As the Ryder Cup unfolded on television a few weeks ago, my thoughts turned naturally to the differences between patriotism and nationalism. Whose didn’t?
The Ryder Cup is now the most important event in golf, eclipsing even the Masters and the two Opens, U.S. and British. The Cup is a three-day competition held every other year between the cream of the U.S. players and the cream of the European players.
In intensity, it makes the Final Four, the NBA championship, and the NFC title game (the new Super Bowl) seem as nothing. At the conclusion of this year’s play, the European captain, Bernard Gallacher, was moved to remark, ” It is almost becoming too much, this Ryder Cup.”
In the weeks preceding the Cup, it occurred to me that I was supposed to support the American team. Not only am I an American, I am (yikes!) a registered Republican. The problem was that most of my favorite players, in all the world, were on the European side. Worse, many of my least favorite players were on the American side. It hardly seemed natural to be all rah-rah for the homeboys.
I believe that William F. Buckley, Jr., once wrote, “I am as patriotic as anyone from sea to shining sea, but there isn’t a molecule of nationalism in me.” I have always felt this way about nationalism, even as a child. (Was I expected to go for some American girl over the winsome Olga Korbut? Not a chance.)
“Nationalism” has an air of chauvinism about it, a thoughtless veneration of “my country, right or wrong”; “patriotism,” contrariwise, connotes an enlightened love of country, a rightful appreciation for it. Burke famously said of patriotism that a country, to be loved, ought to be lovely (and a Ryder Cup squad, to be loved, ought to be lovely, as well).
It would have taken a lot to induce me to root against Seve Ballesteros, ” the swashbuckling Spaniard” (as it is obligatory to call him in golf writing). He captured me when I was young, and imparted to me a sense of the game’s possibilities. (His book, Natural Golf, is a holy text.) And how could I have wished defeat on Ian Woosnare, the Wee Welshman, or Bernhard Langer, the “phlegmatic Teuton,” or Nick Faldo, the English Colossus? How about Costantino Rocca, an Italian and perhaps the most endearing player in the game?
This latter case is particularly instructive. Rocca is, excuse me, a classic “American” success story, as Algeresque as anyone who ever breathed. Into his mid-twenties, he labored in a plastics factory (barely escaping the permanent deformation of his hands), practicing in the fields after the whistle blew. He is a heroic Everyman: fearless, unlikely, inspiring.
In an instance of perfect symmetry — a happy accident — he was paired in the final round against the American Davis Love III. There is nothing wrong with Love, but he is, in many respects, the anti-Rocca: cool, polished, to the country club born, graced with a textbook swing, the son of one of the most renowned teaching professionals in the world.
Is it not possible to regard Rocca as the more “American” of the two, in the spiritual sense? Is it reasonable, is it moral, to ask someone to pull for a golfer — for anyone — on the basis of birth within common borders?
As the Cup approached its climax, and the U.S. had its back to the wall, something strange occurred. I found myself, against all my protestation and ratiocination, aching, dying, for an American victory. And when the Americans were beaten, I felt aggrieved. I cursed the U.S. team, and felt not the least satisfaction for the jubilant Europeans, my personal favorites among them.
Herewith a little fantasy: I am playing in the Ryder Cup, spangled in stars and stripes, about to win it all for the “U.S.A.! U.S.A.!” (as the crowds chant). When I hole the clinching putt, my teammates sprint from the bank behind the 18th green (for Faldo has taken me to the wire), embrace me wildly, and bear me aloft. (In addition to being the leading money-winner on Tour, I weigh less. This is a fantasy, remember.)
At the closing ceremony, the American flag is raised, and the anthem played. American faces glisten with joyful tears; European ones contort in pain. Surveying this colorful scene, I say inwardly, “Remember, now: You — and your teammates, and the Europeans, and all the world — belong to God. Alone.”
So I take care not to mourn the American loss (or is it the loss of those 12 golfers who happen to hold U.S. citizenship?). I strive always to see man as man, not as race, creed, or nationality, and, by the way, can Mrs. Thatcher come over and be president, please?
JAY NORDLINGER
