Ah to be 19 and full of the uncomplicated vim and vigour which animates Sergio Garcia. This past weekend was disillusioning in a lot of ways, but Garcia's effervescence reminded us all that there was a game at the centre of all the hoopla.

Disillusioning? Well those of us who thought David Duval couldn't give a toss about the Ryder Cup saw him dance a fist-pumping jig on Saturday afternoon and had to concede he was probably interested. We don't necessarily want to see the dance again, he looked like Bill Gates in spasm, but it was convincing that even Duval was intoxicated by the occasion.

Disillusioning, too, for those who believed in the sanctity and wholesomeness of the competition. The purists were stifled and suffocated by the perfumed swells of the corporate tents and even hardened mercantalists conceded that balance had been lost and the sound of money grubbing precluded tranquillity.

Yesterday was a long and worrisome day for the European sweater brigade. Watching the bloated high rollers queue to hand over $60 a pop for tiny little periscopes was to realise that the Ryder Cup is an exercise in conspicuous consumption above all else. The perpetual motion machine that is corporate entertainment will keep the Ryder Cup going regardless of pay for play, boycotts or other sporting venialities.

In the eye of it all for the last three days was Sergio Garcia, so unwrinkled by worry or greed that his demeanour served as a gentle rebuke to the rest of us. I'm sure it was Garcia who brought out the Michael Flatley in poor David Duval. The Americans who followed the Spaniard all day Friday and Saturday put aside their noisy partisanship in homage to him.

Garcia's chosen nemesis, Tiger Woods, seems haunted by the pressures from outside and the Ryder Cup did little to lighten his burden. He satisfied his detractors a little by pumping his fists and whooping a little but he looked unhappy all week. Reared by a father who chose his vocation for him when he was a toddler in nappies and who tells the world that his son is the saviour, Tiger Woods has found himself shedding both his agent and his longtime caddie in the last 18 months. Deep down Woods has demons as big as John Daly's. Different demons and a bigger talent to fight them with, but demons nonetheless.

At the moment Woods is performing in a series of witty and wonderful adds for Nike, (one in particular when he juggles a golf ball on his club before driving it like a hurling wing back off into the distance is worth staying up for) but his PR touch is generally lousy. The only thing he has done right with relation to the Ryder Cup is letting David Duval take the lead and the heat on the pay for play issue.

Garcia on the other hand lives in a world without clouds. His exuberance and his sense of fun were the biggest story of the last few days, the biggest story of the golfing year. And he didn't even win a major.

Mark James decision to pair him with Jepser Parnevik was a stroke of genius. The coupling should be mandatory on future occasions. Without each other yesterday they crumpled. You didn't have to be a Ryder Cup believer to enjoy Garcia or his contagious enthusiasm. Parnevik, the goofy older brother, helped himself to a transfusion of sunshine. The comical minuets of joy and big bearhugging celebrations were a tonic to anyone bothered by the tight-assed exclusivity of golf.

The lords and ladies of the billowing corporate palaces came and leaned over the white corporate fences to cheer Garcia on, laying down their loaded crescents of pita and draining their chardonnay to applaud his progress.

Sergio was feeding off it all. Everytime a ball dropped into a cup he hugged Parnevik like a long lost brother, lifting the grinning Swede off his feet (one good reason not to partner Garcia with Clarke or Montgomery.) On the 12th hole on Saturday afternoon after Parnevik had chipped in to save par he turned and braced himself for his big hug but Garcia had gone sprinting past him to wind up the crowd. Even David Duval cracked a smile. It was the moment of the week, illustrating the difference between Garcia and everyone else.

There were lots of other moments though. Parnevik would hunker down studying putts with Swedish thoroughness and Garcia would materialise behind him and suddenly the Swede would look as if he were suppressing giggles. Garcia speaks for the constituency which believes golf to be different to rocket science.

This column is no swing surgeon but there is so much derring-do in the way in which Garcia pulls on a drive, releasing more energy than his puny frame should carry, that it makes you want to grab a club and mash one into the wild blue yonder.

On Saturday, a free day for non Sunday paper hacks, we wandered the fairways looking for signs that Ryder Cup was dying and thinking of suggestions for the European anthem (If You Hate Other Continents, Clap Your Hands. Europe Eur a Lady) and asking people about what would happen if Europe were forced to withdraw from the competition. Would they be replaced by a subcontinent?

WE DIDN'T want to be "up for Europe" but Garcia was so amusing, so much fun that it was hard not to be carried along by his antics. He proved both sides of the argument about the Ryder Cup.

Golf isn't a team game, it's about individuals and internalities and in essence golfers play against the course not other golfers. And yet, played in the right spirit a competition, no matter how stilted its format, can come to life.

Garcia transcended the silly "let's kick American/Euro ass" mentality which has infested this event. When he got to the end of his second long Ryder Cup day on Saturday, making the putt which tied the match with Duval and Davis Luuuurve, Garcia went dancing and spinning through a thousand hugs, people ruffled his hair and pressed in close just to get a glimpse of him.

Golf thought that Tiger Woods was what it needed. In fact it needed Woods and a rival. Sergio. You're the man. Or you will be in a few years.

For a few decades during which the Americans couldn't lose a Ryder Cup no matter how hard they tried they graciously agreed to rule change after rule change until finally instead of a cordial tradition musted match up with Great Britain and Ireland they found themselves fighting wars against another continent.

By yesterday the Americans were reduced to wearing loud shirts in the hope of distracting the Europeans. It worked. The least Europe can do for the next 20 years is let the drab Americans have Sergio Garcia on their team for every second Ryder Cup. Ulcer victims like Duval, Woods and Crenshaw deserve to enjoy these things a little more.