"There must be two of him," a BBC announcer said at one point. Ballesteros would read a putt for this player, race ahead to tell another how to hit his approach, ride two holes back to hug someone. "Seve knows what he's doing," Europe's Colin Montgomerie said amid the chaos. "He's the only one who knows what he's doing."
John Updike once wrote that immortality is nontransferrable, but Ballesteros sure tried. The U.S. was favored, but nobody had ever run a golf team like this. The Europeans built a big lead and held on for the win. An exhausted Ballesteros broke down and cried. He called it his greatest victory.
The moment I think about was a small one from a practice round that week. Ballesteros pulled his cart next to Ian Woosnam, whose ball was buried in the woods. There seemed no escape. Seve surveyed the situation, and suddenly he saw the way out.
"Do you see that crack up there on top of the tree?" Ballesteros asked, excitement in his voice.
Woosnam looked up. "No," he said.
"Up there," Seve said more insistently. "Between the branches? See?"
Woosnam looked harder.
"No," he said again, and chipped out to safety.
Seve Ballesteros died last Saturday from a brain tumor. He was 54 years old. All his too-short life, he did not fear trouble. Why would he? Ballesteros could see the openings others could not see. He could always find his way home.