The green-keeping staff at the K Club have been lavished with praise for their magnificent presentation of the course at last week's Ryder Cup.
But meticulous as they were in their work, they must concede second place to a superior operation which was swinging into action at the same time back in Dublin. For the last six days, Bertie Ahern's groundsmen have been out in all weathers, carefully preparing the land for a battle which would be more epic than any of the contests played out at Straffan over the weekend.
And so, by the time the Taoiseach finally broke cover yesterday to tell his side of the cash donations story, a nation was already fully briefed on Bertie's down-and-out days in Drumcondra, and forcefully reminded of his fondness for plain living and humble pleasures.
"Frugal and simple" is how Minister John O'Donoghue movingly described his boss on Monday night. Various emissaries asserted Bertie's celebrated ordinariness over the airwaves. All of a sudden, sad tales of how he was sleeping on a mattress on the floor of his constituency office back in 1993 began doing the rounds. He's never been interested in money.
God, yes. Memories suitably jogged, we remembered why we all love Bertie Ahern. He is a decent, ordinary bloke, genuinely nice, and we know it and appreciate it.
In terms of political capital, likeability is the Taoiseach's most bankable commodity, and he has been saving it up in buckets for a rainy day.
That day was yesterday, when the time came for Bertie Ahern to realise his greatest asset.
He used it to the maximum effect. You'd want to have been made of stone not to have been moved by his performance on the six o'clock news last night.
The air of nervous tension building among Fianna Fáil politicians and advisers in Leinster House yesterday was palpable. They knew Bertie was facing the most crucial interview of his political career. Communication lines to the press office all but closed down. The ground had been thoroughly prepared, and under no circumstances would any journalists be allowed disturb it until their man got a clean and clear run at it.
The Taoiseach had been expected to attend an engagement in Government Buildings before lunch, but he didn't show. It wasn't known then, but he had returned to the comfort of his constituency office, St Luke's, the bolthole he chose for a temporary home in 1993 when his marriage failed.
Then, just after midday, as Tánaiste Michael McDowell was drawing the media attention elsewhere with an appearance at the Mansion House, the Taoiseach was sitting down with his sole invitee - RTÉ's Brian Dobson - and beginning the fight for his political career. In the subsequent light of what was said, the Tánaiste's fence-sitting remarks made sense.
Michael McDowell declared he had no doubt about the Taoiseach's integrity, and said he should be given space to make his statement. He was not going to anticipate what Bertie might say, only committing himself to a lawyerly "I'm fully behind the decision he's taken to make a statement."
As the clock neared six, Leinster House held its breath. Opposition leaders gathered their advisers about them and turned on the screens.
The place thrives on make or break moments. One day to go to the return of parliament, and already, the atmosphere was supercharged.
The Angelus seemed to go on forever. The interview was on. A smiling Taoiseach greeted his guest, but when it was time to talk, he was edgy and nervous.
Watching and listening, we began to feel nervous for him too, for this was Bertie, and he was asking us to understand.
In soft, sighing, plaintive tones, he made his pitch. It was compelling. A family man, faced with a personal crisis, worried about the future education of his two children, separation agreement to sort out, short of funds, unsure of a roof over his head, and all of this happening in Christmas week. Who wouldn't sympathise? Eyes brimming with tears, difficult pauses, swallowing hard. "Perhaps if I got a bigger loan . . ." he mused at one stage, voice trailing off.
This was astonishing stuff, as the Taoiseach threw himself on the mercy of the court of public opinion. "I wasn't to know then I would be Taoiseach, that there would be more money and my daughters would be doing well . . . Relatively small contributions from friends who had a clear understanding they would be paid back . . . I've been involved many times in my life in a whip-around for friends . . . They knew where I was staying, and where I was living was a source of conversation . . . I'm, quite frankly, not sure what I have to answer. If I gave offence to anybody, I'm sorry. All is I can say is . . ." Who wouldn't feel sorry for the man? Any man for that matter? Bertie Ahern was minister for finance in 1993, with a distinguished career as a minister in other departments behind him and seen as the likely successor to the Fianna Fáil leadership, and by extension, a future taoiseach. He was on a handsome salary, with a car and driver paid for by the State, £50,000 in savings in the bank, and, by universal agreement, a simple and frugal attitude to life. His friends pitched in nearly £40,000. If he couldn't manage, it's a miracle how all the other Joe Soaps managed to muddle through marriage break-ups and college fees without a generous injection from friends of €50,000 in today's money. They clubbed together for him and insisted he take the money. Oh, we would all be so blessed. Bertie said he would repay this "debt of honour." He never did, because they refused to take it, and well, life went on. He did absolutely nothing in return.
Bertie became Taoiseach. He appointed some of his benefactors to State boards. Not for any sinister reason, but because they were friends, which he seems to deem perfectly reasonable.
After the interview, the phone lines burned in and out of Leinster House. Word is that Fianna Fáil is nervous. Whether Bertie is safe and the capital of his personality has saved him.
Soon, they will discover if the old adage holds true for Bertie Ahern: If you get yourself a reputation for rising early in the morning, can you really sleep in all day?
