The Ryder Cup has had captains capable of changing the course of history and others who, with a more than powerful and brilliant team, let glory slip away, or, as Peter Alliss—one of the most iconic golfers turned commentators—would say, without any sugar-coated sentimentality, the opportunity to “give the other team a thrashing in the most polite way possible”.
As the Song of the Cid itself said: “What a good vassal if he had a good lord!” And there are few phrases that describe those situations where talent, merit, effort, competitive intelligence, self-confidence, and adaptability were there, but the figure of a true leader failed, one of those visionaries who anticipates, serves first, and acts later, and who ultimately becomes unnecessary because they have instilled in others what they need to walk on their own.
Because in that biennial continental duel, before the scoreboard starts to tell hard truths, something is already decided: how each team has been prepared, what voice has guided them in the locker room’s shadows, and what decisions were made when no one was watching…
Needless to say, the solid gold cup with the figure of Samuel Ryder on top, which has witnessed ninety years of rivalry, begins to be won—or lost—long before the first thunderous roar in the stands, the one that traditionally greets the first match of the home team and can make it hard for opponents to breathe after hearing it. Moreover, no captain, whether successful or not, since the Ryder adopted its current format in 1979, has ceded that strategic and psychological privilege to the visiting team.
In the Ryder, as in the top-tier companies that move the world, excellence (or winning) is not always achieved solely based on individual talent. In golf, the surname Collins has never lifted trophies in major tournaments, but in the world of corporate leadership, one of them, Jim, a professor at Stanford University, has been the father of valuable theories on how to transform good teams into unbeatable ones. His book Good to Great should be a staple for any self-respecting captain (Keegan and Luke, there’s still time for it to accompany The Art of War by Sun Tzu in your suitcase).
Extrapolating his clear teachings, great victories don’t come from having the brightest individuals, but from getting everyone to row towards a common mission, under leadership capable of aligning purpose, values, and execution. And in golf, that task has many added difficulties. Here, the egos that have led them to be the chosen ones don’t dissolve each week in a team of eleven, as in football, but are forged in the solitude of hours and hours of practice and in the independence and individuality of players accustomed to their own coach, caddie, psychologist, and support team, accountable to no one but themselves.
The true marvel is getting twelve wills accustomed to being free spirits to move as one. The captain must be the Zeus who prevents Olympus from self-destructing and with it his twelve gods (and the analogy only fits so far in the cases of Walter Hagen, Ben Hogan, Sam Snead, Byron Nelson, Jack Burke, and Arnold Palmer where the player-captain figure was indeed united).
And right there, when one believes that leadership is a matter of charisma and Moleskine, as if fallen from the sky (or the I Ching, if I get esoteric and deterministic), several connections appear that I hope make you smile as they did me: the aforementioned Jim Collins—the guy who dissected how to go from good to great—was a professor at Stanford, that campus that seems to be a simultaneous incubator of leaders and golfers. Through its classrooms passed Tiger Woods, Tom Watson, Michelle Wie, Maverick McNealy, or Rose Zhang. And today, two of our self-proclaimed “fighters” train there: Paula Martín and Andrea Revuelta.
Stanford is the same place where Andrew Huberman—neuroscientist, podcast star, and performance guru followed by my dear Rory and Viktor Hovland—translates brain function as if it were a round in a US Open. Among cloisters and palm trees, it seems to have a permanent branch of elite golf as well as being the seedbed of other political, business, and social leaders. However, Elon Musk did not manage to finish his doctorate there (just saying). In case there was a lack of symbolism, its arches bear a motto that reads: “The wind of freedom blows.”
I’m sure it’s precisely that wind that must be learned to read, as if it were a treacherous green. Because, even if you’re an experienced reader, these connections may mean nothing to you. Or they may, like in the Ryder, subtly point towards the right path. Leadership, after all, is sometimes about that: tying improbable ends with a captain’s faith and interpreting signals that others don’t perceive. However, when you take the risk and everything finally fits, don’t be surprised to find someone who was initially skeptical, yet tells you it was obvious from the start.
Tony Jacklin opened the door in 1983. He found a European team that always played with the soul of a guest and forced it to think like a host. His strategic and bold vision changed the tournament’s culture, leading Europe to win at The Belfry, England, in 1985, after 28 years of systematic defeats. Moreover, he achieved his first victory on American soil in the entire history of the Ryder Cup in 1987 at Muirfield Village, Ohio.
The man who saved the Ryder Cup did so by professionalizing every gesture, with an inclusive, approachable, communicative style focused on cohesion and unity. It resonates with team leadership, collaborative and authentic, that true experts preach, and that Daniel Goleman, another renowned Californian psychologist, would have categorized as visionary and democratic.
In 1997, Seve Ballesteros took that legacy and added extreme passion and energy. Valderrama was his before the tournament began. He commanded and inspired simultaneously, generating a sense of urgency of purpose. His players not only wanted to win: they wanted to win for him and so that, as Colin Montgomerie said, “he wouldn’t collapse in a sea of tears” (by the way, that same leitmotiv has remained alive in the European team). Nacho Garrido highlighted his omniscience and comforting paternal figure that always appeared when they doubted a shot. That visceral and charismatic leadership (Pacesetting, Visionary, and Coercive for Goleman) led the team to victory, although it’s true that his excessive energy and “micromanagement” could have generated pressure and stress among the players. Nor does the fact that some players discovered on television that they wouldn’t play the first session correspond to one of the strategies most applauded in a business school, no matter how much the frustrated anger it generated inspired Saturday’s victories.
In 1999, Mark James inherited a strong European team and took it to the brink. Sunday dawned with a 10–6 lead. Three rookies, Jean Van de Velde, Andrew Coltart, and Jarmo Sandelin, until then confined to waiting, took to the field for the first time… and fell one after another. James had also left out none other than Sir Nick Faldo, ignoring a letter of encouragement he wrote to the three debutants and raising a wall between “his own” and the rest. Talent cannot save a captain who isolates himself, and the style categorized as coercive by Goleman only works in crisis scenarios and as long as it is not continued. Dixit.
Bernhard Langer, in 2004, was the antithesis. German serenity and meticulous planning: he calculated every step. Nothing was left to chance, neither breakfast nor the last putt. His Europe won by a crushing margin on American soil (18 ½ – 9 ½). But his style reminded us that the pursuit of perfection is sometimes fragile because it depends on nothing—and no one—going off script. In any case, kudos to the German who—broomstick putter controversies aside—continues to reap triumphs as a grandfather, and who was an example of how visionary leadership, which generates unity and camaraderie among players and reinforces their strengths, can crush a theoretically stronger rival on hostile territory.
In 2008, Paul Azinger broke the mould and a nine-year winless streak for the Americans. With certain military reminiscences, he divided his players into small groups of three pods, united by chemistry and data, which generated natural confidence among them. Moreover, he inspired from his own personal resilience, having overcome melanoma, and gave the players autonomy and a voice to align strategies. He made them responsible for their destiny. And he won. Sometimes, to lead, you have to let go. The counterpoint in this Ryder was the disconnected, distant, and cold style of the European captain, Nick Faldo, who demonstrated that being a great player does not guarantee being a great leader and who also imposed decisions without generating consensus and forgot about Goleman’s affiliative and coaching style. Surely, by the time he wanted to draw on emotional intelligence and motivate, the team had already packed up…
In 2012, José María Olazábal turned Medinah into the geolocation of a miracle and an altar for Seve that everyone kept in mind. He faced the 10-6 Saturday with a heartfelt, almost biblical speech. He was a visionary with a clear message: “we can because together we are stronger.” It wasn’t nostalgia, but pure fuel. Europe came back against all odds, and every shot seemed like a tribute. Winning became a way to say goodbye to his friend and teammate who had passed away a year earlier. And Erin Sand, not Goleman, dares to classify his style as the most human and emotional seen in a Ryder. That’s him: Ollie or Txema, to his friends.
Tom Watson returned in 2014 with the authority of his old glories at The Belfry in 1993, where he managed to win on European soil. But the Ryder he had known then no longer existed. His methods, unyielding and not adapted to generational change, clashed with a locker room that wanted affiliative and democratic leadership and did not understand or share his decisions (just check the archives and see Mickelson‘s statements on the matter). The defeat was not only on the scoreboard but in the connection. Success or failure depends as much on the context as on the style.
Steve Stricker in 2021 proved that you can lead without shouting. He listened, simplified, and cut out the noise. The result was a historic scoreline, 19–9 in favour of America, which broke all margins and showed us the vulnerability of none other than Rory, who couldn’t hold back tears of guilt in the Sky Sports interview that Sunday. Stricker understood that leading is not always about occupying the centre: sometimes it’s about creating the space for others to occupy it. Quite the opposite of Watson. He didn’t impose but facilitated, trying, as he himself said, not to get in the way of his players. And we will remember him for the audacity of putting rookie Scheffler against Rahm, then world number one. For the debutant, it was his first media victory and what we can consider the start of that visible rivalry that only LIV has managed to blur.
Zach Johnson in 2023 didn’t listen to the board or instinct. He had a single unyielding plan and followed it even when the numbers screamed otherwise. The defeat was the price of his rigidity. He was overwhelmed by the pressure and lacked the tactical flexibility to respond to European blows. His style was coercive, leaving little room for player initiative, which abruptly ended the locker room’s motivation.
Luke Donald, who led the Europeans to victory in Rome that year, returns in 2025 with a meticulous and empathetic style. He doesn’t need to impose respect: he inspires it. Keegan Bradley, his rival, could have become the first Playing Captain since Arnold Palmer. Leading and competing is a tightrope: if you look too much at the hole’s flag, you lose the team; if you look too much at the team, you lose the hole.
The Ryder Cup is a mirror. In it, as in companies, it is confirmed that there is no single winning style, but there is a constant in defeats: the disconnection between captain and team. Talent, without a good helmsman, is a sailboat that sails in circles.
Arthur Brooks sums it up better than anyone: leadership is not measured by authority, but by the ability to serve; not by control, but by adaptability; not by personal brilliance, but by real connection with people. Looking at this gallery of captains, it’s easy to see who understood that leading is rowing with others and who thought the helm was a throne. Because in the end, the vassal can be excellent, but only flourishes when the captain understands that their true victory is not raising the cup, but elevating their people.
