Whereas the main purpose of Olympic opening ceremonies is evidently to demoralise all subsequent host countries, Ryder Cup ones tend to do the opposite. The visiting team are generally encouraged to think that not only can they match this when it comes to their turn, they can effortlessly exceed it just by getting the microphones to work.

There is a simple tourist-board feel to these occasions, with Andalucian horses prancing at Valderrama in 1997 and Irish dancers interpreting the Book of Kells at the K Club in 2006. At Brookline in 1999, Glenn Frey even gave us a few Eagles numbers, but we forgave him for it, bless us, because we were so excited about the golf.

Yesterday’s opening ceremony had the usual works: marching bands from the local universities, some upbeat bluegrass, a troubling number of empty seats, some excellent Kentucky horseflesh in dressage mode, national anthems, a thundering military fly-past and a parade of former captains. It all felt pleasantly underrehearsed, which is normal. At The Belfry in 2002, I recall, there was a lot of very entertaining “After you, Claude; after you, Cecil” as chaps hesitated about who was supposed to go first.

The important thing about this ceremony is that chaps in blazers from the PGAs get to talk in abstract terms about sportsmanship and integrity and to pay honour to Samuel Ryder, that worthy seed merchant who gave us this wonderful competition, before giving way to the eternal delight that is the parade of the players, in natty suits and sunglasses, for which we pay – quickly and swingeingly - by having to listen to tortuous speeches from the proud but nervous captains.

How the 2008 Ryder Cup was won

Follow the final day's play from Valhalla as the 37th Ryder Cup draws to a dramatic conclusion with today's singles matches

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• Analysis: misfiring big three cost Europe dear in Ryder Cup

Europe surrender under brilliant assault

The US reclaimed the Ryder Cup for first time since 1999 with a sustained performance in the singles matches at Valhalla

• Elementary approach pays off for J.B. Holmes

• Nick Faldo's bold approach backfires in failure to reclaim initiative from US

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This, of course, is where the captains usually give the impression of singing from the same hymn sheet. Well, not yesterday. Nick Faldo’s speech was long, self-indulgent, breathless, full of his usual miss-by-a-mile attempts at humour (“If you’re lucky, girls, he’ll blow you a kiss”) and full of self-reference. He introduced his parents in the crowd, then each of his children, complete with their career hopes, as if anyone cared.

Introducing his team, he started with Paul Casey – with his “Popeye arms and Robbie Williams good looks” – and carried on in much the same manner (one can’t help wondering if he actually fancies Sergio GarcÍa), although he seemed unsure whether Graeme McDowell was from Northern Ireland or the Republic and he got his two Danes (his “Vikings”) initially the wrong way round.

When Paul Azinger took his turn, he thanked Nick for his “brief – ”. And that was as far as he got. He said: “Thanks for that brief – HA!” And yet again we knew exactly where we were with these two difficult men.

One had to have some sympathy, of course. Anyone who has spoken in public with a prepared speech will know what Azinger felt like as he stepped up to follow Faldo yesterday. He felt like a lemon. The speech he held consisted of a dutiful roll call of thanks to chaps and their wives, peppered with the usual stuff about the spirit of this biennial game. His team introduction had no pen portraits, however daft or potentially embarrassing. He wasn’t planning to refer to his personal life in excruciating detail. Instead it was “From Atlanta, Georgia, Stewart Cink!”

Faldo had ended by saying – in reference to the visit of Muhammad Ali to the course during the day – that his team had floated in like a butterfly, but would sting like a bee. By way of reply, Azinger said, thrillingly, that golf was a great game and that they were all really pleased to be playing it.

Thank goodness it is over. Thank goodness the games at last are beginning. Above all, thank goodness nobody except Faldo had to go to bed last night thinking, “Did I really say that Padraig Harrington has hit more golf balls than they’ve planted potatoes in Ireland?” No one is in danger of forgetting that these games are being played in Kentucky, the governor mentioning the state by name at least 49 times in a three-minute speech. So everything is in place. The military planes have done their bit and the bands have played. The mikes crackled and failed and we all hid under the seats. So much was expected. What we have no way of predicting, thankfully, is what happens next.