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Editor's note: In April, Golf Digest brought you an excerpt from Jackie Burke's no-nonsense book, "It's Only a Game: Words of Wisdom from a Lifetime in Golf." Burke -- a winner of The Masters and the PGA Championship, a co-founder of Champions Golf Club, and a two-time U.S. Ryder Cup captain -- was an assistant to Hal Sutton two years ago at Oakland Hills. In this excerpt, Burke offers a typically blunt assessment of the event and the players.

I've heard every reason the American team took its worst beating ever at the 2004 Ryder Cup. We were too confident, we didn't putt very well, our teammates weren't very close, the Europeans were more motivated, our styles of play weren't as flexible as the Europeans', we had five rookies, and so on. The reasons are valid. They all contributed to the 18½-9½ trouncing, which looked even worse up close than it did on TV. I can vouch for that. But the most prominent reason came to light before the matches. It just killed us, and it might get us again. It's an issue pervasive in all of golf and in many parts of everyday life. It has to do with tuxedos.

On Wednesday of Ryder Cup week there was a gala dinner at the Fox Theatre in Detroit. It was a big show with lots of entertainment, but to be honest I tried to get out of going. Star-studded events like that are not for me, and I also wanted to save my energy for the long days ahead. So I told M.G. Orender, then the president of the PGA of America, that if it were all the same to him, I'd rather stay in the hotel and rest. M.G. was having none of it.

"We've put in a lot of expense putting this thing together, Jackie," he said. "Your tuxedo cost $1,500." I gulped. "I guess I'm going," I said.

Those tuxedos were one of the reasons we lost. The opulence surrounding the Ryder Cup was staggering, and the tuxes were symbols of that. From the moment we landed in Detroit, we were feted with lavish gifts, world-class entertainment and all manner of personal attention. My clothing alone probably cost $10,000. The captains, co-captains and players each got three suits, five pairs of slacks, a jacket, four pairs of shoes, cashmere sweaters and a bunch of short- and long-sleeve alpaca sweaters.

That was just for starters. There were six bags of stuff waiting for my wife, Robin, and me when we got back to our hotel room each day. We got jewelry. They gave me a Ryder Cup ring that was so big I felt like I'd just graduated from Notre Dame. I got a money clip encrusted with jewels I couldn't identify. We got two huge pro-style golf bags. It became almost overwhelming, and at one point I told Robin I was concerned about how we were going to get all this stuff home.

"We'll ship it, honey," she said, patting my hand.

We had the use of 26 Cadillacs for the week, not that we needed them because drivers took us everywhere. The night we were driven to the Fox Theatre, we made our entrance on a red carpet. Special chefs came in and cooked for the thousand people who attended.

Speaking of food, one room at our hotel was set aside strictly for meals and snacks. The food was the best in the world, and the dessert cart was like something out of a movie. There was a night when one of the sponsors sent a team of world-class chefs to our hotel. The players put on chefs hats and helped with the gourmet cooking. We ate in the kitchen with the chefs.

As you already know, the opening ceremony was like a Broadway show. I was told it was staged by the same guy who did the Super Bowl the year Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunctioned. It all was biblical in proportion. I have to admit, I felt a little out of my element.

The players, though, didn't seem overwhelmed by the gifts. Like I said, they're too accustomed to it.

You know, in the five years we conducted the Tour Championship at Champions, we received one thank-you letter. It was written by Jay Haas. I don't want to be too hard on the players on this subject; it's hard for them to say thanks when they don't know what you did to run the tournament in the first place. These are not people who have spent time working behind a counter. They assume tournaments just pop up as an act of nature. Their job is to perform as the Lord intended for them to do.

Before Robin and I left Houston for Oakland Hills, I got a phone call from a woman at the PGA of America. As she reviewed some of the details of what was to follow, she mentioned, "As for your transportation, we will allow you $2,000 per hour for a private plane to and from Detroit."

"Lady, I don't know who your boss is, but this has got to stop," I said. "How can you spend that kind of money?" The poor woman had no idea what to say to me.

When you inject a lot of money into a sport, a struggle ensues between art and commerce. You can focus on the art aspect -- meaning the playing of the game -- all you want with no ill effect. But when commerce takes over, you've had it. It happened to Greg Norman, I think. His wealth skewed his perspective on his most tragic losses by making them more acceptable. It also stole his hunger and desire.

Commerce carried the day at the Ryder Cup. The PGA of America grossed $80 million from the 2004 Ryder Cup, and it's a good thing, because it spent $60 million. The frugal side of me couldn't help but wonder if the event would have been viewed as slipshod if the PGA had spent only $50 million. I can think of a lot of programs, from junior golf to the PGA club pro, that could have used that extra $10 million. Instead, the PGA bought tuxedos for a bunch of millionaires.

Maybe the PGA of America has become intoxicated by the financial success of the Ryder Cup and can't help but try to make it bigger and bigger.

Certainly the PGA has come a long way financially since my victory at the 1956 PGA Championship. My winner's check that year for $5,000 bounced because the sponsor couldn't come up with the money. The PGA, bless its heart, made good on the check. A year later, at the 1957 Ryder Cup, the PGA came through with some nice bonuses for the players. We each got a free jacket, two pairs of slacks and some shirts. That was it. For the time, it was first-class treatment.

So commerce is stealing the show. To help pay for it, weekly tickets at the Ryder Cup cost $275 or more. There were TV interviews to do, memorabilia to sign, the wives to consider, and basically not enough time to reflect on the importance and meaning of the competition. When the matches got under way, I think we were unprepared for the pressure, the golf course, and how to handle things when we fell into a hole. Our boys tried their best, but in the end they got their butts handed to them. The commercial atmosphere wasn't conducive to playing their best golf.

There came a moment when I knew we might be in serious trouble. Our team was provided with a game room that had Ping-Pong and all sorts of video games. The players loved spending time there. One of the machines simulated car racing. As our guys took turns driving the "car," squealing with delight, something told me this was just wrong. I closed my eyes and imagined Ben Hogan sitting at the car-racing game, his hat turned around backward, giggling and shouting to Arnold Palmer, who was waiting his turn.

What a nightmare. When I opened my eyes, I felt like unplugging those damned machines and sending the players to their rooms.

Before the competition, I wrote down a few notes to Hal Sutton. These were general thoughts I felt would be useful to convey to the team, the primary lessons that came from my own Ryder Cup experiences. Hal had so much on his mind he never got a chance to relate them.

1. The higher your ass is, the more it shows -- and the easier it is to kick. The European team has long used the prosperity of America and its players as extra incentive to whip us good. Just as a kid from the wrong side of the tracks takes special pleasure in one-upping the rich kid from across town, so do the Europeans get a charge out of sticking it to us. It's ridiculous, of course, because their players are rich, too.

Nevertheless, it gives them a reason to feel like underdogs, and it binds their players. They want to kick your ass and then watch the diamonds fall out.

I wanted Hal to be aware of this, and to make our players aware of it. Our players deep down feel a little guilty about being more pampered than their counterparts on the European tour. I felt our guys could have personalized the contest a little more, because the other side sure did. It might have helped if our players had packed a little attitude. Something along the lines of, "Yeah, our country has a lot. We worked and fought for it, and aren't you lucky you get to come over here and let us share it with you?"

2. The Cup never changes. Whatever else is going on in the world, the real institutions never change. There can be wars, depressions, social troubles or bad economies, but the Ryder Cup is always the same symbol of competition, sportsmanship and camaraderie. It has tremendous value because of that, and the players should always keep that in mind. They're playing for something that is honorable and worthy of their respect and best effort.

3. Jolly golf is not the way. The players, the rookies especially, have to look past the opulence I talked about, the media attention and attendant hoopla. It is not an exhibition. It's a serious professional competition. If you aren't prepared, your game will not hold up, because this is pressure like you've never known it.

I'll never forget a moment at the 1967 Ryder Cup at Champions. Billy Casper was going off in the first match on the first day. The band from the University of Houston played the national anthem, and the American flag went up. At that moment, Billy, one of the truly great players of all time and a guy who never faltered under any kind of pressure, turned to me. His face was white; he looked scared to death.

"Wh ... wh ... what do I do now?" Billy asked me. "Get up there and hit that squiggly little slice of yours right down the middle," I answered. That sort of snapped Billy to attention, and he hit a fine drive. This is not the Thursday-night industrial league.

4. The least you can do is come ready to play. I sometimes wish the captains of the individual teams were required to play. I was a playing captain in 1957, and I thought it did a lot for the team, for me and for the media. When the captain plays, there is more speculation about the pairings, the messages from the captain to the team carry a lot of weight, and the captain is forced to be very involved. He has to play a lot leading up to the competition and thus is in closer touch with the players. It gives him more insight into his captain's picks.

The co-captains should be in touch, too. We definitely were out-co-captained at the 2004 Ryder Cup. One of the European co-captains, Thomas Bjorn, could easily have played on that team. He clearly was in tune with the European players. You couldn't say that about me, and Steve Jones hadn't played a lot either.

5. Forget about the bonding. I acknowledge the need for teammates to be close to one another, to share the same sense of purpose. But by the time they get to the Ryder Cup it's too late to deal with that. The captain can't waste time trying to make players like each other. If everyone gets along, great. If there's friction here and there, work around it.

There was talk that Phil Mickelson and Tiger Woods don't care for each other and that it was partly responsible for them losing twice on the first day. I don't know how true that is, but it shouldn't have mattered. They're grown men, and they should have accepted being teamed together, even relished it. Their love for their craft and the Ryder Cup should push the personal stuff into the background for four hours. They don't have to like each other, but it's a time when they definitely need to respect each other.

6. Putting is everything. Hal Sutton is a friend whom I've visited many times over the years. One of the things I've told him is that they never give trophies away on the fairway, they're always dispensed on the putting green. In match play, putting is especially crucial because of the way it works on an opponent's mind.

With that, I wanted to remind Hal that players should spend extra time putting Oakland Hills' tough greens prior to the matches. I wanted them to really get their speed down, because the thing you want to avoid is having lots of four-footers for par. It's tough enough making them yourself when you're playing in the four-balls and singles, but when you're leaving your foursomes (alternate-shot) partner with lots of nerve-grinding short putts, sooner or later he's going to miss one -- or two, or three.

7. Beat them on your own ball. As a player, I never felt I had the mental freedom or intellect to incorporate the fine points of team play. I felt it was useful to consider beforehand who would hit first in foursomes, but once a team match started I was too focused trying to hit the shots to worry about strategy. There's just so much stress that thinking becomes difficult. You want to manage yourself as best you can, use your instincts and just play golf.

My strategy was simple: I wanted to try to beat the other team on my own ball. I never wanted to be dependent on my partner. If he made a birdie, I considered that a bonus. I knew that if I played really well, any contribution at all from my partner would be enough to carry us to a win. I think it's a very sound approach in the better-ball format.

8. Remember the cost of losing. You realize when the competition begins that losing the Cup would be a disaster. If you go down, you'll pay a tremendous price. You'll have let your teammates down, not to mention bringing disappointment to an entire nation that expects you to win. You'll stand and watch the other team celebrate, and it is not a happy feeling. This is not college golf, my friend. You'll remember what happened for the rest of your life. The pressure is too great to even contemplate, so don't think about it. Tell your players to keep their heads down, play golf and don't think about the big picture.

Chris Riley, a nice young fellow playing in his first Ryder Cup, did a good job teaming with Tiger Woods in the Saturday morning four-balls. He then told Hal he didn't feel like playing in the foursomes in the afternoon because he was tired and had no experience playing alternate shot. It meant that Jay Haas, who was 50 years old, would have to play again that afternoon, with virtually no rest after his morning match.

It's one thing to be hurt, another to be "tired." My first reaction was to tell Hal to tell Chris to go out to the parking lot and wait for the rest of us, that we'd be done in about five hours. If Chris had told me he had no experience with the foursomes, I would have told him, "Most of us have little or no experience with it. But it works like this: He hits it, then you hit it. Now get your ass out there."

But I like Chris, and his enthusiasm early on was contagious. Billy Casper, who was at Oakland Hills to take part in an exhibition before the Ryder Cup, recounted seeing Chris around lunchtime on Friday. He said Chris was pacing around.

"I gotta get out there and root our guys on," he said. "Chris, save your energy," Billy said. "You're going to need it." But Riley went out on the course anyway. Like a prizefighter, he punched himself out in the early rounds. This was not the first time I'd seen a player ask to sit. When I captained the team in 1973, Dave Hill came to me before the matches started and said, "I can't hit it. Don't play me." I was incredulous because it meant we had to play with essentially 11 guys instead of 12.

"We can still use you," I told Dave. "You go out on the course and diagram the pin placements for us while we're inside eating." I thought it would shame him into playing, but when he said his game wasn't ready, he meant it. He played only one match the entire Ryder Cup, teaming with Arnold Palmer. I thought Arnold might carry him, but they got beat in the alternate shot by Peter Oosterhuis and Tony Jacklin.

The 1957 Ryder Cup was played in England at Lindrick Golf Club. It was the only other team I was associated with that lost. We went down 7½-4½, and my lone loss as a player came during that debacle. I had a 6-0 record heading into the matches and stretched that to 7-0 in the first-day foursomes. The Ryder Cup lasted two days back then, and there were foursomes and singles matches only, no four-balls.

After the first day, we led 3-1, and at dinner I was feeling pretty good about things. I liked our chances in the singles matches so much I had a glass of wine. There were only eight singles matches played in those days, and I wasn't going to play.

The next morning I found I was playing. My partner the day before, Ted Kroll, had come down with -- no kidding -- a chafed rear end. It happened a lot in those days, maybe because the pants we wore were so coarse. In any case, Ted's buttocks were so sore he couldn't play. I can only imagine how the media these days would handle a chafed ass.

Dai Rees, the British captain, objected to Ted withdrawing from his match. He made me go get a doctor to confirm that Ted indeed had a chafed butt and couldn't play. That hacked me off. I thought it was small of him not taking me at my word on Ted's condition. After the doctor confirmed the sorry condition of Ted's rear end, I took off my overcoat and walked to the first tee.

I felt confident filling in for Ted. My game was in good shape. Somebody asked who I was playing. "His name is Peter Mills," I said. "I've never heard of him."

"I have," somebody said. "He has a reputation for having a very shaky putter." Waiting to tee off with no warm-up, I felt pretty good about handling Peter Mills.

Well, Mr. Mills proceeded to birdie three of the first seven holes. On the other holes, he left every approach putt four feet short, and then made the tough putts for par. I couldn't get it going, and Peter Mills just killed me, 5 and 3. We lost six of the eight singles matches, winning only one and tying another. And we lost the competition. It was the last time I felt overconfident about the Ryder Cup.

Excerpted from "It's Only a Game: Words of Wisdom from a Lifetime in Golf," by Jackie Burke Jr. with Guy Yocom, $22.50. Reprinted by arrangement with Gotham Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. ©2006 by Jackie Burke Jr. with Guy Yocom.