The putt dropped on the 18th at Bethpage Black, Shane Lowry erupted in celebration, and somewhere in that wild moment was a deeper truth: he’d spent the entire week protecting Rory McIlroy from a crowd that wanted blood.

Lowry didn’t plan it. He never expected to become McIlroy’s defender when the 2025 Ryder Cup began. But when the atmosphere turned hostile and the criticism mounted, the Offaly native stepped into a role he’d been playing quietly for years.

“I wasn’t really expecting that,” Lowry admitted in a recent interview. “I’m semi-protective of him anyway.”

The 38-year-old has watched McIlroy absorb criticism that other elite players rarely face. He’s seen the double standard play out repeatedly. And he’s done staying silent about it.

“I feel like he always gets a hard time, like he’s Rory McIlroy, he’s one of the greatest players of all time, and he puts himself on that pedestal at times and says some stuff that he probably shouldn’t,” Lowry said. “But I feel like he gets like a different rap than like other players at his level.”

That difference became impossible to ignore after Pinehurst.

McIlroy’s collapse at the 2024 U.S. Open—three bogeys in the final four holes, two missed putts inside four feet, a one-stroke loss to Bryson DeChambeau—triggered a wave of criticism that made Lowry’s blood boil. The “couch pundits” came out in force. They called it a choke. They questioned his club selection on 18. They demanded he fire caddie Harry Diamond.

“I feel like he gets criticised more than maybe he should do at times,” Lowry said. “Like, after the US Open in Pinehurst, I was a bit outspoken about how much s**t he was getting for that, really.”

Lowry fought back in a furious interview with the Irish Independent. He pointed out the hypocrisy: DeChambeau hit his drive into a worse spot than McIlroy on 18 but received praise instead of scorn. He shared a picture on Instagram with McIlroy, captioning it with a plea for people to “be kind.”

The protective instinct didn’t stop there.

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Shane Lowry’s role as Rory McIlroy’s defender at Bethpage

When the Ryder Cup arrived at Bethpage Black, Lowry’s defense became physical. The baying crowd created an attritional atmosphere. The hostility was over the top. And during Saturday’s raucous fourballs, Lowry unintentionally took on the role of protector.

He and McIlroy faced Justin Thomas and Cameron Young in front of a crowd that wanted European blood. The pressure mounted. The noise intensified. Lowry absorbed it, shielding McIlroy from the worst of it as they closed out the match on the 17th green for a two-hole victory.

“Was I ever, like, told that I was going to be his protector or anything? No!” Lowry said. “I don’t know, but I feel like I played that role nicely.”

Lowry’s willingness to defend McIlroy stems from understanding the unique position his friend occupies. McIlroy speaks his mind on LIV Golf, on the future of the game, on politics within professional golf. He sets impossibly high standards for himself, chasing major championships with the intensity of someone pursuing Tiger Woods-level greatness. He’s been the “voice of golf” when others stayed silent.

But that voice creates exposure. McIlroy “puts himself on that pedestal at times and says some stuff that he probably shouldn’t,” Lowry acknowledged. Yet saying things you shouldn’t do doesn’t justify the disproportionate response McIlroy receives.

Other players at his level don’t face the same scrutiny. They don’t get called chokers for losing majors by one stroke. They don’t have their caddies attacked after every difficult tournament. They’re allowed to be great without every stumble becoming a referendum on their character.

Lowry sees that difference. The two Irishmen live a mile apart in Florida. Their wives are close friends. Their kids are similar ages. They practice together regularly. That proximity means Lowry witnesses the toll the criticism takes—the work, the dedication, the pressure of being Rory McIlroy that the “couch pundits” never see.

So when the moment came at Bethpage—when Lowry stood over that six-footer on 18 in his singles match against Russell Henley, knowing Europe’s Ryder Cup retention hung in the balance—he wasn’t just holing a putt for his team. He was proving he belonged in the spotlight alongside the man he’d spent the week protecting.

The putt dropped. Lowry exploded in celebration. And somewhere in that wild jig, McIlroy had one less thing to worry about.