Ryder Cup abuse was no surprise: this was the wannabe American jock’s dream arena

A portrait of the wannabe American jock at play. It was an indoor soccer game in a seven-a-side league on Long Island, New York. I was on a team of well-intentioned 40-somethings trying to stave off the mission creep of man boobs and middle-age spread.

On this evening, we were struggling. The opposition were younger, fitter and possessed a galling knack for moving the ball on just before we arrived in its vicinity. Anyway, the scoreline turned ugly, double figures or thereabouts, when their best player attempted to nutmeg one of our defenders.

My team-mate closed his legs in the nick of time and deflected the ball to safety. Embarrassment averted. Then he got right up in the opponent’s face, veins bulging in his neck, roaring: “Not in my house, baby. Not on my watch. Not tonight.” Another of my colleagues chest-bumped his approval at this antic celebration.

I watched on bemused, wondering if, given that we had yet to register a shot and this lad had already scored against us multiple times, these chaps were doing this ironically. Turns out they weren’t. I never togged out for that side again.

The golf world may have been shocked by Bethpage last weekend. I was not. I have known the species called wannabe American jock for a long time now. None of what went down at the Ryder Cup was surprising. That was just him in the wild. This is who he is in his natural habitat. As obnoxious as he is insecure, as excessively macho as he is entitled. Especially in drink.

I have played golf and soccer with iterations of him. Worked alongside them. Coached their kids. Not all sporting males in this country are like this, thankfully, crucially, but those who are a breed unto themselves tend to leave a mark. Like a rash.

“Does your husband play too?” one asked me after I left a putt short on the first green at a corporate outing. I had to endure 17 more holes of that devastating repartee on a long day when I also learned the wannabe jock considers anything inside 4ft a gimme because posting a good score, by whatever means necessary, is all that matters.

The wannabe needs the faux validation because, you see, he was a tremendous athlete back in the day. This is what he tells himself and the world. Even if it’s not true. He was a prospect. But for injury or, er, something, he could have gone all the way to the show.

Except he couldn’t have. Well, not anywhere beyond his own fevered imaginings. Still, he clings to the false memory syndrome of teenage sporting greatness, a comfort blanket to wrap around himself in those hours of self-doubt when he questions all his other life choices.

I’ve seen the wannabe pour buckets of coins into a Pop-A-Shot basketball machine in a pub trying to beat the top score that had just been set by his own wife. I’ve witnessed him reduce teenage girl referees to tears during matches involving six-year-olds where nobody is supposed to keep score.

[ ‘Throw out the Irish trash’: I’ve been to 15 Ryder Cups but this was a new low ]

I’ve listened to him declare he’s not pushing his adolescent son at baseball then show me the speed gun he purchased to measure the velocity of the kid’s pitches. I’ve cringed at him revelling as his child’s team ran up the score on weaker opponents, celebrating the ninth goal like the first.

That’s, apparently, how serial winners must behave. He never lost a game in his star-spangled youth, you see, and that’s why when his kid’s team loses he fumes. Blames the volunteer coach. Blames the other children for failing to perform. Accuses any eye-catching individual on the opposing side of being overage.

Grasps around for some excuse, anything rather than accept they might have been defeated by better players. To do that would be to admit weakness. And they buy their put-upon offspring moronic Under Armour T-shirts that read “Pain is just weakness leaving the body”, so it can’t be that.

Once a year the wannabe makes beery pilgrimage back to his alma mater to watch college football. With a posse of confrères, he marauds around campus like a callow freshman unleashed.

Except he’s now a balding, pudgy father of three with a career in finance spending a Saturday afternoon abusing 18-year-olds on the opposing team. At least until his thirst writes a cheque his deteriorating constitution can’t cash, and he pukes up under the stands. In true alpha male style. Next morning he dons his bro-issue gilet, wipes the last vestiges of dried vomit from all his chins and climbs into the SUV to return to civilian life, already craving the next escape from it.

[ Rory McIlroy condemns ‘unacceptable’ Ryder Cup abuse and confirms his wife was hit by a beer ]

The wannabe gets the best seats for sports events. He has to. Otherwise, he doesn’t go. Courtside at the Knicks, behind home plate at Yankee Stadium or the 50-yard line for the Giants.

Must be close enough to think his heckles can be heard. Nothing fulfils him more than insulting multimillionaire athletes. Makes him feel part of the spectacle, allows him to believe he’s somehow affecting the action. Like he’s nearly one of them.

For the dearly deluded forever bent on pretending he’s a player, the Ryder Cup represented a dream assignment. With lackadaisical security, plentiful booze and all that glorious proximity to the golfers, he couldn’t help himself being himself.

Wannabes going to wannabe.

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