The famous Faldo focus could spell defeat for laid-back Europeans

This year's meeting in Kentucky, on a Valhalla course named after Norse mythology's resting place for dead warriors, has the makings of another vicious encounter thanks to the old golfing warriors restaging an old battle of their own, albeit with buggies and walkie-talkies this time rather than irons and wedges.

It is 21 years since Nick Faldo parred his way to the Open championship at Paul Azinger's cost, and Nick's brusque words of consolation apparently rankle with the US captain still. "Sorry about that, old boy," was all Faldo said to a crestfallen Azinger, who in a long delayed but no-nonsense counter-strike recently described his rival as a "prick" whom everyone loathes.

For all the cutesy, cuddly persona Faldo cultivates now as a TV commentator, at his roots he retains the prickly obsessiveness and neurotic monomania that made him post-war Britain's greatest individual sportsman. Unfortunately this is a team event, and thus far his captaincy has been a predictable morale-lowering disaster with the wild card pick of Ian Poulter, rather than the lovable Darren Clarke, especially divisive.

In the dismayed reaction of half the team to that selection may lie the seeds of improbable defeat.

On paper, Europe should crush a US side with six rookies but without Tiger Woods, and may yet do so given the presence of Ryder Cup giants Sergio Garcia, Lee Westwood and the back-to-back major-winning Padraig Harrington.

Yet the factor that has done most to produce all the recent victories, in defiance of a clear US edge in world rankings, is the unity that has enabled the Europeans to build a large enough lead in the foursomes and fourballs to defuse the American counter-attack in the singles they prefer. Faldo's potential to demotivate may explain why the bookies make it almost an even money contest.

If the US does win, it will be a timely boost for the competition, however nauseating to us the sight of a dozen, cloned trophy wives invading the greens and the sound of American triumphalism, because that hyperpower is not known for its tolerance of perpetual defeat.

Even the geniuses who scream "In the hole!" every time a compatriot drives off on a 600 yard hole - what exactly is it they are hoping for, the intervention of a circus-trained buzzard? - have finite stores of optimism, and need encouragement lest any nascent lack of interest grows to devalue what should always be a priceless event.

Were anyone else captaining Europe - and anyone includes that Pro-Am titan Ronnie Corbett - this would be hard to imagine. But the presence of this untried leader creates a chance that, when the old warriors come to rest at Valhalla on Sunday night, it will be a smug Azinger patronising a shellshocked Faldo with a blatantly insincere "Sorry about that, old boy", and not the other way round.

Seb's driving spirit

There may have been bigger surprises in Formula One (Takuma Sato reaching the fourth lap, for instance, in a Super Aguri), but it was refreshing to watch Sebastian Vettel win the Italian Grand Prix in his Toro Rosso. By the way, doesn't Red Bull sound cool in Italian? Mind you, try ordering a Vodka e Toro Rosso dahn the Blind Beggar.

What was especially pleasing about Vettel's debut victory was that no one was more astonished than team and driver. "Unbelievable, unbelievable," the team manager flapped to ITV. "Unbelievable."

"Unbelievable, unbelievable," was Vettel's very different take on it at the press conference. "It's . . . unbelievable."

Very sweet and touching, but the weird thing is that, had you asked them how they reckoned their chances before qualifying, it's almost certain both would have said they wouldn't have bothered turning up at Monza in the first place if they didn't believe they could win.

Must-win for Levy

You need not be a close student of Newcastle United to know how prey fans of farcically run clubs they regard as sleeping giants, even if no one else does, are to the allure of outraged self-pity.

At the moment, the supporters of Tottenham Hotspur by and large resist the kind of hysteria seen on Saturday at St James' Park, despite their wrath about the Dimitar Berbatov transfer debacle. But tonight's home match against Aston Villa looks a little like a must-win game.

By cementing Spurs to the base of the Premier League - they alone among the 20 clubs have yet to register a win - anything less could send a lethal viral strain coursing, via the phone-ins and fans' forums, through the media bloodstream.

Most Tottenham fans have been indecently patient with chairman Daniel Levy. But even vicarious pride in that must have its limits, and failure tonight will stretch their good nature until the elastic screams.