With Hal Sutton at the helm, the U.S. Ryder Cup team will be loose and rowdy this weekend. Jamie Squire/Getty Images

Nail the shutters. Tie down the pets. SuperGlue the dentures.

Here comes golf's Hell Week, the Ryder Cup, the one time every two years when:

a) golf crowds make like soccer hooligans
b) millioinaire's wives go out of their way to wear the same clothes, and
c) superstars who wouldn't show up at your tournament for less than $1 million beat each other's brains in for free.

This one's in America, in Detroit, at Oakland Hills, and it promises to get hairier than a Blackpool sailor again. All that talk in 2002 at The Belfry about "gentlemen" and "fair play" and "we'll all have a beer afterward," that all went pbbblllttt when the Americans picked Hal Sutton to captain.

Hal is the kind of guy that has the national anthem played at his wedding. He's gung-holier than thou and more patriotic than many flag stores. He says 2002 felt like "we played golf in straightjackets." Well, he's taking the jackets off. He's not going to give a damn if players are running around, doing swan dives into carts, and generally turning greens into the Hippodrome mosh pit. In fact, he may do it himself.

And if you think the fans at Brookline in 1999 were rude (they were) and the Belfry in 2002 were ruder (they were), wait 'til you get a load of Detroit in 2004. They will be rowdy and loud-y and possibly packing heat. Detroit ain't Boston. Detroit is a lot of guys warming their hands around cop-car fires. Detroit makes Boston look like Burton-on-the-Pond.

(Helpful Detroit travel tip: That ain't really a Rolex the dude is selling you for $10, but buy it anyway. Otherwise, he takes your whole wallet.)

Which brings us to: How to bet.

As it is every year, all the pressure will be on the Yanks again, while the Europes get to play the lovable; cuddly underdogs. If America goes down in another Cupset, they'll be two matches behind since this thing went U.S. vs. Europe and that's just plain bully-pulled-your-pants-down-on-the-playground embarassing.

I mean, there is no earthly reason America should be losing these stupid matches. Every year it brings twice the team and every year it either gets whupped or has to stage some Lazarus-style miracle to win.

Not only that, but this course favors them. This is U.S. Open style golf -- high irons to fronts of greens. Target golf and ugly pants, just the way we like it. There will no bump-and-runs at Oakland Hills. This ain't Musselborough. A European hasn't won the Open in 33 years and courses like Oakland Hills are why.

Plus, look at the teams this year. If it were a prize fight, they'd call it just after the boxers took off their bathrobes. The Americans have three of the top five players in the world, four of the top 10, eight of the top 20 and 10 of the top 25.

The Europeans, meanwhile, have none of the top five, one of the top 10, three of the top 20, four of the top 25 and two guys borrowed from the men's twoball at Snowdonia Forest Links. My Lord, it should be more one-sided than a speeding ticket. It's Microsoft vs. Stan's Laptop Repair and Deli.

Europe is led by a sputtering Colin Montgomerie, who is ranked 60th in the world. America's worst player, Fred Funk, is 57th. (Funny about Monty. Remember the Ryder Cup when he was ripping Brad Faxon for his divorce? Wonder if he's accept a collect call from Faxon now?)

All the Yanks throw at the Europe is Tiger Woods, Phil Mickelson, Davis Love and 12 majors. All Europe throws at America are a bunch of guys you wouldn't recognize if they chipped off your omelette, and zippo (0) majors.

Cripes, who are some of these European guys? Luke Donald played golf at Northwestern and lives in Chicago. How bright can he be? Ian Poulter's hair looks like a free drop. How sane can he be? David Howell broke his arm jogging recently. How coordinated can he be?

The biggst gun for Europe (Padraig Harrington, No. 8) is in a slump. He is now playing so slow they have to come out every three holes and shake the moss off him. The 2002 hero, Irishman Paul McGinley -- whom Sam Torrance called so eloquently "a tough mutt for making a bugger of a putt" last time -- pretty much hasn't made a big putt since. Speaking of mutts, Lee Westwood hasn't proven he's over the full-body yips yet in a big situation. And Ballesteros, Lyle and Faldo area all waiters at the Birmingham Olive Garden. That leaves Europe with Sergio Garcia and Darren Clarke and hope the ground under Oakland Hillls opens up and swallows the rest of the matches.

But here's the thing: It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter how much better America looks on paper. It doesn't matter how many majors and millionaires America puts in outfits so ugly that trains must take dirt roads. It doesn't matter that it's a home game for the U.S., and that Detroit crowds will be foaming white at the mouth, or that this whole thing sets up like the biggest rout since Camilla v. The Sausage.

Why? Because of the B.J. Thomas Factor, that's why.

Thomas wrote a huge hit called Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head. It went gold. It went No. 1. It was in a movie. And then nobody ever heard from B.J. Thomas again. Ever.

Europe always suits up a B.J. Thomas. It's always some shy little guy whose face is obscured in the team picture, whose jacket is too big for him, who gets an elbow in the eye at the opening-night dinner as people reach over him trying to get Monty's autograph.

You know, your basic David Gilford. Your Peter Baker. Your Ignacio Garrido. Your Phillip Price. Your Phillip Walton.

Somehow, every Cup, these little guys rise up and whip Mickelson 3 and 2, or stomp Curtis Strange 6 and 5. Or get a full point out of their match with Love. All they do is steal the cup from the Americans, get tossed around on people's shoulders for awhile and then disappear faster than Milli Vanilli.

It will happen again this year. It always does. And I already know who it will be: Thomas Levet, the Frenchman. Nobody will even know he's in Michigan and all of a sudden, he'll sink a huge putt on Friday, chip in on 18 on Saturday, and then somehow draw Tiger on Sunday, beat him and his I-wish-I-were-somewhere-else expression 1 up, and get thrown in the lake in joyous celebration. Europe will win the Cup. Again. Raindrops will fall on America's head. Again. You'll win your bet with your bookie. Again.

And they'll forget Levet is in the lake until 7 a.m. the next morning.

Rick Reilly, a senior writer for Sports Illustrated, has been voted National Sportswriter of the Year nine times.