lunatics in an asylum, using Seve's hand-held walkie-talkie, which hasn't left his side for three days, and the roar of the distant crowds to decipher what direction to travel.
Whisked off in quest of fulfilment. First to the 16th, then to the 17th. Word comes that Nick Faldo has succumbed. And, finally, all the way back to the 18th. Men, and their women, going in circles, seeking the magic potion. Europeans, united in a cause, pursued by crazed crowds eager to savour the delights of a win the Americans, despite their wise words of warning to themselves, never believed was possible for the Europeans to execute. Funny world, sport. Crazy world, golf.
The shouts reverberate around the course. The Tiger has been tamed. Europe's fans rob the anthems of soccer supporters to hail their heroes.
"Ole, ole, ole, Rocca, Rocca."
"Ole, ole, ole, Ollie, Ollie."
"Ole, ole, ole, Langer, Langer." It doesn't have quite the same ring to it, but everyone has to have their turn - and Langer, with three points out of four, is a true hero.
Finally, finally, it all comes down to one man. Monty. Europe's number one. The best golfer in the world not to win a major - yet - and the right guy to have on your side when the chips are down. One up playing the 17th, the Scot's fellow players find him. He knows it is all down to him. But, as if to drag one further piece of drama out of golf's greatest serial, Hoch wins the 17th with a par.
He can't win it. Can he? Surely he can't deprive Monty, the Europe's most inspirational player, of the right to deliver the winning half point. Not Hoch the choke. These thoughts swirl around in the minds of thousands of European supporters who ignore the marshalls and charge down the 18th fairway after the last two players on the last hole. Hoch in the rough left, Montgomerie in the middle of the fairway.
It takes Hoch three to make the green, 10 feet from the pin. Montgomerie's first putt is dead. He concedes the putt to Hoch, the halve is all that is needed and Europe have won the Ryder Cup again.
The chants are reverberating around the course and Woosie is lowering a bottle of champagne as if it is the last one in the world. Time to celebrate. The Europeans are the kings of golf all over again. Olazabal, tears in his eyes, says: "Twelve months ago, I couldn't even walk . . . now this." Seve is crying harder than anyone. His arm goes around his friend. Bonhomie. It's what the Ryder Cup is all about.
