I was out by the practice green late afternoon on the Monday of the Ryder Cup and so was Bryson DeChambeau. He was on his own, signing autographs for the handful of people on the other side of the railings, and there was this one woman leaning over towards him, a bottle blonde, late middle-aged, in a tight white dress.
She was only a couple of feet away from him, but she was screaming in his ear like she was trying to reach someone across the far side of the course. “We love you Bryson! Bryson! We love you! We love you for everything you’ve done for the Donald! We love you for everything you’ve done for the Donald!”
