Fancourt

By Matthew Freemantle at Fancourt

It was over. Then it wasn't. Then it was, but for the other team. Then neither team won. Just about everything happened in 60 minutes of madness at Fancourt on Sunday evening.

When the Final Decision was reached, there were about 14 stories to be written, all of which were of equal importance.

The beads of sweat began to gather on foreheads around the Media Centre. But how does one fit this into one story?

Headlines like "Cup Shared After Playoff After Love Blunder After US Fightback" were considered and then scrapped, before arms were flung up in the air and laptops shut down in surrender.

Some members of the reputably articulate blurt out noises of desperation, while others turned to beer.

Out on the course 50-year-old men, buzzing on litres of imbibed Powerade, revisited break-time in their school days by running haphazardly from tee to green in search of the perfect vantage-point.

On a bumpy layout more suitable for mountain goats and people with one leg shorter than the other, their speed was quite astonishing, but then so was the golf.

Both Ernie Els and Tiger Woods, whose names had somewhat predictably been put into the sudden-death envelope at the beginning of the day, were holing testing putts with an almost unnerving composure.

On the second green Gary Player, having used both of his lifelines, phoned a friend in search of an answer to the Million Dollar question - what do we do now? After ten minutes of heated conference, PGA Tour commissioner Tim Finchem, the acting 'Third Umpire', agreed to the Captains' suggestion that the Cup be shared.

And then it was over.

In the post-closing ceremony, Nick Price's eyes welled up at the emotion of it all as he reflected on a week of golf played in the kind of spirit of camaraderie and goodwill he's advocated for his entire career.

And why not? In circumstances most propitious for biased outburst, the South African galleries were magnificently behaved.

Fist-pumping jingoist supporters and overzealous players were replaced with exemplary, polite galleries and civil, jovial competitors.

It seemed like everybody present during the thrilling finale was drunk on the peace and goodwill on offer. If Scrooge had been there, he'd probably have bought someone an ice-cream.

The US team were welcomed warmly by the crowds and were thanked for their treatment of the visitors.

Jerry Kelly will leave Fancourt particularly touched after the gallery surrounding the first green on the final day greeted him with a hearty rendition of Happy Birthday.

Kelly, visibly touched, turned to the choir and gushed, "You guys are great", before beaming broadly to his captain. Nicklaus applauded the gesture with equal sincerity and the match got underway.

That set the tone for a final day which, to the huge credit of everyone involved, lasted to the end.

In The Presidents Chamber IV

Excited Brits, worried Aussies, insulted South Africans and confused Americans wandered around the Presidents Cup Media Centre this morning as the attentions switched from golf to rugby and the World Cup final in Sydney.

Members of the South African press, still reeling from the shock of seeing their rugby team huddled in what looked like the ablution facility in a Malaysian prison, were the least jovial.

And, as the implosion of South African rugby continues to turn the previously proud and patriotic into the presently pissed-off or phlegmatic, there's not a great deal to be cheerful about.

South African supporters have become Rugby's equivalent to the boy whose mum picks him up from school in a rusty Datsun outside the front gate - the most embarrassed of all.

There's nothing wrong with a Datsun, my mom had one when I was at school, but the problem arises when all the other cars are either BMW's or Mercedes Benz's, driven by 23-year-old nannies with French manicures.

Likewise, there's nothing wrong with South African rugby. That is until you compare it with the rest of the world's. Then, it looks like the Datsun, and feels like the boy.

Rudolph Straeuli's World Cup squad went into the tournament with as much chance as Mr. Potato Head at a beauty pageant, and their performance would have made the most famous vegetable celebrity furious at the association, so there were no big surprises.

Equally unsurprising are the finalists for today's final, Australia and England.

England because they were always going to be there and Australia because they have the home advantage and because they aren't afraid of winning big matches, unlike New Zealand, who are a better team on paper.

But who am I to have an opinion. Being South African my view carries about as much weight as Gary Rhodes' on hairstyles, so I'll shut up and watch replays of Ernie Els' chip in on the 18th yesterday evening.

Golf is fast becoming the shattered South African supporter's shoulder to cry on, being as it arguably is the only sport in which we are world-class.

In the Presidents Chamber III

The Presidents Cup may well be alike a steroid jab to economy of George and its environs, but it has done nothing whatsoever for 14-year-old boys working in steakhouses trying to make some holiday pocket-money.

Just ask Matthew, a Jehovah's witness from a local restaurant, whose wage for an evening's work is "still just R50."

"And we have to wear these stupid Presidents Cup T-shirts, which cost R40," he rants, as he stares at a docket requesting 56 double brandy and cokes for table nine.

After he's bought the shirt, Matthew is left with a paltry R10 for his night's labour, and as the cash pours in to the pockets of tour operators and B&B owners up the coast as far as Dar-Es-Salaam, he has reason to be disgruntled.

I was caught between sympathy and an urge to have him arrested for serving alcohol under the age of 18. But I was too thirsty to be moral, so  felt sorry for him.

Also with reason to complain were a plethora of starved Marshals, who for the first two days were left gasping for food and water from 6am to 8pm as organizers forgot to send out provisions.

"We stood out in the heat for the entire day and absolutely nothing came out," said one Marshall beside the 16th green.

"But it was better today - we were given sandwiches and water.

Considering that for the same pleasure crowds are asked to fork out R25, that's quite generous.

These volunteers should look at the bright-side.

After a week of involuntary fasting, they could all put forward a strong proposal to the producers of 'Survivor', to have a go at doing the same thing for money.

Or, if the guy stuck out on the 13th hole feels ready, he could suspend himself in a glass case above the fairway and do a David Blaine.

I bumped into a bleary-eyed security guard checking in this morning, who looked like she had spent the night in a swamp.

She barely looked at my bag and waved me through, mumbling something about "two hours sleep" as I walked past.

She was probably not exaggerating.

With play starting at 7.15 am on Friday morning and gates opening at six, staff were all required to be on site no later than 4.30 in the morning.

Ouch!

In The President's Chamber II

Presidents Cup organisers must have been biting their nails and sweating nervously when they looked out of their windows on Thursday morning and looked ahead to the open-air Opening Ceremony scheduled to start at 10am.

A grey cloud hung gloomily over the Links at Fancourt, and rain seemed imminent.

But if they knew anything about climatology in the Southern Cape, one look upward would have had them smiling broadly and reaching for a T-shirt and a pair of shorts.

Light grey cloud in the morning means a sunny day later on, apparently.

Being an ignoramus, I donned a long-sleeved shirt and threw a jersey in the back of my car. Both, I have now realised, are superfluous and the former, which I am now sentenced to wear for the remainder of the day, is becoming rather annoying.

So when we sat down to watch the opening ceremony, myself and anyone not from George sweated like Eskimos in the Sahara.

The Presidents Cup committee led the procession onto an impressive Cape Dutch-style facade, before the crowds rose to their feet and cheered the arrival of South Africa's President, Thabo Mbeki.

But if Mbeki's ovation was loud, that given to former President Nelson Mandela was nothing short of cacophonous. The hero of South Africa's fight for liberation from the Apartheid regime smiled and waved before taking his seat beside another former President, F. W. De Klerk, with whom Mandela was jointly awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1992.

Former United States President George Bush Snr. stood to accept his applause next, before International captain Gary Player and his opposite number Jack Nicklaus led the teams to the stage.

Home-boy Ernie Els set the crowd alight when he came into view alongside Charles Howell III, and everyone, except me and my overdressed friends, was having a rollicking time.

But the highlight of the morning was still to come. After The US team had stood proudly to sing the Star Spangled Banner, and then waited patiently as the Canadian, Fiji, South Korean, Zimbabwean and Australian anthems rang out, the Navy band made way for a small group of musicians wearing traditional African attire.

Nobody knew who they were, and when the music started, the expressions on the faces of the gallery went from curious to downright perplexed.

It emerged gradually that this was a new rendition of Nkosi Sikeleli Afrika, performed by an attractive young singer called "Melanie."

This anthemic curve-ball left patriotic South Africans not knowing when to sing and when to take a breath. It was like watching a Zulu movie with German overdubs.

She - Melanie - was actually very good, and her angelic voice made up for the initial disillusionment.

The players were then introduced, first by a rather weak-looking Nicklaus and then by a fist-pumping Player, with the latter at his crowd-pleasing best.

His least eloquent moment was his description of Adam Scott, who he called a "young, young-faced, young man." But otherwise he was good.

Mbeki quoted Tiger Woods before declaring the tournament officially open, just as I had taken my third to last breath before keeling over from dehydration.
 
Tn the President's Chamber I

To get an idea of the security measures in place for this week's Presidents Cup, just think Tom Cruise and that sublime pseudo-absail stunt he pulled off to download the coveted Nock list in Mission Impossible.

Indeed, anyone with as much as a sharp-toed shoe is likely to be sent packing, and this after driving through from Saldanah Bay, where the only remaining accommodation is available.

Leaving for the course on Wednesday to watch the second of two practice rounds, I was making good time. But soon my punctuality was punctured as I met what looked like an entire precinct's-worth of police officers manning the front gate.

The last time I'd seen so many guards in one place was a few weeks previously when Dead Man Walking came on TV. But they were friendly, at least, and quickly convinced me that I was not to be prosecuted for a R400, 000 speeding fine from the drive to George.

One glance at my Media Pass and the nearest officer's face morphed from insulted teacher's to complimented child's, and I drove on.

Two and a half rolls of the tyre later I was confronted with further interrogation, this time in the form of three security guards. They also wanted to see my Pass, so I showed them and they were also happy. It was like answering the same question twice in a matter of seconds. How are you? Fine, thanks...Fine, THANKS!

The next question was asked to my car, who said nothing but showed that she carried no explosives, which was enough. At this point, with a parking bay in sight, there were literally eight police officers surrounding "the vehicle".

I felt like that guy who scored the winning goal for Denmark in the 1992 European Cup, fighting for breath underneath ten players and a coach, who had chosen suffocation as their means of congratulations.

Then, when I'd just started to enjoy all off the rather endearing paraphernalia -  all of the officials were so friendly - it was over. Or so I thought.

The last check was by a lady carrying a miniature cricket bat. This she wafted about for a few seconds and then smiled and let everyone through. It made a noise sometimes, but was not important to her; you could go through anyway. But one could understand her apparent nonchalance, reflecting on the process we had all undergone.

As well as being tiresome, it was also encouraging. The procedure was thorough and well-managed, the gesture both understandable and crucial to the safety of all concerned and best of all, service was done with a smile.

The responsibility of hosting the biggest golfing event ever to be staged in South Africa seems to have fallen in the right hands.