They stood on golf buggies, on top of wheelie bins, climbed trees, packed like sardines on to muddy hillocks.
Shades of the All-Ireland final at the Ryder Cup yesterday: two teams turned up on big match Sunday, but only one of them decided to play.
Magnificent victory at the K Club, and all that. Three trophies in a row. Unprecedented. Victory in Europe. Our boys displaying the true spirit of the (birdie) blitz.
"The greatest week in history," gurgled European team captain Ian Woosnam with charming overstatement. Flushed with success, jubilation, champagne and Guinness, he can be forgiven for the lack of perspective.
The Ryder Cup game was up for Team USA long before Paul McGinley sportingly called a halt on the final green and put the visiting Americans out of their misery. By then, the celebration was already well underway. It began earlier with a heart-melting outpouring of emotion towards, with, and from Ireland's Darren Clarke. His courage and composure in the face of personal tragedy made him the focus of attention over the three day tournament.
Darren's wife, Heather, died last month after a long battle with breast cancer. His strength and determination this weekend galvanised his team-mates, and there was a very real sense that this was one competition they just could not lose.
Woosnam and his players desperately wanted to win for Heather, Darren and the children.
Despite intense media interest in his personal circumstances throughout the tournament, Dungannon man Clarke resolutely refused to succumb to sentimentality for as long as Team Europe had a job to do. After the opening day's play, he was brought for a press conference which went on for some time. In the course of it, many questions were asked, but just one of them was about golf. The rest were all about Heather, and how he would cope with her passing.
The man must have longed for the golf hacks to mind their own business. But he replied to their inquiries in a detached, non-committal fashion. Remarkable strength of character, was the verdict of the temporary psychiatrists. Out on the course, Darren played some of the best golf of his career. He seemed buoyed by the support coming from the huge galleries following him. Each day, the cheers for him got louder. He played on, sticking to his craft, ever the smiling gentleman with the fans. But beneath it all, a deep emotion was building. Not just with Darren, but it was happening with his team-mates too, and their wives and partners, and among the thousands who came to witness the last day.
By early afternoon, it became clear that he would finish out his Ryder Cup on the 16th green.
The hordes descended, packing the grandstand, clinging to the framework along the sides. They stood on golf buggies, on top of wheelie bins, climbed trees, packed like sardines onto muddy hillocks, raised scores of periscopes in the air from the ranks of the unsighted.
The cheering began as soon as Darren arrived at the tee. And it grew and grew as he walked down the fairway. Perfect silence for the few minutes of play, then pandemonium again. Finally, the putt went in. The fans roared. For a moment, it seemed the golfer wasn't quite sure what was happening. He rubbed his eyes. Then suddenly, it all became too much. He embraced his caddy, and the tears came.
Tiger Woods, who recently lost his father, arrived. "Are you OK?" he asked Darren, and they embraced.
More tears. Woosnam was crying. He raised Darren's arm aloft. Hundreds of fans were crying.
Damn it, we were all crying. But it was good and cathartic, and when the match finally ended, the European players celebrated with abandon. Bottle after bottle of champagne was cracked open and sprayed over the happily open-mouthed crowd. Woosie's crew eventually made it to the safe haven of the club house, but the supporters wanted more. So too did the players. For a mad half hour, they milked the adulation. Mementoes were fired into the crowd. Baseball caps, tank-tops, flags, golf balls.
It was great, good humoured fun. Garcia, Stenson, McGinley, Harrington et al, made regular runs inside for more stuff to throw. Dizzy with the joy of it all, they even took off their shoes and threw them into the crowd. Some delirious supporter probably went home with a set of spikes stuck in his head, proud as punch.
Buckets of golf balls were thrown. Then bags of tees. "Cheese? What are they throwing cheese for?" asked a lady on our hillock. Another cheer went up. Not too loud, this time. For it was Bertie Ahern, in the full pinstripes and clean shoes, on his way from the corporate hospital area to the officiate at the closing ceremony.
He was surrounded with more security and escorts that Bill Clinton. He did not look happy. He was not "doing media". They had a little throne for him on the stage. Woosnam called him "Mr president." Perhaps, this week, Bertie might be nearer the park than he would like to think. He sat between the disconsolate yanks and the happy Europeans.
The Americans wore dark navy blazers and striped polo shirts. The Europeans, thanks to tailor Louis Copeland, excelled themselves again. They wore salmon pink jackets designed by Italian company, Canali. The fabric was spun from Bamboo pulp.
The big golf ball in the centre of the stage, which had been closed since the opening ceremony last Thursday, opened up again to reveal that the choir was still in place. Donal Lunny, the traditional musicians and the orchestra were missing.
Presumably, trapped in the golf ball, the choir ate them over the weekend.
The Americans were gracious in defeat. The Europeans magnanimous in victory. The fans sang Olé. Tricolours flew from golf umbrellas. Lots of standing ovations.
At the precise moment when the gold Ryder Cup was handed over by Bertie to Woosnam, an aircraft flew overhead trailing the Irish flag.
And there were special words for Clarke from US captain, Tom Lehman. Lump in the throat time again. Everyone sang. Never mind the golf, this was just wonderful.
You had to be there.