Mystery of the lost spirit of Tiger

The Ryder Cup: Woods may just be getting the hang of matchplay but there is a strange lack of passion to his game

What has happened to Tiger? Not his golf, I mean, which was back in shape yesterday morning and produced a second successive victory on a long and sultry afternoon at The Belfry. No, I am talking about his spirit, his competitive instinct which, whether he likes it or not, is routinely revealed in the spotlight of the Ryder Cup.

Somewhere on the journey to becoming the greatest golfer in the world, the Tiger has mislaid his passion, the joyous spirit which made him play the game in the first place. Maybe winning too much is the cause, but standing on the 10th hole yesterday, brandishing nothing more threatening than a seven iron, he must have felt like the gunslinger whose pistol has jammed.

There has been talk of it all year. Tiger no longer wins majors; he waits for others to lose them. That they do so with depressing frequency is not Tiger's fault, but in matchplay golf at the Ryder Cup, waiting for others to lose means only one thing: a record of played 14, won five, lost eight and one half. Not poor, just poor for a man who wins, on average, every other major.

Woods is no lover of the Ryder Cup. He has made that quite clear in word and deed over the past few days. A citizen of the world has no place in the midst of such partisanship. But when the 10th hove into view yesterday afternoon, there came one of those moments which define a state of mind.

In the context of an enthralling match, it was just another hole, one of the two best on a generally mundane course. Woods and Davis Love, his playing partner for both foursomes and fourballs, were level at the turn with Sergio Garcia (always Garcia) and Lee Westwood, the backbone pairing of the European team. Only two holes in the opening nine holes had not featured a birdie; both pairs carded a better-ball total of 32. There was some decent golf being played.

The 10th, which forces players to risk a drenching for the pleasure of reaching the green, has become a psychological cause célèbre in recent days, ever since Sam Torrance, as is his right as the home captain, asked for the tee to be moved back in order to negate the power of the longer-hitting US team. Rick Reilly, a distinguished American columnist, heavily criticised Torrance for his cowardice. "I knew Scots didn't do tans and tips," he wrote. "I had no idea they didn't do drama." But Sam knew what he was doing. He was tilting the odds not against the brave golfer, as Reilly suggested, but against the innate conservatism of the American touring pro. There is a subtle difference. No golfer wedded to the calculator would risk overhanging branches and a retreating target. But Sergio Garcia has never been much of a respecter of percentages.

Brought up as the keeper of Seve's spirit, the challenge of the 10th had now become an extreme sport, worthy of a pump of adrenalin and absolutely crying out for conquest. On a pretty dull golf course, at long last, a real and vital challenge, one which Woods would have relished in his younger, more exuberant days. But there is also a faint whiff of machismo here too. Little Sergio fancies a good arm wrestle and so when the driver was unsheathed, it was not a cause for celebration, merely a confirmation of character, doubly so because his attempt on the first day had ended in the drink.

With a flourish, Garcia drove, his ball landing on the apron of rough over the water to the right of the hole. Fortified by the confidence of his partner, as he has been over the whole of the first two days so far, Westwood too took out the driver and outdrove the Spaniard with a shot to the heart of the green nearly 300 yards away. For any player, it was some shot; for the 148th-ranked player in the world it was a miracle, greeted with traditional decorum by Garcia, who jumped on his partner's back in delight.

The attention turned then to the Americans. No danger of Love breaking the habit of a lifetime, but surely Woods would defy the orders of his captain and meet the gaze of the Europeans. For a moment, as one iron was thrust back into the bag, there was a glimmer of redemption. But out came another. "For me driver is too much," Woods said. "Even my best three- wood, I don't know if I can clear the trees with 100 per cent assuredness." Love confirmed the thinking. "We played the percentages. It didn't work."

Woods still seemed mildly disgusted with himself and, though the birdie putt which would have halved the hole lipped out, Westwood won the hole to put the Anglo-Spanish pair ahead in the match for the first time. Poetic justice indeed. As he headed unsmiling down the 11th, a lone English voice called out: "Hey, Tiger, you're a coward." Woods did not deserve such vitriol but deep down he must have felt some sense of betrayal. Five birdies in the next seven holes confirmed it.

But then the real Tiger has not graced The Belfry this week, nor any other Ryder Cup so far. For such a student of the game, his lack of appreciation for the Ryder Cup is bewildering. His stern game face emerged on the next hole as a birdie putt rammed home, but Garcia matched it with his own birdie from six feet and when Westwood made three birdies in a row from the 14th, the first of them giving the Europeans a precious lead, the last completed with a massive putt across the 16th green, the Europeans were one up with two holes to play and in sight of their fourth victory in four matches.

It was not to be. Love sprung to life with a pitch into the hole for a birdie on the 17th and Garcia, for once, missed a short putt for the half. The signature match went down the last all square. Love holed out, Westwood missed from four feet, Sergio kicked his bag in frustration and Woods hugged Davis Love. Maybe Tiger is starting to get the hang of this at last.