The Ryder Cup will open with Rory McIlroy and Tommy Fleetwood reunited at Bethpage Black, a course so tough it makes dumbbells feel self-conscious. The pairing arrived like a Marvel post-credit scene: no plot explained, all hype, immediate goosebumps.

They’re the buddy cop sequel nobody admitted they needed, returning to a venue where hospitality is legally required to be shouted. Call them FleetRory, Rorywood, or “The Royal & Ancient Rom-Com,” because they finish each other’s fairways.

Bethpage Black, famed for its warning sign, now sports fine print: “Also beware of metaphors that will tackle you from behind.” Locals have promised the pair a courteous welcome using only verbs that sound like they’re brandishing a sandwich.

Captains whispered about strategy like sommeliers sniffing range balls. “Alternate shot,” one said, “because it’s the format where teamwork happens and Twitter gets confused.”

The analytics read like sacred geometry: Rory’s driver is a trebuchet that majored in physics, Fleetwood’s irons are knitting needles that stitch par under a bad moon. Together they’re the quiet arithmetic of birdies, which is the loudest sound in New York.

Street vendors circled the gates selling hope, pretzels, and noise-canceling crowd headphones. These were for spectators who wanted to hear the birds or at least pretend the birds weren’t also heckling in Queens dialect.

McIlroy’s warm-up looked like a fintech pitch deck: aggressive growth, low friction, immediate buzz. Fleetwood’s hair read the wind better than most caddies; if it moves left, so does your mortgage rate.

Europe called their vibe “stoic mischief,” the kind where team talks begin with a meditation and end with someone replacing the cup with a biscuit tin. The Moliwood Cinematic Universe muttered its approval from a chaise lounge.

Americans countered with a playlist that’s just the national anthem slowed to an EDM drop and a thousand-yard stare. Fans arrived early, caffeinated, and equipped with folding grandstand seat cushion like field agents prepared for a 36-hole filibuster.

Bethpage’s rough is not grass; it’s an ancient grudge. Balls vanish and return days later with memoirs and an optioned streaming deal.

Sponsors rushed to name rights to emotions: “Brought to you by a luxury airline, this moment of tactical restraint.” Data teams produced heat maps proving Bethpage is basically a bar fight with yardage markers.

In the end, Rory and Tommy stepped onto the tee box looking like a thesis about how joy travels. The crowd exhaled in italics, the fairway winked, and tradition—true to form—promised it would sooner change the mascot than the model, right after it finishes yelling “Nice shot!” like a threat.