Poisened Chalice

Lauren St John, The Sunday Times Magazine, 26 August 2001

On the final day of the Ryder Cup at the Country Club in Brookline, Massachusetts, in September 1999, Sergio Gomez laboured up the hill that led to the 14th green, straining to catch a glimpse of his client and best friend, Jose Maria Olazabal, who was locked in battle with the American player Justin Leonard. Ordinarily, the crowd would have been enthusiastically patriotic but respectful of both players and teams. But that day, it seemed to Gomez there was poison in the air. Suddenly, a blood-curdling chorus went up from the gallery. Gomez admits he felt actual fear. 'As [Jose was] walking up the hill, the spectators were chanting, ' Kill him, kill him, kill him!' I was quite shocked. It was not ' Beat him,' it was not ' Win this match' or ' Come on, keep going,' it was, ' Kill him,' like in the Roman gladiator circus.'

Here at Brookline, an atmosphere had been building for days that, within the hour, would trample golf's sacred code of honour and etiquette beneath the spikes and stilettos of the US players and their wives, as they swarmed hysterically across the 17th green to congratulate Leonard on his putt. At the time, Olazabal still had a putt to keep Europe's hopes alive, but he was forgotten in the crush of revellers. Entertainment had finally spilt over into anarchy. Even before the ugly scenes at the 17th, Colin Montgomerie and other Europeans were subjected to vicious personal abuse, and wives, fans and officials were heckled so badly that one British official left before the final round was played. 'It was a war,' he says. Situations that were unimaginable in golf only a week earlier were commonplace at Brookline. Once, referees and US supporters appeared to conspire to lose a European ball, which led to the loss of a hole - in a match where the cup can be lost on less.

Almost every European player was sworn at, threatened or heckled at critical moments of play - something some US team members and officials condoned if only because they failed to lift a finger to discourage it. Samuel Ryder's simple vision of a cup competition played sportingly by gentlemen had been tainted by yob culture.

After the match, there was outrage and bitter recriminations. There were angry exchanges between unrepentant hosts, aggrieved guests and even European team members themselves, until golf eventually settled for a public declaration of regret and both sides shook hands in a show, at least, of unity. But it was a short-term solution. Even as the dust settled, a new threat to the traditions of the Ryder Cup was emerging in Europe's back yard - a civil war that, in the worst-case scenario, could ultimately wipe it for ever from the calendar of the world's greatest sporting events.

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Samuel Ryder, a St Albans industrialist who made his fortune selling seeds, took up golf at 50 on the advice of his doctor. He was fascinated by the professional game, and his love affair with it led him to do something that was to have lasting impact on it: he donated a trophy to the British Professional Golfers' Association, for use in a match to promote goodwill between British and American golfers. The first, unofficial 'Ryder Cup' was held at Wentworth in Surrey in 1926, and was won 131/2 - 11/2 by Britain.

In 1927 the match was held in Massachusetts and was won 91/2 - 21/2 by the US. It set a pattern of dominance that was to continue for 50 years. After Britain had endured a mauling in 1975, one British newspaper said scathingly: 'There is no further point to this charade.' By 1977, the British had won just three times since the match's inception, and American players like Tom Weiskopf and Arnold Palmer considered them such feeble opposition that they regularly took afternoons off during play to hunt elk or practise aeronautics. The great American golfer Jack Nicklaus wrote a letter to the Professional Golfers' Association (PGA) saying he feared that, unless action was taken, the match would be cancelled owing to lack of interest. He suggested including continental players like Seve Ballesteros, the best player in Europe, in the team.

At first, there was no discernible improvement. At the next two matches, the Europeans were thrashed. 'There was a dinner at the end of the week, called the victory dinner,' says Mark James, the 1999 European captain, who played on the 1979 and 1981 Ryder Cup teams. 'We used to call it the defeat dinner.'

But by the mid-1980s, the tide had turned spectacularly. The Europeans, always the poor relations in world golf, now had a stunning array of talent. Players like Ballesteros and Bernhard Langer and Nick Faldo were capable of taking on the best in the US. Their new captain, Tony Jacklin, insisted their spirits be given a further boost by cashmere clothes and Concorde flights - polyester and economy class had been the previous order of the day - and they managed two wins and a draw between 1985 and 1989. By then, the Ryder Cup had become one of sport's most magnificent spectacles, a mesmerising contest of sporting nerve and skill, all underpinned by mutual respect. It had also become a multi-million-pound enterprise. With success came hype and patriotic fervour. In 1991 at Kiawah Island, South Carolina, members of the US team sported Desert Storm hats. The phenomenal interest in the event raised the level of expectation and pressure, and increasingly there were simmering resentments and confrontations. The American player Paul Azinger once described Ballesteros as 'the king of gamesmanship', tantamount in golf to calling him a cheat. The tension also put players in a position where one missed shot could cost the entire contest. In 1993, Italy's Costantino Rocca was so devastated when he missed a putt that could have given Europe a draw, that his career never reached its previous heights.

Until the Ryder Cup went to Brookline in 1999, all of this simply added to the nail-biting excitement of the match. Year upon year, its popularity increased, creating an ever-widening audience, bigger sponsorship deals, more worldwide television contracts and corporate hospitality contracts, lucrative gate receipts, multi-million-pound profits, and a conundrum: where was all the money going? Professional golfers who represented Europe in the contest were, in effect, giving up their day jobs for the honour of playing in it. It was their skill that had rescued it, their skill that generated the revenue, and yet they played for nothing. Before Brookline, they had asked where the money was going. Afterwards, they turned up the volume.

In a large, sunny office at the Wentworth headquarters of the European Tour, which represents touring professional golfers in Britain and on the Continent, including those selected to play for the Ryder Cup, Ken Schofield has just made a series of unprecedented statements. The executive director's comments amount to a stark warning for the Professional Golfers' Association and the club professionals it represents, the first shots fired in a battle for the ownership of the Ryder Cup and exploitation of its profits.

Almost 10 years ago, the Tour and the PGA went to war over the proceeds of the Ryder Cup. When Ryder handed the PGA the gold trophy in 1926, the association was the only body representing the interests of professional golfers. However, in 1971, a separate association was formed to look after those golfers who made a living primarily from playing tournaments around Europe. From that point, the PGA became the caretaker of Britain's club professionals, and the PGA European Tour - known to all as 'the Tour' - looked after the interests of touring professionals, setting up events, finding sponsors, selling TV rights and effectively acting as agents for and on behalf of the players.

Since the PGA owned the Ryder Cup, it kept the paltry sums of money it generated in Britain until the mid-1980s. Its US counterpart, the PGA of America, kept the proceeds when the match was played across the Atlantic. By 1991, the Ryder Cup was earning over £1m on these shores, and the Tour, which fielded all the players for the match, wanted a share of the burgeoning profits. After a heated debate, both parties agreed to a 50-50 split, under an umbrella company called Ryder Cup Ltd, and peace reigned. Until now.

Schofield's comments reflect the feeling of Tour players who are no longer content to see 50% of the profits they generate disappear into the coffers of the wholly British PGA. Indeed, Schofield claims that the Tour has no idea what the PGA has done with its share of the profits. 'I don't know what they do with their money,' he says. 'What I do know is, their feelings are, [after] the cost of the matches, they get half the money and we get half the money, and what we do with it as a Tour is our business, and what they do with theirs is their business. And I think that, in a nutshell, is now what's unacceptable to the players.'

On the other hand, the PGA maintains that next month's Ryder Cup will be the first to make a meaningful profit. 'Up until now, everybody has surmised that there's been this great profit made,' says Sandy Jones, the association's chief executive. 'In actual fact, there hasn't been...We haven't had sums of money to distribute.'

But according to Schofield, the Ryder Cup has made a profit since he first became involved with it in 1975. He is adamant that, in 25 years, the match has never lost money. According to figures obtained by The Sunday Times, the Ryder Cup made a gross profit of £300,000 in 1985, £4m between 1989 and 1993, and £4.25m from 1994 to 1997. As an example, Schofield points out that when the 1997 match went to the Valderrama club in Spain, the Tour insisted that Ryder Cup Ltd give the Spanish Federation 10% of the net profits of that match, some £450,000. 'Now, 10 % of that tells you and me that that was a profit of £4,500,000,' he says. 'That's not a deficit, is it?'

'I have no idea what the Tour do with their money either, other than they prop up prize funds,' counters Sandy Jones. 'But that's a guess.' He has other worries. 'What we need to find out is if the players' concern is the distribution of the money, or if they just want the trophy,' he says. 'Nobody seems to be able to answer that.'

'I think the former,' says Schofield. 'I think a lot of people, a lot of players, would be interested in where their surpluses have gone. And if they've not been invested at all in Europe, why not? And when will they be? And what guarantee can you get under the present terms? I think that is what this is about.'

Jones could ask the same questions of the Tour. He fears, however, that the Tour is trying to wrest control of the match from the PGA and the club pros to whom Sam Ryder bequeathed his trophy. 'If somebody owns something in life, what do you do, do you just go in and take it off them?' asks Jones. 'Obviously, there's an agreement in place, a company in place. If the venture breaks down then it's inevitable that the match will be affected, and perhaps we should put the trophy in the cupboard. Maybe the players don't want to play in it any more. It's not always easy to satisfy the modern tournament player. And if that's the case, then we should end the Ryder Cup with dignity, and let the players go and play a match against the tournament players in America, if that's what they want to do.'

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On a roof terrace at the Celtic Manor Resort, high above the Usk valley in south Wales, Sir Terence Matthews is holding forth on the Ryder Cup. A factory manager's son turned telecommunications billionaire, Matthews has invested millions in a dream: he wants to host the 2009 event here, and he is now considering what his estimated £50m-plus courtship of the Ryder Cup might bring him in return. 'If I break even on this Ryder Cup stuff, that'll be great for me,' says Matthews, whose Celtic Manor is the only Welsh venue realistically able to host the match. 'Means you've had a little fun, made a little noise - what does it say in the Bible? Make a joyful noise for the Lord. Shout loud! Be noticed.'

The debate over the bid for the 2009 Ryder Cup has, if anything, accelerated the tug of war between the Tour and the PGA. Matthews is the key player behind the Welsh bid, largely seen as the favourite of Schofield and the Tour. Also in the running is Scotland, viewed as the preferred choice of Jones and the PGA, with Carnoustie, Turnberry, Loch Lomond and Gleneagles all being possible locations. Slaley Hall in Northumberland is an outside choice. 'The thing that's been killing us is, four of the last five home matches have been in one country, and indeed one venue,' Schofield says, referring to the the Belfry in Sutton Coldfield, near Birmingham, headquarters of the PGA.

'I think that is a real problem.' The Ryder Cup alternates between Europe and America every two years, so each team gets to host the match every four years. The PGA and the Tour take it in turns to select the home venue, which is one of the main reasons for the Tour players' discontent. The success of the Ryder Cup owes a great deal to the efforts of continental players, and yet the match has only been to the Continent once in the modern era: in 1997, when it went to Valderrama on Spain's Costa del Sol.

At first, the decision to conduct an official bid process for the 2009 match was a welcome one. Previously, venues were decided by committee and on a handshake. But when the announcement of the winning venue was delayed for nine months until September, the Welsh cried foul and the Scottish media all but awarded the match to Scotland. The Welsh were also concerned about where their bid money would be spent. The tender document asks for £12m over a decade - £2m for the pension fund, and £1m a year for 10 years to the PGA. 'What are you going to do with that money?' asks Tim Howland, who along with running the Ladies' European Tour has helped put the bid document together for Wales Sport Group Europe. 'You haven't told us what you're going to do. Are you buying a villa? A boat? Or are you going to actually help us develop all the programmes that we're trying to put in place here?'

Deep divisions and suspicions began to appear in relations between the Tour and the PGA, which has the casting vote this year. Speculation was rife that the PGA had already decided that the host in 2009 should be Gleneagles in Scotland, with which Jones has close links. And Schofield made an open secret of his support for the Celtic Manor bid, if only because the Tour believes its choice - breaking the stranglehold on English and Scottish venues - would send a signal that future competitions would be rotated throughout Europe, giving countries like Germany, Sweden and France the opportunity to host the match in the future.

Matthews plunged into golf with a joyful innocence and plenty of business savvy. First he acquired the 19th-century Manor House, the maternity home in which he was born, noting that 10,000 cars an hour passed by on the M4. When the 17-room hotel he built prospered, he added another 80 rooms and considered moving into golf. Right off the bat, he hit the jackpot, bumping into the course designer Robert Trent Jones in Florida in 1979 and persuading him to lend his talents to Celtic Manor. Seventeen years on, Celtic Manor has three courses, including Went- wood Hills, the venue of the Wales Open competition and the prospective home of the Ryder Cup. Money is no object. When the PGA raised objections to aspects of the course, Matthews announced that he would be spending £12m on a new clubhouse, seven new or redesigned holes, a bridge and other course modifica- tions. The end result will be one of the most stunning natural amphitheatres in golf.

The value of the 2009 match has been put at £100m, taking into account tourism, gate receipts, sponsorship and job creation, but Matthews describes it as 'incalculable', for the reason that the economic effects of winning the Ryder Cup would start on the day it was announced, and would continue for a decade or more beyond the match itself. 'Do you know what that would mean to this area if the Ryder Cup came here?' he says. 'In fact, just the announcement of the win - do you know what that would mean?'

Jones, meanwhile, is bemused by the Tour's lack of enthusiasm for Scotland. 'I thought we were all agreed - and Ken was party to these discussions - that the Ryder Cup wouldn't be open to the guy with the biggest chequebook,' he says. 'I didn't think we were actually prostituting it to that extent.' It is a remark that appears to fly in the face of the bid process. Certainly it is hard to deny that it is Wales which most exactly meets the main criteria of the bid document: the development of the game. Jones says that the Scots have pledged to spend £23m on a golf lesson for every child born in Scotland this year, but while that nation can rest secure in the knowledge that it is the home of golf, the Welsh have bent over backwards to put in long-term development programmes and banish discrimination. Over the next decade, Matthews's contributions to Welsh tournaments alone average out at £1.5m a year. Small wonder that the Tour is keen to keep him sweet.

The conflicting desires and power struggles of golf's hierarchy are the reason why the chief executive of the PGA can now contemplate the unthinkable: the end of the Ryder Cup, with the trophy gathering dust in a cupboard at the Belfry. Certainly, Jones seems to be opposed to Schofield's plans for regular rotation of the match outside Britain. 'I don't think we should get overexcited about everything the continentals do,' he says. 'There seems to be this unholy rush now towards satisfying the continental players. Just because they've played on the team doesn't mean that they should now take the game over. Half the participants in the game still come from Britain.'

Worryingly, the PGA does not seem to have taken on board the extent of the feeling on the Tour that the continentals have been given a raw deal from the Ryder Cup honey pot. Unlike the Americans, however, who will each receive $200,000 at this year's match to give to their favourite charity and university, most Europeans want the profits used for the good of the game. 'We know the Americans were attempting to demand payment, but I think their philosophy is a different kettle of fish to the European one,' James says. 'They may want paying every time they put a pair of spikes on, but as a Tour we like to think that we're prepared to go and play for Europe for nothing, and we're quite happy to do so. The bottom line is, if you make the Ryder Cup team in Europe, you've made knocking on half a million quid, so you're not exactly penniless for the foreseeable future, are you?'

Regardless of the machinations of players and politicians, the Ryder Cup will take place in September and will, predictably, be full of unforgettable moments. Jones hopes that the situation can be resolved by then, 'by mature and sensible discussion', but the gulf between the Tour and the PGA appears to be wider than ever. It is privately mooted that the players are demanding the PGA's share of the profits be limited to only 15%, with the rest distributed by the Tour 'to the benefit of European golf'. The Tour's chief executive, Schofield, feels that the players would leave the PGA with its current 50% share of profits only if it relinquishes control of the Ryder Cup.

It is this no-win situation that now confronts the PGA, the original owners of the Ryder Cup. 'There was a legacy given to the PGA by Sam Ryder,' says Jones. 'We tried to share that legacy with the Tour by giving them a 50-50 joint venture. I don't think that then gives the players the right to take over the match. I've got 6,500 members who will tell me rightly, ' Sandy, the Ryder Cup is held in trust by the PGA.''

Jones has now sought legal advice on the PGA's options. It is unimaginable that the Ryder Cup will be shelved - there's too much money, tradition and pride at stake for both sides. But if the battle for control continues, the events at Brookline might be a pale shadow beside the final outcome when European golf declares war on itself. Then, it will be a matter of who blinks first.