Business & Finance Club - London: Twenty-four months of precision planning by Colin Montgomerie came down to a fluffed chip on the penultimate hole. There was method in everything he did, Montgomerie told us. He did not have a script for this. So often the victim of his emotions and lampooned as a result, a spent Montgomerie surrendered without a fight to the tremors welling inside.

With each convulsion on that 17th green he heaved his way deeper into our hearts. He has not always been the easiest bloke to love but how can we pan him now?

This was Monty's major. He was good enough to win a big one but never did. Majors measure golfing success. The Ryder Cup measures more. Hit the winning putt at Augusta and a golfer falls into the arms of his wife.

Sir Nick Faldo could talk all night about that. Lead a team to victory at Celtic Manor and the captain falls into the arms of the people.

About that Faldo can tell us nothing. And so the ego storm of Valhalla is purged at Celtic Manor. For that we have Montgomerie to thank. Mistress of ceremonies Di Stewart weighed in at the top of the closing ceremony with the clunking poetry of the hobnail boot: Magical Monty Monday. Oh dear. The testimony that counts is that of his players and his generals. And to a man they gushed.

"He's been amazing. For the last two years he's been right up for this. There's nothing quite like Colin Montgomerie. He is everything that the Ryder Cup is about and to be able to do that for him today was really special," said Graeme McDowell.

Genuine warmth

"Very inspiring, very motivating. He got everyone involved. He made sure that no one felt left out, so it was really, really good," added Sergio Garcia.

Fellow vice-captain Darren Clarke said a lot, much of it unprintable, which boiled down to this: "He has been sensational."

We can overlook the heavyweight schmaltz required of Montgomerie in the delivery of his closing address.

Monty thanked everybody and everything, bar the chairs on the stage. But there was genuine warmth in his tribute to the patron saint of European golf, Severiano Ballesteros, whose spirit was evoked via a poster on the team-room wall, and the thanks he gave to all his team. This was considered Monty.

Monty in the raw was something else, slowly unravelling as he made his way through the crowd to the clubhouse from the 17th green.

Waiting for him with arms wide open were Gareth Edwards and members of his backroom team. Composure was another country. Then out he came to talk us through it all and sprung another leak.

"It means the world to us. It means the world to European golf." In his wrought state he fell into the now familiar contradiction about this achievement being his greatest in the game while at the same time meaning nothing personal to him.

There, Monty would commune with his people from on high, waving regally, his silhouette unmistakable through the murk.