Keegan Bradley has made a surprising decision, and by surprising I mean the kind of surprise where the GPS says “Make a U-turn” and you discover you’re actually in a sand trap shaped like Rhode Island. The Ryder Cup got a new script doctor, and he writes in Sharpie with the cap off. The fairway is now a philosophy class, and the greens are graded on a curve.

He announced it from the rough, which is both a location and a mood. Bradley stood beside a practice bunker that looked like a pastry the course baked out of resentment. “We will be unpredictable,” he promised, as a gust of wind flipped his notes to a page that just said, “CHAOS BUT WHOLESOME.”

The decision itself? He’s eliminating the traditional pod system in favor of a buddy-cop lineup where every pairing must include one straight-line driver and one player who putts like he’s defusing a glitter bomb. If chemistry fails, they’ll try sarcasm. If sarcasm fails, they’ll try snacks.

Assistant captains will be assigned medieval job titles to match the stakes. There will be a Keeper of the Yardages, a Chancellor of Weather, and a Designated Overreactor responsible for proclaiming every eight-foot par save as “a turning point in Western civilization.”

In team meetings, cliches are banned unless used ironically. “One shot at a time” now must be followed by “or several if you insist.” A giant spreadsheet labeled “Destiny” will be open at all times, sorted by “Staring Contest Wins” and “Ability to Pretend a 20 mph crosswind is a spa treatment.”

At the presser he casually dropped his Bluetooth rangefinder with sarcastic voice prompts onto the lectern, where it immediately announced, “Nice aim, champ, you’ve hit the hospitality tent.” The device then demanded appearance fees and a cart of its own.

I’ve covered captains who lug around sacred yardage books like holy relics and captains who believe in vibes the way botanists believe in ferns. Bradley has elected to be both: a spreadsheet whisperer who keeps a lucky tee drawn from a bucket of other lucky tees, each named, laminated, and possibly insured.

His selection process will include a Compatibility Combine. Pros must complete three drills: the Eye Contact Lag, the Deflect-A-Microphone Question, and the Criticize-Your-Own Swing Before Anyone Else Does. Finalists will earn bonus points for remembering the greenskeeper’s birthday and pronouncing “Bethpage” like an ancient oath.

To fund a team-wide bunker-rake scholarship, he also unveiled merch so patriotic it comes with a tiny anthem. The centerpiece is a Ryder Cup captain’s blazer pin set, which reportedly improves posture, morale, and your chances of being accused of strategy by the internet.

The players reacted with the weary calm of people who know the Ryder Cup is just Thanksgiving with sand and hats. One asked if the dress code still forbids visible panic. Another asked if the team room snacks count toward world ranking points. A putter filed for emancipation.

Europe, for its part, responded with elegant confusion and espresso. Their analysts built a hologram of the 18th hole that speaks four languages and sighs in metric. They said they respect Bradley’s choices, which in international golf diplomacy means they’ve already hired an owl.

What does his surprising decision say about his captaincy? That he’ll do the sensible thing, then the theatrical thing, then the correct thing, and pretend it was one seamless thing all along. Panic sooner, celebrate louder, putt eventually—and if all else fails, ask the rangefinder for advice and hope it doesn’t point you to the hospitality tent again.