Ryder Cup passion? It's par for the course All of these elements conspire to make the contest a seriously high-pressure drama right up to the final putt on Sunday evening. In 1991, when the First Gulf War was still fresh in the memory, the competition was nicknamed "War on the Shore" after the US player Corey Pavin wore a desert storm camouflage hat throughout. We went over there and thumped the Iraqis. Now we've taken the cup back," Paul Azinger, the US captain, gloated. This was a mere skirmish, however, compared with the full-blown outbreak of hostilities in 1999, again on American soil, which concluded with "the storming of Brookline [a country club in Massachusetts, where the tournament was held]." Tension had been mounting throughout the weekend, with a partisan crowd subjecting the spiky, and frequently glum, Colin Montgomerie to a volley of abuse. Most of the catcalls concerned his weight, with "Mrs Doubtfire!" a particular favourite. It got so bad that his father walked off the course. Entering the final day, the Americans were four points down, a huge margin to make up. But they had been given a pep talk by the then Governor of Texas, George W Bush, who had read out the "no surrender" address from the Battle of the Alamo. It was so belligerent that David Duval stormed out of the locker room shouting, "Let's go out and kill them." The Americans duly staged an almighty comeback and it all came down to the 17th green. The US player Justin Leonard nailed a monster 45ft putt, which prompted his team-mates, their wives and caddies to rush on to the green and high-five each other, dressed in their ludicrous maroon uniforms that made them look like they worked at a cut-price pizza joint. They had forgotten that José Maria Olazábal, the Spaniard, had yet to finish his game. Olazábal, looking flustered, missed his putt and America won the Ryder Cup. It was the US wives and girlfriends, with identikit Barbie hair and Beverly Hills teeth, that caught the eye during the scene. Even the European players now persuade their other halves to don an official, and different, outfit each day of the tournament. It's absurd, but it adds to the sense of theatre that surrounds the event. It was not always such a jingoistic weekend. For a long time it barely registered on golf fans" radars, let alone those of the wider public. When Tom Weiskopf was selected for the American team in 1977, he thought so little of the contest that he turned down his place in favour of a bear-hunting expedition to Alaska. But in those days, the Cup was an embarrassing showcase for American superiority. Only once since the competition started in 1927 (funded by a wealthy seed seller, Samuel Ryder) had America lost up to that point. It was after Britain & Ireland were hammered once again in 1977 that steps were finally taken to improve the competitiveness of the matches. The rest of Europe were invited to join in. It was an inspired move, and helped catapult the young, handsome, Spanish player Seve Ballesteros into the affections of British sports fans. Here was a man who clearly loved playing, who relished the rain lashing down and the thrill of whacking a ball out of the rough and inch-perfect on to the green. It didn't matter if he was winning or losing, he had a zest for life, a skip in his step and he was a joy to watch. His death, from brain cancer last year, has cast a shadow over the event, which he dominated for so long, and will inject another element of emotion as the drama unfolds this weekend. The captain of the Europe team (who traditionally, since the Sixties, does not play) is Olazábal, the Sancho Panza to Ballesteros's Don Quixote. They were the most successful partnership the Ryder Cup has ever known, and Olazábal looks a lost soul without his charismatic mentor. He could not hold back the tears during the opening ceremony. The European team all have the image of Seve printed on their golf bags. Such is the allure of the Cup that it manages to achieve what Edward Heath failed to do: make the British feel a little bit European, if only for one weekend. We have more affinity with cohiba-smoking Jiminez (who looks like a Spanish plumber on holiday) or the laughing Italian Molinari brothers than with the irony-free, God-fearing Americans. For some of Team USA, hitting a little ball with a stick is a soul-saving enterprise. Webb Simpson was spotted in Starbucks reading the bible at 8am earlier this week, while his team-mate Bubba Watson, after winning the Masters, proclaimed "this is God's will." Europe has dominated the Ryder Cup for the past decade and made a decent start yesterday thanks to Rory McIlroy, the world number one, and a wayward performance from Tiger Woods. But you can never write off America, not least this talented group, who will fight to the very last shot, cheered on by the sports-mad Chicago crowd, already hoarse from chanting, "USA, USA." But for all the fist-pumping, what makes the Ryder Cup such a joy to watch are the supreme moments of sport and sportsmanship. The spirit of 1969 - when the Cup came down to the very last putt on the very last hole - is never far away. Jack Nicklaus, the great American player, probably the greatest, conceded the game to Tony Jacklin, telling him that he needn't take his final, nervy, tricky shot. It ensured the Ryder Cup was tied. "I don't think you were going to miss that putt but I wasn't going to give you the opportunity," Nicklaus said. The pair left the green with their arms around each other's shoulders.