FARMINGDALE, N.Y. The Black Course normally explodes beneath your feet as you emerge from the Bethpage clubhouse, its rolling terrain a blitzkrieg to the senses no matter its familiarity, and no matter the pain you know the course will extract. This week, temporary coliseums rise from what were once open golf fields, a nod to the changing dynamics of this event. Its stunning, a modern architecture feat, making such a big footprint seem small. Its stunning, although maybe not in the way its intended too, once realizing corporate fortresses now shadow over golfs most democratic venue.
The 2023 Ryder Cup was a respite from the existential crisis from professional golfs civil war. At Bethpage, that void has returned with uncomfortable clarity. European media has spent three days hammering American players receiving $500,000 each ($300,000 for charity, $200,000 personal) for participation, while Europeans play for free. The narrative writes itself, mercenary Americans versus pure-hearted Europeans, money corrupting the sacred competition. The reality is messier. The Americans have pledged their stipends to charity. European Ryder Cups essentially bankroll the DP World Tour’s existence. The “united by more than money” European team lost its last captain and a generation of potential successors to LIV’s riches. Jon Rahm and Tyrrell Hatton jeopardized their Ryder Cup eligibility chasing cash. The money narrative persists because it serves each side’s preferred mythology. In a week where nationalism trumps nuance, you feed your audience what it wants to hear.
This isn’t about whether players should be compensated for representing their countries; reasonable people can disagree. It’s about the impossibility of separating these arguments from the event’s staggering reality of what its become and what it continues to be. And it begs a more uncomfortable question: who exactly is it for and what does that say about what we’re really watching?
Harry How
The Ryder Cup’s unique power has always stemmed from its communal energy, the way passionate fans from both sides create an atmosphere unlike anything else in golf. That electricity requires authenticity, the presence of sickos who live and breathe the game rather than simply consume it. This is especially true at Bethpage, the self-proclaimed Peoples Country Club, a rare American venue that is not hidden behind ivory walls. Yet the very crowd that has powered the aura of Bethpage hax been priced out of the party at their home. Basic grounds access costs $750, plus another $200 in fees. You do get a free hot dog with the ticket, though.
Thats just to get in, and once youre here, the city of hospitality suites that now greets visitors makes this transformation impossible to ignore. Corporate hangouts have swallowed the first, 15th, 16th, 17th and 18th holes entirely, the stretch where spectators could normally glimpse action unfolding across multiple holes. The PGA of America will pocket tens of millions selling these premium spaces, but theres a cost to this payday. These suites don’t just block natural vistas from ground level; they fragment the crowd itself, creating isolation where communion once thrived. This matters more than visuals suggest. The Ryder Cup’s DNA relies on raucous, rowdy support in a sport that typically demands whispered reverence. Atmospheres that have made winning on foreign soil nearly impossible. Collin Morikawa captured the shift Wednesday, noting how “muted” everything feels this week. The current hospitality setup seems engineered to prevent the very environment that makes this competition special, a self-inflicted wound in the name of commercialization.
Carl Recine
Speaking of commercializationwhat isn’t? The grounds overflow with branded experiences. Tito’s Golf Club, Michelob Ultra tent, Elijah Craig Speakeasy (though publicized speakeasies seem to miss the point). Separate lounges for wine (William Hill), rum (Goslings), and champagne (Moët & Chandon). When alcohol options prove insufficient, there’s a Gatorade Hydration Station for balance. That’s just around the practice range. Nearly 40 entities comprise the Ryder Cup’s official commercial familyso many that counting the parade of partnership announcements over the past month literally crashed Microsoft Outlook.
Wed be remiss in failing to mention that T-Mobile is hosting a Ryder Cup morning show with “Saturday Night Live” regular Colin Jost. There’s a fan experience at Rockefeller Center powered by car brands. DraftKings sponsors a trophy room. Influencer events and corporate pop-ups dot the grounds all week. It’s a spectacle maybe too much of a spectacle for a three-day event where two teams of 12 try to hit golf balls better than each other.
The Ryder Cup isn’t alone in this transformation. The Olympics, World Cup, Super Bowl, Tour de France, Wimbledon, Kentucky Derbythey’ve all chosen to bow to commerce over community. Golf leads this charge. The Masters has pursed aggressive expansion over the past decade on its hospitality front. The USGA and R&A have dramatically increased their corporate offerings. Even Europe shoulders blame here, bypassing the world’s greatest links courses for opulent resorts with pedestrian layouts willing to pay handsomely for hosting rights. Critics target the PGA of America for refusing to disclose what it does with tens of millions in revenue from the event, but would any other governing body truly prioritize common fans over profit margins?
Jamie Squire
Growth itself isn’t inherently evil. More eyeballs and interest can benefit the sport. But there’s a difference between expansion and exploitation, between building audience and building barriers. When a father and son need over $2,000 just to witness what’s meant to be an exhibition, something fundamental has shifted. What’s the purpose of growth if it alienates the very people who built this into what it is?
Still, the infrastructure remains undeniably impressive, rising from Bethpage’s fairways like a monument. Fitting, because monuments commemorate what we’ve lost. The most expensive ticket at Bethpage might actually be the cheapest price we’ve paid: the cost of forgetting why this event mattered in the first place.
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