Lee Westwood is not a man for the flowery phrase. He is a solid, sensible individual who chooses his words with earnest care.
But on Saturday, in the space of three tweeted sentences, Westwood conveyed what the world of sport was feeling after the death of Severiano Ballesteros.
'Lost an inspiration, genius, role model, hero and friend,' said Westwood. 'Seve made European golf what it is today. RIP Seve.'
You could imagine Seve reading the words and being touched by their sincerity. Then reading them again and deciding that, on balance, Westwood had got it just about right.
For Seve was not unaware of his God-given talent. Indeed, that awareness was part of his charm. When he was at his towering peak, he seemed permanently thrilled by his ability to summon a shot to fit the moment, a stroke of genius, with the club wafted like a wand.
He gloried in the effect he had upon the galleries, who caught their breath and yelled their admiration as he worked his miracles of hand and eye.
'Did I do that? Did I really do that?' he seemed to ask. And he found his answer in the torrent of their cheers.
His achievements have long been the stuff of legend; the three Open Championships, the two Masters titles, the eight Ryder Cups, the glorious adventure of his Ryder captaincy. But to appreciate his importance to his sport, we should remember what preceded his emergence.
Seve was far from being the first golfing superstar. Indeed, he entered the scene after the prolonged domination of Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus and Gary Player, men who gave the game a new status and standing.
But the public perception of the professional golfer was of a well-padded, well-heeled, well-lunched individual who never let the sweet trolley pass him by. He kept gentlemen's hours, observed gentlemen's habits and prided himself on being a damned good loser. Seve wasn't like that. Not a bit.
He played the game as if he'd just invented it, with sinewy strength and the touch of a card sharp. He had the imagination to conceive the shot and the technique to execute it. And he had nerve, the moral courage without which all the other gifts are irrelevant. He seemed not to consider dire consequences, instead he saw only positives.
TIGER WOODS
Seve was one of the most talented and exciting golfers ever to play the game. I was deeply saddened to learn about his passing. I always enjoyed spending time with him at the Champions dinner each year at the Masters. His creativity and inventiveness on the golf course may never be surpassed. His death came much too soon.
PAUL CASEY
He really blazed the trail for Europeans, not only in the Ryder Cup but also in how he played at Augusta. We owe a huge amount to him.
GRAEME MCDOWELL (on Twitter)
Amazing to read all the moving messages out there about Seve. He meant a lot to the golf world. He was a genius. Very emotional right now.
COLIN MONTGOMERIE
I am devastated. He has left us with so many wonderful, lasting memories and his contributions to European golf are unquantifiable. We've lost one of the great icons of the sport. What a character and what a passionate man! It was an honour to play under him as our captain in the Ryder Cup.
When you watched him play, you were reminded of that hackneyed old poster: 'We supply miracles on demand. The impossible may take a little longer.' Seve chased the miracles and challenged the impossible, and the people loved him for it.
And always there was that exuberant enjoyment of his own immoderate talent; the eye-flashing, fist-pumping celebrations when the wedge from the deep rough dropped upon the green or the capricious 30-footer rattled the cup.
There was no artifice about his joy, it was instinctive, utterly spontaneous. He reacted as you or I might have done, had we been blessed with the merest smidgeon of his ability.
Here, a confession. In the late Eighties, I visited Seve at his family home in Pedrena in northern Spain. With some misgivings, he had elected to play the US Tour, but he did not greatly care for the lifestyle and he would return home at every opportunity.
When he was home, he kept New York hours, sleeping through the morning and staying up late. He gave me a couple of hours after lunch. He was a fascinating talker, anxious to provide interesting and relevant copy.
When he finished, we walked in a field at the back of his house. He asked me if I played golf. 'Very badly,' I replied. And then, fatuously: 'Not as well as you.'
I was pondering this ludicrous remark when he went into a garage and brought out an eight-iron and a bag of balls. He tossed a few on the ground and invited me to hit them towards the distant trees. One was sliced, one hooked, one was stubbed and a few fell vapidly short of their target.
He took the club and struck half-a-dozen guided missiles, each of them travelling on the same trajectory, clipping the tops of the trees and disappearing into the woodland.
I asked him where they might land. He mentioned the green of the neighbouring golf club. Absurdly, I wondered what might happen if somebody happened to be on that green. 'Don't worry, Patrick,' he said with stony face. 'They won't blame you.'
His American adventure did not last, yet his extravagant talent had made its mark and its impact had helped change the face of the sport.
In 1979, in response to the dramatic achievements of players like Seve, the Ryder Cup ceased to be a match between Great Britain and the United States. The ludicrously one-sided contest was on the brink of extinction, since Britain had won just three times since 1927. Now it became what it always should have been: the United States v Europe.
For Seve, it swiftly turned into a personal crusade. He poured heart and soul into the confrontation. He invested his wit, guile, flair and cunning. It was not merely a match, but a cause. This was what he was born to do, champion the Old World against the New.
I recall one contest in the States when he was paired with his friend and protege, Jose Maria Olazabal, in a critical foursomes. They were playing a couple of middle-aged Americans; tournament-tough yet not extravagantly gifted. And the match was tight.
On the second green, one of the Americans was left with a two-foot putt. As he settled over it, Seve graciously intruded. He wouldn't insult him by asking him to sink something so trivial.
The same thing happened on the fourth and again on the ninth. On the 13th, Seve waved his opponent away from a four-foot effort. Wouldn't dream of it, please pick it up. Then, on the 15th, with the game breathlessly poised, one of the US pair stooped to pick up a mundane, two-foot chore. Ballesteros stepped forward, shaking his head.
'Please,' he said. 'Please putt it.' The American paused, frowned, pouted his disapproval ... and knocked the putt a yard past the hole. Seve shrugged. It was quite magnificent. He loved it, loved it all.
He relished the intrigue and gloried in the mental skirmishes. If he could gain an advantage, through a glare, a shrug or a glance at the rulebook, then he seized it. Nothing was sacred, no ploy too outrageous.
His captaincy, at Valderrama in 1997, was a thing of wonder. Europe fielded one or two supporting players, men with names like Faldo and Montgomerie, but essentially this was Seve's show. He took it personally and victory seemed like a triumph of his will.
He faded away as the great ones do, but too quickly, too sadly. I recall him taking 10 at the 10th at Montego Bay in 1998. 'When I play good, I play pretty damn good,' he said. 'But when I play bad...Aaaargh!'
One day he would play like God, next day he played like us. Which was why we loved him. But then the clouds closed in. The game had long deserted him before the tumour reared its wicked head. He never flinched from public suffering, but he suffered all the same. He fought the illness with all his strength and all his will, but the tyrant prevailed, as he knew it must.
His family and friends are left with their deep sorrow. The rest of us will carry memories of an extraordinary man, a cavalier, a free spirit; a boy from Pedrena, touched by genius. Lee Westwood put it beautifully. Let it serve as Seve's epitaph.
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