FARMINGDALE, N.Y. — The backstroke was aborted as a “F*** YOU RORY” arose from the right side of the fourth green. Shane Lowry came over to comfort Rory McIlroy, who had walked away from his ball after the shout, shaking his head in dazed resignation that the Ryder Cup had come to this. Lowry whispered some encouragement while McIlroy composed himself and returned to his eagle attempt, but the jeers resumed before his ball had even begun its journey toward the cup. When the putt missed, the hostile shouts transformed into mocking cheers. McIlroy continued shaking his head, every gesture suggesting a man who desperately wanted to be anywhere else.

Moments later, Lowry sank his own eagle putt from distance, pointing toward a pocket of European supporters while appearing to direct choice words back at the American hecklers. McIlroy sought out the match referee and a marshal, frustrated by their apparent indifference to the abuse being hurled his direction. What made the scene shocking was not its divergence from what golf is, but that it had become the status quo for what McIlroy suffered throughout Saturday afternoon.

The American galleries during the first three sessions at Bethpage Black had been notable primarily for their restraint. They were reserved, disconnected, seemingly uncertain about their role in the proceedings, punctuated only by the occasional crude outburst aimed at McIlroy or the European team. Session 4 was a different story.

At the first fairway, McIlroy stood over his approach shot as a wall of boos cascaded from the grandstands during his practice swings. American assistant captain Webb Simpson frantically gestured for silence, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. McIlroy’s pitch had barely left the clubface before the verbal assault resumed with renewed venom. He walked toward the green to mark his ball, taunts erupted from spectators lining Round Swamp Road. “Choker!” they screamed in unison. “Remember Pinehurst!” The grandstands flanking the green transformed into a countdown timer, fans bellowing numbers as McIlroy deliberated over his birdie putt. “You’re taking too damn long!” one roared, attempting to weaponize their own impatience. When McIlroy’s attempt slid past the cup, the cheers exploded into slurs: “Leprechaun!” “Overrated!” “Take out the Irish trash!”

After Cam Young missed his birdie attempt, McIlroy began the long walk under the road overpass. A gauntlet of fans awaited him, middle fingers extended, hurling emasculating comments about his stature and challenging his manhood with crude gestures. The few European fans present shouted desperate encouragement—”Ignore the noise! We’ve got your back!”—but their voices were swallowed by hostility. McIlroy kept his eyes fixed on the ground, shoulders hunched.

On the second tee McIlroy exchanged brief words with caddie Harry Diamond before selecting his club. One practice swing was all it took. “Rory, don’t let your boyfriend down!” came the shout from the left side of the tee box, followed by three more homophobic slurs that cannot be printed. A nearby state trooper tilted his head, scanning for the source, but remained frozen in place, unwilling or unable to act. McIlroy’s tee shot launched as fans screamed for it to sail out of bounds.

When the group reached their approach shots at the second, a cheer finally rose for Justin Thomas, followed by spirited “USA” chants. It was telling—in the first two hours, this represented one of the rare moments when American fans seemed interested in actually supporting their own players rather than tearing down their opponents. As McIlroy crouched over his birdie putt, studying the line, a fan’s voice cut through the tension with a lewd comment about a woman who wasn’t McIlroy’s wife. The remark triggered a grotesque mixture of laughter, boos, and nervous hushes as other spectators attempted their own variations. When McIlroy’s putt slid wide, the crowd pounced immediately, hurling fresh reminders of his putting collapse at the 2024 U.S. Open.

The narrow corridor between the second green and third tee became a gauntlet. Multiple fans positioned themselves strategically along the walkway, each taking their turn to inform McIlroy precisely how much he “sucked” as he passed within arm’s reach. Lowry teed off first on the third, but his follow-through had barely reached its finish when he spun around, pointing furiously at a spectator who had unleashed R-rated commentary about his weight at the moment of impact. McIlroy waited for the mocking chants—”Roryyyyyy… Hey, Roryyyyy…”—to fade before finding the green with his approach. As he walked toward his ball, a college-aged man delivered his verdict: McIlroy would have 20 majors by now if those championships allowed him to “ride the coattails of your teammates.”

Another birdie attempt slid past the cup. McIlroy crouched in frustration, wondering when a putt would finally drop. A woman in an official volunteer uniform, standing outside the ropes, offered her assessment: “You have no ass, Rory.”

The fourth hole has been a break in the crowds all week, with fans typically gravitating toward the clubhouse and closing holes instead. But Saturday afternoon brought exploration, and with it, more hostility. McIlroy crushed his drive down the fairway only to receive a “F*** you, little man!” in return off the tee. The mathematics were something: By this reporter’s count, 30-something f-bombs had been hurled at McIlroy in the first four holes alone. The tallies for “You suck” and “Pinehurst” references became impossible to track.

McIlroy stalked his approach into the par-5 fourth, the attacks turned invasive. “Have you patched things up with the Mrs.?” one spectator inquired with mock concern. Another shouted, “Rory, there’s no gold at the end of the rainbow, lad.” When a lone European fan attempted to counter with “Let’s Go, Rory!” the crowd booed him into submission.

At the fifth hole, McIlroy was still 50 yards from his drive when an older gentleman delivered a politically charged insult about bending his knees to the crown, punctuated with an expletive. Justin Thomas shot a sharp look in the man’s direction and made a hushing gesture. Lowry nearly holed his approach shot, prompting McIlroy to glance toward the jeering section and nod grimly. When they reached the green a voice from somewhere between the sixth and 12th holes posed a question so sexually explicit and personally invasive—involving Lowry, his wife, and McIlroy’s sleeping arrangements during storms—that it appeared a volunteer pointed to security to throw the fan out.

Despite being caught flipping off the crowd on Friday and unleashing his own choice words Saturday morning, McIlroy was relatively stoic, perhaps a strategic decision to not engage, but also looking like a man worn out by the constant abuse. (Lowry, however, looked like a man ready to wage war against an entire nation.)

These scenes shouldn’t have surprised anyone. New York golf tournaments have long been breeding grounds for fan disturbances, and Bethpage carries its own notorious reputation. The European team had arrived prepared, boasting about VR headset training sessions designed to simulate crowd hostility. They claimed to be ready for the worst. But no simulation could replicate the toxic alchemy at work here: alcohol mixed with entitlement, rudeness fused with xenophobia.

As the group made the turn to the back nine, the match was deadlocked at all square. But if the front nine was any indication of what lay ahead, what was transpiring at Bethpage was no longer golf.

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This article was originally published on golfdigest.com