After the first round of the American Express Championship at Mount Juliet, 22 years ago now, Tiger Woods was asked if he would prefer to win this tournament or be part of a winning team at the Ryder Cup a week later.
Woods had a deadpan capacity to treat any question with a something-and-nothing answer, but in this case, he didn’t apply any filters.
Woods said he could think “of a million reasons” why he would prefer to win at Mount Juliet rather than triumph with his American team-mates at The Belfry. Decoding his response was simple: the prize fund for the AmEx event was $5 million, $1 million to the winner.
Woods was widely rebuked for his casual desecration of the Ryder Cup.
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“He already has more money than he could possibly spend,” scolded David Davies, the Guardian’s venerable golf writer.
On the Sunday, Woods duly collected the winner’s cheque, immune to furious finger-wagging.
Back then, just as now, the Ryder Cup was a cash cow for the PGA of America and the European Tour. Merchandising flew out the door, like it was Christmas Eve. Host venues paid handsomely – or extortionately – for the privilege of staging the event, expecting a windfall in green fees. How many of them ever covered their original outlay? Didn’t matter. They were buying the prestige too.
But, in some respects, the Ryder Cup resided in an Ivory Tower. It was one week every two years where professional golf’s venal relationship with money was seemingly paused – even if that perception was only based on the players not being paid. In every other respect it was awash with money and commercial scalping and corporate glad handing.
Woods’s comments in Mount Juliet came three years after the fractious Ryder Cup in Brookline, when players on both sides forgot their manners. Around that time David Duval and Mark O’Meara had raised complaints about the players not being paid. Duval even suggested that a player “boycott” was “imminent”.
In response, the PGA of America conceded that each member of the team would receive $200,000 to donate to charitable causes, and a slice of the TV revenue would be invested in a pension scheme for all PGA Tour players.
This put a stop to the public complaining but surely not the private grumbling. It surfaced again in Rome last year when Patrick Cantlay refused to wear his Team USA cap on Saturday and Sunday, and repeatedly denied reports that it was a protest about the players not being paid.
In media interviews, however, Xander Schauffele’s Dad, Stefan, seemed to confirm the story. His son was another of the capless protesters. Or alleged protesters.
For the 2022 Presidents Cup – an even more contrived event than the Ryder Cup – the American players were paid $250,000 each, not for charitable causes, but as a little something for their trouble. Everyone wore their caps.
Here’s the thing: nobody cares if 24 of the best golfers in the world feel like they’re being fleeced for playing in the Ryder Cup, pro bono. Nobody cares what corporate entities are prepared to pay to entertain their clients at the event. Nobody really cares how much the blue-chip golf resorts are prepared to pay – through the nose – to host the event. But when punters are being fleeced, there is a different noise.
The problem, though, is us: we make the market. They see us coming. They know what we’re like. We have form. Sports fanatics belong to the world’s biggest community of easy marks.
Even with ticket prices pitched at an outrageous $750 per day, the PGA of America expects a sell-out at Bethpage next year. In various defensive/offensive interviews explaining the new price point, the tournament director Bryan Karns said that the Ryder Cup was a Tier 1 event, comparable with baseball’s World Series, or game seven in the NBA play-offs.
He didn’t mention the Super Bowl in the same breath because, for ticket prices, that exists in a different realm. The cheapest, face-value tickets for this year’s Super Bowl, sold directly by the NFL, cost $2,000. In the week of the game the re-sale platform, StubHub, told CBS that the average ticket price was $8,600. Last-minute tickets were selling for more than $30,000.
Somebody bought them. The stadium was full. Market sentiment rounded them up.
Karns also described the Ryder Cup as a “bucket list” event for golf fanatics, and that is true. Bucket lists are a modern, first world, phenomenon for people with some money to burn. The Super Bowl grazes in that meadow too. Sports tourists, and sports fanatics, routinely pay more than they feel they should. The market feasts on it.
This dynamic applies across the board. In 2018 the IRFU charged over €100 for category one and category two tickets for the visit of New Zealand, the first time they had strayed into three figure pricing for a single Test match. For the visit of New Zealand on Friday week, category one tickets were pitched at €145 and sold out in jig time.
How can the IRFU justify an almost 50 per cent price hike in six years for the best seats in the house?
They will reference inflation and cost pressures but the only justification that matters is that punters are prepared to stump up. We hold our noses and make the market.
For anybody who was lucky enough to come out of the ticket lottery for next year’s British Open at Portrush a daily ticket worked out at about €150. It will probably be the most expensive ticket for a sports event on this island in 2025, but if you love golf or just love sport, it is an indulgence that you will never regret.
The Ryder Cup is no longer in that territory. The atmosphere at Bethpage next year will be toxic. The barracking of players from the away team is now beyond boorish. On both teams will be players who took the tainted Saudi shilling and expect to be welcomed back with open arms. With no more than four games on the course at any one time for the first two days, you won’t see much golf in comfort.
And they’re charging $750 a day because they think you won’t be able to resist. Nearly a quarter of a century after David Duval threatened a “boycott”, our time has come. Don’t forget who makes the market.
