THE putt was a good four feet.
A gimme? Not in a school this tough — not when every half-point’s a prisoner.
Trust me, there are guys here who would have stood there glaring while it was tapped in from half the distance.
But not Rory. Not this time. Because there he was, strolling up to pick the ball up and chuck it back to Phil Mickelson out of the side of his hand.
‘Have it, pal’, the gesture said. ‘I’m away to rattle in this one from four yards’.
And, with the casual confidence only the truly great possess, he did just that.
Second hole, first blood to the Northern Irishman and new best pal Thomas Pieters. But more than that, a statement.
A marker. A gauntlet thrown down to the Yanks and their hordes of hollerin’, howlin’ fans.
The night before, he eagled the 16th to close out victory over Dustin Johnson and Matt Kuchar.
He then bowed to all four sides of the green, punching the air, then telling the hosts with a glint in his eye: “Welcome to the show . . . ”
Now, in the blazing sunshine of a Saturday morning more high summer than mid-autumn, he was its ringmaster once more, leading from the front as Europe clawed their way ever nearer the most remarkable of comeback wins.
He hailed Darren Clarke’s decision to send him out in the opening foursome match “an honour”. For Clarke, though, it was surely a no-brainer.
As for Pieters? He can play, this 6ft 5in Belgian. Hits it miles, has nerves of steel and is blessed with that they call in football a good touch for a big fella. But still, he is new to all this.
He had been thrown into that Friday morning whitewash alongside a horribly out of form Lee Westwood. After that mauling, he needed a friend. A mentor. A rock.
In the mercurial McIlroy – who got a fan kicked off the course because of his vile heckling – he found all three.
Not that it was a one-man show, far from it. If McIlroy’s marker went down at the second, Pieters had already shown his cojones at the first, watching Rickie Fowler rattle a birdie putt from 25ft before nailing one from almost as far.
As the new boy turned to the galleries, finger to his lips Patrick Reed-style, Rory pumped his fists.
The tone had been set, one man looking like he was born for occasions like these, the other proving yet again that he lives for them.
There are a handful of sporting icons who seem to have a hidden gear in the box the rest can’t access.
The freckle-faced, 27-year-old McIlroy is undoubtedly one. That approach he hit into the clinching 16th hole on Friday night, that is the kind of moment which sets him apart.
Just when a four-hole lead had been whittled down to two, just when the Yanks were cranking up the noise, just when he looked sideways at his rookie partner and saw a hint of doubt, he steps up and takes command.
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There was a wonderful aerial camera shot of it — his five-iron arrowing from 225 yards through the skies, dipping like he had it on a string, and touching down feather-soft inside 20 feet.
From then on, no one who knew anything about anything had a shred of doubt he would roll in for the eagle and the win.
That is what he does best and he was doing it again here, because every time the American pair sniffed a chance here, Rory cut their noses off.
Every time they got a spring in their step, he tripped them up. Take the seventh hole, when with the Europeans three up, the Belgian’s drive gripped and spun and rolled, ever so slowly, into the creek to the delight of the monster crowds.
“It’s swimming!” came the cry from the gallery. “You’ll need a snorkel, man!”
As Fowler and Mickelson heard the splash and those gloating roars they must have relaxed just a little, thinking that at least they were getting one hole back.
Think again, said McIlroy, picking the ball out of the water, taking the penalty drop and firing another of THOSE irons plum to eight feet.
His partner breathes again. The opposition gulp. Suddenly, Fowler looks at a 12-foot birdie putt a whole lot differently.
It drifts right of the hole — and Pieters has a shot at instant redemption.
As he stands over the ball, some behind the ropes yells for him to “put it in the water”.
He steps away, re-sets, rolls it in for the half, dead-eyed.
McIlroy turns to the crowd, windmilling his arms, face set in a look of manic passion.
At the next, Mickelson steamrolled a 60-footer that only the hole was going to stop, igniting mayhem.
McIlroy calmly popped in from a dozen paces, another half extinguishing their fun. Even when the home pair had got it back from three down after eight to one after ten, Mickelson inviting his birdie putt to “get in there, baby”, you could not see them getting any closer.
McIlroy was always there to make sure of that. Down 14, he ripped a 360-yard drive to leave Pieters a simple pitch and give himself a six-foot putt.
Down 15, he teed up a ten-footer that the younger man judged to perfection, ramping up more fist-pumping, more chest-bumping, more glares to the gutted crowds.
Then, down 16, it was over. Pieters applied the final touch with the Americans flailing shots in every direction.
But it was Rory’s day. Rory’s show. And it is going to take someone really special to knock him off the top of the bill.
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