Golf ratings have plummeted this year since Tiger took his ball and busted knee and went home. A sport with middling appeal, archaic rules and nearly zero bling seemed like all the bursting bubbles had finally caught up with it.

None of the big names who were supposed to step in and fill Tiger's shoes had made so much as a move, and the sport was turning back into a snooze-fest, resembling nothing more than those Sunday matches of yore that used to conspire, along with a can or three of MGD and his favorite Lay-Z-Boy®, to lull my Grandpa Ray to sleep in the living room, snores rattling the window panes.

The directors of the PGA puzzled and puzzled til their puzzlers were sore, their nattily knickered knees knocking at the prospects of this Tigerless tour.

Until Lady Luck stepped forward and said, "How 'bout a little Ryder Cup action, boys?"

This weekend's Ryder Cup was the best action going all weekend, easy.

Paul Azinger's decision to team Phil Mickelson and Anthony Kim was either genius or out and out suicide, and he was determined to find out early.

Phil had been paired with Tiger two years ago, and the coupling was a disaster. The two have never liked each other, Tiger always rumored to find Phil a reckless risk-taker, Phil always seemingly annoyed by Tiger's aloofness. Watching them walk the fairways together as teammates was, early and often, painful. Like any two well-raised kids, realizing they had nothing nice to say to each other Phil and Tiger decided not to say anything at all.

All round! Wretched. You needed Rolaids just to watch the two of them on TV.

Fast-forward two years and four thousand miles away, to 2008 and Valhalla, beautifully tucked into the rolling bluegrass pasture of Kentucky, and see the difference a better thought-out pairing makes.

Anthony Kim is Phil Mickelson. Sure, one's family comes from Korea while the other's comes from California; one's just starting out his PGA career while the other's a (more) grizzled vet. But they're both consummate gamblers, both risk-takers who'd rather try to hit a sizzling 5-iron through the boughs of a maple in June and onto the green in one than punching out and playing a safe wedge from the fairway; both of them firmly believe that not only do they have every shot in their bag but that they can pull them out and drop them down at will.

Down three points in both their Friday matches, Phil and Kim rallied each other back, egged each other on, thrived on each other's success, coming back to tie their morning match and win in the afternoon.

Never would have happened with Tiger on the course. Phil would have made Tiger crazy, and Tiger would have made Phil collapse on himself.

On Saturday, Boo Weekley and JB Holmes (yeah, Boo and JB! and they're golfers!) teamed up to pick apart Lee Westwood and Soren Hansen. Well, "pick apart" may not be the right turn of phrase; try "grind down," "bum rush" or "thoroughly incapacitate."

Poor Lee Westwood was so bamboozled by Weekley's supporters, the Boo-birds heard "Boo!"ing and hooting all weekend, that he even brought it up as an unfair, unsportsmanlike advantage on Friday afternoon, complaining that Weekley was inappropriately rooting on the partisan hometown fans before his opponent had an opportunity to shoot.

Poor Lee. Poor golf. There was too much excitement on the course, too much enthusiasm for the golf-clap-crowd, too much unsightly Americanism.

But Westwood put up a good fight on Saturday, wryly smirking at the fans when his shots would drop, bullishly plowing forward through the "Boo!"ing crowds when they didn't.

Whatever. The fans and Weekley and Kim and Azinger and all the rest of the American team had all crawled into the Europeans' kitchens and were happily ensconced there, messing with their heads, sowing the seeds of self-doubt.

Don't believe me? Boo Weekley was spotted doing the Bull Dance down the 14th fairway on Sunday!

They had fun, fun with each other, fun with the fans, fun with their shots, and fun with their opponents from across the pond. That fun had been so obviously missing from the American team, really since 1999, not surprisingly the last time the Americans won the Cup, up in Brookline, dancing across the winning green, much to the chagrin of the Europeans.

Kim had so much fun pounding on Sergio Garcia on Sunday that he was ready to take the Spaniard to the woodshed for a few more holes after wrapping up the match 5 & 4. Garcia had already removed his cap on the 14th green, defeated, looking to shake Kim's hand; Kim had bounded on toward the 15th tee, eager to get in a couple more licks.

No sport needed a kick in the pants this Fall more than golf, no league more than the PGA.

Somewhere, Happy Gilmore is smiling.