The land of the free? More like the land of the free for all. If there’s one thing that gets the golf writers in a quite dreadful fankle, then it’s the plooters and palavers involved in actually getting into a major golf event.

Trying to negotiate our way around the boundary of Hazeltine and nip into the designated media parking lot made Wacky Races resemble an orderly funeral cortege as we found ourselves slumped in our hired, gas guzzling monstrosity while huffing and puffing like Admiral Nelson trying to change the bed sheets as cars, pick-ups, buses and trucks emerged from junctions and cross-roads and converged in honking, harrumphing chaos. Maybe the PGA of America will have to form a Task Force to sort out the bloomin’ traffic?

Of course, the reason for the general fluster is that the opening day of a Ryder Cup is about the only occasion when the golfing scribblers actually make a point of getting there at the crack of dawn. At other more hum-drum events, for instance, we are quite happy to come waddling in just as the first group is ambling down the 18th and the scent of a free lunch is beginning to waft invitingly over the links.

The Ryder Cup, though, is a different kettle of water dwelling creatures. Even the larks would be tempted to stretch out a wing and press the snooze button as we burst from our slumbers at some ungodly hour and charge off to savour a bit of that reverberating, rousing racket on the first tee.

Trying to establish a reasonable beachhead around there, however, can be a fairly fraught old affair as the general pandemonium resembles the agitated jockeying you get during the opening of the doors at the Boxing Day sales. Elbowing here, shoving there, craning necks goodness knows where.

If your view is not obstructed by Hank and Winnie from Baton Rouge with their novelty stars and stripes stovepipe hats, then your ears are being assaulted by the self-appointed ‘Guardians of the Ryder Cup’, that serenading band of irritating exhibitionists who have managed to thrust themselves to the very forefront of this whole ‘first tee experience’ with a repertoire of ditties that are supposed to get everyone clapping like seals being fed a bucket of sprats.

Mercifully, they were drowned out by some good old fashioned hollerings of USA as the locals roared their lungs dry. The European supporters gave as good as they got, mind you. In this post-Brexit age, the sturdy, all-in-it together bellowings of ‘Yoo-rup’ would have given Nigel Farage the cold sweats.

Golf may be a very individualistic game at its core, yet some of the game’s most vivid moments spawn from the Ryder Cup and the first tee of the sport’s greatest team tussle.

The passion, the nerves, the stomach-churning sense of anticipation; it’s an occasion that resonates with the world’s best. "It's truly one of the greatest experiences in the game of golf as a professional golfer to experience walking to the first tee,” suggested Phil Mickelson, who has taken that amble plenty of times in a Ryder Cup career that started over 20 years ago.

"I remember four years ago walking with Keegan Bradley for his first Ryder Cup experience. He's teeing off and I'm talking to him but he's not hearing a word of what I’m saying.

"His eyes are moving all around and the adrenaline is flowing. And he hit a drive on that first hole that was 375 yards. I had a 78-yard wedge shot into that first hole that was 550-plus yards. That type of adrenaline rush and excitement, you just can't recreate it other than in a Ryder Cup."

On a murky Minnesota morning, the atmosphere was a mixture of good-natured rowdiness and hushed reverence. There was a reason for that, of course. The passing of the great Arnold Palmer at the start of Ryder Cup week had added a considerable layer of poignancy to proceedings. If the Americans needed any more inspiration in their quest to arrest a wretched run of three successive defeats then they didn’t have to look far.

Positioned just by the first tee was Palmer’s golf bag from the 1975 Ryder Cup when the man known as The King was the captain of the USA. It wasn’t just any old year. Those matches at Laurel Valley were held just 12 miles from Palmer’s hometown of Latrobe and his men certainly revelled in those home comforts as they romped to a 21-11 victory.

A good omen for the US? An ominous sign for Europe? Only time will tell. Once you get off that first tee, there are many twists and turns amid the tumult of the Ryder Cup.

Now, how’s the traffic?