Written by Stephen F. Moloney
Of the eight editions of the Memorial Matchplay he’d been a part of in his time at the Creek, Ray had never seen anything quite like the scene which he was currently attempting to drink in at the 1st tee. Normally, on the very first morning of the Memorial, the 1st tee for the top match out was, generally, rather subdued from a ‘crowd perspective’ – with only those older members in the club (the twelve or fifteen men and women who were actually around in the 80s when the whole thing started) making the effort to pull themselves out of bed early and be in-attendance to politely clap the first pair of golfers off the tee as they got the tournament underway.
And, sure enough, while those die-hards were, once again, ready to send the first match in this year’s tournament off with a smattering of applause, this year they just so happened to also be joined by the hundred or so people Ray had just cleared a path through in order to safely escort Mustang onto the tight shaved grass of the 1st tee.
“Have you ever seen anything like this?!” whispered a clearly panicking Reginald Pinkly as Ray finally found the time to make his way over to the small table he was manning after getting Mustang’s bag properly situated on the tee.
“Not in my time, Reggie, no …” replied Ray, sounding ever-so-slightly distracted as he bent down and went through the formalities of checking Mustang’s details were correct on the starter’s sheet.
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” said Reginald, his complexion growing all the more pallid and grey with each passing second. “It’s just that it’s a slightly bigger crowd than what I’m used to – so … you know …”
Like Mr. Denby making the draw to fill in the bracket for the Memorial had become something of an annual tradition, the same could be said for Reginald, who had fallen into the role of ‘Tournament Starter’ in the vacuum which occurred following Henri LaFleur’s untimely passing, as he had, traditionally, filled the role since the tournament’s inception. Where Henri’s innate charisma and flair for the spotlight made him the ideal Tournament Starter, however, the same, unfortunately, could not be said for Reginald, whose rather meek and perennially nervous disposition made his annual assignment seem as though it were a cruel and unusual punishment inflicted upon him by his “friend”, Mr. Denby.
Though he could have easily dismissed his blatant case of stage-fright, Ray knew Reginald was, ultimately, a nice guy – even if he had questionable taste in who he hung around with – so, if he needed his morale lifted, Ray thought he may as well be the one to do it.
“Ah, don’t worry about it, Reggie,” he said, standing back up and giving Reginald a firm, yet encouraging, slap on the shoulder after seeing everything was in order on the sheet. “You’ll do great – you always do.”
With that, Ray popped a wink at a weakly smiling Reginald and turned around to begin heading back across the tee to where he’d left Mustang standing next to his bag. In the time he’d been checking the starter’s sheet and talking to Reginald, Ray saw that Mustang had pulled out his driver and was just idly swinging it back and forth at the rear of the tee box.
“You alright, kid?” asked Ray, lowering his voice to try and avoid being heard by the crowd packed in like sardines right around all three sides of the tee box, some of whom were even aiming their smartphones in Mustang’s direction getting pictures and videos.
“Yeah, I’m good,” answered Mustang, sounding the most serious he had done all morning. “Just kinda want to get started, really.”
“I know – me too,” said Ray, empathetically, as being surrounded by this many people in such close quarters was beginning to make his old military instincts twitch. “Did you go over to Kretschko yet?”
“Not exactly …” replied a sheepishly smiling Mustang, knowing full well the reaction this would draw from Ray.
“Are you serious?!” he whispered sharply, right on cue.
“Well, in my defence,” argued Mustang, he, too, now whispering. “I was gonna do it when you said to, but when I went to actually go over there he started talking to some dude in the crowd, so I … ‘strategically bailed’.”
Ray stole a sneaky glance over his shoulder at Kretschko. He was still standing in the same spot he’d been occupying when Ray and Mustang finally made it through the scrum of people and set foot onto the actual tee itself, perched right in-between the two tee markers, elbow leaning casually on top of his mammoth of a staff bag as he finished off the cigar Ray had seen him smoking outside the pro-shop whilst waiting for Marvin – himself standing on the other side of the bag with his head buried in his yardage book. Ray knew what Kretschko was trying to do with this stunt, of course; he had the honour – as his name had been picked out in the draw first – but that wasn’t enough for someone like Wilford. He was marking his territory – and he wanted Mustang and Ray to know it.
“Well, he’s not talkin’ to anyone now,” said Ray, shifting his attention back onto Mustang.
“Ugh, fine …” groaned Mustang, begrudgingly relenting. “What do I have to do again?”
“Just go up to him, shake his hand, introduce yourself, and wish him good luck.”
“Alright; hand, name … wish him good luck,” repeated Mustang, attempting to commit the order of what he needed to do to memory. “Yeah, ok – got it.” He looked up at Ray. “Is wishing someone good luck who’s about to go wish someone else good luck a thing?” he asked, dryly.
“Good luck,” sighed a smiling Ray. “Now, go! It’s nearly 9!”
“Ok!” replied Mustang in a jokingly petulant manner as he leaned his driver up against his slightly dusty, nylon stand bag – made to look all the dustier in comparison to Kretschko’s immaculately presented leather staff bag – and moved past Ray.
No sooner had he gone no more than a step or two beyond him, however, than Mustang turned briskly around and muttered dryly to Ray, “Though, can I just point out that Kretschko’s caddie isn’t bossing him around like this.”
Before a laughing Ray could whip around and deliver his retort, a cheekily smiling Mustang quickly set his legs back into motion and continued on his way to go speak to Kretschko. As he got to within a few steps of him, the pungent aroma of cigar smoke, sunscreen, and whatever cologne Kretschko had used far too much of began to sting Mustang’s nostrils. He wondered if he’d have to endure smelling it for the entirety of their match – like having a double period of French with Ms. Grenier, a teacher of his back in Orlando, whose signature scent of overly-applied perfume and the cough drops she used to cover up the smell of the cigarettes she chain-smoked at every available opportunity throughout the day, would always cause half the class to emerge from her airlock of a classroom with splitting headaches.
“Uh, excuse me? Mr. Kretschko?” said Mustang, politely, as he landed alongside his opponent and attempted to banish the memories of learning off the past tense of ‘avoir’ which had infiltrated his brain thanks to thinking about Ms. Grenier.
“What?” grunted Kretschko, his gaze remaining locked on the fairway as he brought the butt of his cigar up towards his mouth for one of the few remaining drags it had left in it.
“Uh … well, I just wanted to come over here and say that I’m … uh … Mustang,” he said, trying to collect himself after being completely thrown by Kretschko’s reaction. “And to wish you good luck in our match.”
Seeing out of the corner of his eye that he had stretched out his hand for a handshake, a disgruntled Kretschko let out a sigh as if he were being severely inconvenienced by Mustang’s presence and leaned away from his golf bag. He took his cigar out of his mouth, reached out his thick, hairy hand, and took a hold of Mustang’s in a manner so disinterested and half-hearted, it made it abundantly clear he was only doing it because there was a crowd around – if they had been completely on their own, there was no doubt in Mustang’s mind Kretschko would have blanked him.
“Listen, kid …” he growled, keeping his chainsaw-like voice as low as he could manage in order to avoid being overheard by the crowd. “I dunno who was dumb enough to drop ten grand to have you play in this, but don’t be expectin’ any favours from me. So just try to keep up the pace and, if you’re lucky, this will all be over by the 10th.”
And that was it. Kretschko didn’t say another word. He just let go of Mustang’s hand, brought his cigar back up to his mouth, and returned to staring out at the 1st fairway – even adding extra insult by wiping the hand he’d used to shake Mustang’s with against his shorts like he’d gotten dirt on it.
With an uncomfortable, embarrassed heat prickling the back of his neck, Mustang turned and began to walk back across the tee, his legs suddenly feeling as though his shoes were made of lead.
“So, how’d it go?” asked Ray, distractedly, as he saw Mustang arrive back in front of him even though he, himself, was busy marking the spines of some extra balls with ‘MTNG’ in case they were needed.
When no answer was forthcoming, though, Ray, finally, looked up at Mustang – and, immediately, he could tell something was wrong.
“Hey, what is it?” he asked, clearly concerned, as the cyclone of thoughts that had been swirling around his head instantly evaporated from his mind. “What happened?”
“Well … I did what you said,” replied Mustang, sounding as though he were in something of a trance-like state as he tried to work out whether or not what he’d just experienced had actually happened. “I went up and introduced myself, went to shake his hand -…”
“Don’t tell me he refused to shake your hand?!” snapped Ray, unable to prevent himself from cutting across Mustang as his temper began to bubble up at the mere thought of Kretschko snubbing him in such a fashion.
“No, he shook my hand, alright,” said Mustang, still processing. “But he said he didn’t who know was dumb enough to pay ten grand to have me play in this; that I shouldn’t be expecting any favours from him; and that if I’m lucky ‘this will all be over by the 10th’.”
“You’re kiddin’ me, right?!” asked Ray, out of hope more than anything else, as he hadn’t felt anger like this in a long time. Because this was more than anything he’d ever felt with Mr. Denby – even with Greely as well. This was the kind of anger he’d had in his teens. The anger he’d entered the military to try and learn to control. The anger that, without fail, only ever led to trouble.
“Nope, that’s what he said,” replied Mustang flatly, completely unaware that he was inadvertently stoking the white-hot temper currently burning a hole through the lining of Ray’s stomach.
“Then I guess me and him better have a little talk, then …” snarled Ray, his anger now running the show and gunning for an altercation, no matter how many people were gathered around the tee-box.
Just as he went to barge past him, however, Ray felt Mustang plant his hand straight into the middle of his chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. Though still feeling like a rodeo bull waiting to erupt out of the chute, Ray looked down at Mustang, who was already staring up at him.
“No,” said Mustang, his voice matching the stony, determined expression on his face. “I got this.”
The anger, however, was still clouding Ray’s judgement. It was swelling and rumbling inside his chest like a stormy sea, egging him on to go confront Kretschko. He glared off across the tee at the two brothers. Marvin had just taken the headcover off the driver and handed it to Wilford – he knew the match was about to begin.
Right on cue, the crackle of a microphone being turned on – promptly followed by a short, sharp screech of feedback as it picked up its own frequency from the speaker it was hooked up to – signalled that Reginald was, indeed, about to begin the formal introductions to start the match.
“Please, Ray …” said Mustang, his steely voice pulling Ray’s eyes back down to his. “Trust me. I got this.”
“Ahem … good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” said Reginald nervously, his voice coming tinnily through the speaker and cutting through the general sound of chit-chat coming from the crowd gathered around the tee-box. “First of all, I’d like to … uh … welcome all of you to the 40th edition of the Memorial Matchplay here at Crescent Creek Golf Club and say what a pleasure it is to see so many new faces in attendance – as well as those not-so-new faces, of course.”
As a ripple of polite applause and laughter rang out amongst the crowd, Ray – whose attention had been, momentarily, focused on a far more confident-looking Reginald – looked back down at Mustang, who was continuing to stare steadfastly up at him. He still wanted to march over and accost Kretschko for how he spoke to Mustang – desperately so, in fact. But, just like in the pizza restaurant the previous night, as he looked down at Mustang and saw that same steely look of unwavering confidence in his eyes, Ray knew there was really only one play to make.
“Alright …” he said, just as the applause began to peter out. “It’s all you, kid.”
Knowing nothing more needed to be said, Mustang nodded assuredly up at Ray just as Reginald continued with the introductions.
“And so, to start us off, in match number one – in this the first round of today’s play,” he said, carefully reading each and every word from the notes he’d hurriedly scribbled down just after the draw. “Please welcome to the tee, from Lawrence County, Ohio … Wilford Kretschko!”
Having been given their cue by Reginald, the crowd, once again, put their hands together for Kretschko – who, after briefly acknowledging their welcome with a curt wave of his hand and a nod of his head – returned to taking long, languid practice swings with his driver a few paces back from where he’d teed up his ball. Once he’d taken his fifth practice swing, Kretschko turned so that he was looking right back down the line of the fairway, letting the head of his driver drop casually down onto the turf in the process. Ray noted the hollow, percussive thud that rang out from his driver hitting the grass – it told him it hadn’t rained since he’d left on Thursday, meaning the ground was still going to be running as firm and fast as it had been at the start of the week.
After lining up where he wanted to put his tee-shot, Kretschko stepped in behind the ball and settled himself into his setup. As usual, he was his normal fidgety self as he addressed the ball; his feet moving the entire time (causing the black leather his shoes were made of to creak and groan ever-so-slightly under the pressure); gripping and regripping the club over and over; and glancing back and forth between the ball and the fairway so much it was like he was suspicious the latter was going to disappear unbeknownst to him if he didn’t keep his eye on it.
But then, after all that, Kretschko suddenly went very still. He was ready to hit. Unlike the practice swings he’d been taking previously, Kretschko pulled his driver back hard and fast, got it to his preferred position at around three-quarters of the way up to the top of his backswing, and then snapped it violently back and through the ball. Though not the cleanest of sounding strikes, Kretschko’s ball, nonetheless, set off down the left side of the fairway before the customary fade he imparted on every shot saw it begin to drift ever so gently back to the right until it came crashing back down to earth in the centre of the fairway 277 yards away.
“Thank you,” said a satisfied-looking Kretschko, graciously acknowledging the applause from the crowd as he began to waddle back over to the side of the tee where Marvin was standing with his bag. Once he’d handed off his driver to his brother and proceeded to pull back the tab keeping his golf glove closed, a grinning Kretschko stole a glance in Mustang’s and Ray’s direction – as far as he was concerned, the gauntlet had just been laid down.
With the tee now clear, Reginald lifted his microphone back up to his mouth. “And next on the tee …” he announced. “From Orlando, Florida … Mustang Peyton!”
As they had with Kretschko, the crowd began to clap as Mustang, driver in hand, walked towards the tee markers. Unlike with Kretschko, however, the round of applause which soundtracked Mustang’s approach to the tee was more than just an act of courtesy on the crowd’s part. This was different. This was louder. It had an energy about it. An enthusiasm about it. A sense of anticipation about it. Even when the clapping fizzled out and Mustang had taken to just piercing the turf with a tee in order to get his ball ready to hit, you could still feel this palpable sense of electricity coursing through the air as the crowd quietly murmured to one another.
“Ok, here he goes! Hold that so I can get a video of this!”
“Man, he looks so much younger than in the video, right?!”
“Can you imagine if he shanked it and hit the dude with the mic?!”
“Or, even worse, topped it?! Dude, that would be hilarious!”
Though they may have been nothing more than whispered off-hand comments said without being given a second’s thought, Ray took each and every one of them in – plus all the others – and tried his best to ignore them. He just focused on Mustang. And hoped. That’s all he could do now. Even though he was no more than ten feet away from him, in this moment, Mustang was like an astronaut on the moon with Ray manning a computer back down on Earth in mission control – whatever happened in the next few seconds, it was all him … just as he’d wanted.
With his ball now perched on top of a tee, Mustang took a step back so that he was standing directly in line behind it and looked off down the barrel of the fairway, his driver hanging so loosely and lightly from his hand it appeared as though the sole was barely bending the blades of grass sitting beneath it. His shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath in and pictured what kind of shot he wanted to play. Once that was locked in, however – after only about two seconds of drawing it up – Mustang stepped promptly up to his ball; he didn’t intend on hanging around.
Just like clockwork, Mustang then went through the exact same routine he always did before hitting a shot – not deviating even a millisecond from the one which Ray had first seen when he found him striping golf balls barefoot up at the range. He positioned the head of the driver down behind the ball. Set himself into his stance. Took one last look out at his target. And then swung – except this was a swing unlike any other Ray had seen Mustang produce before.
Normally, because his ball-striking was so pure, Mustang could swing quite within himself and still produce enough speed and power through the ball to rack up a nice bit of distance off-the-tee. Even when he wanted to conjure up one of his ‘full-send draws’ in order to eke out an extra yard or two with the big stick, he never appeared to be over-exerting himself nor wound up unbalanced at the end of his swing – it was just always persistent, poised control. The swing he produced on that 1st tee, though, was a different animal entirely. The control was still there – everything from his takeaway right up until the club got to parallel at the top of his backswing was as smooth ever – but this was the first time ever where Ray had then seen Mustang swing as hard as he could from that position.
Because there was venom in what he was doing.
Mustang whipped the driver down from the top of his backswing, the shaft scything through the air in the process, and sent the head of the club smashing into the back of the ball with such force he wound up, not only on the very tips of his toes at impact, but such was the level of extra force and speed he’d generated – upping his normal clubhead speed and swing speed by, at least, 3 or 4mp/h easy – Mustang had to actually recoil his driver back around his neck once he’d finished his swing.
And the sound of the ball leaving the clubface?
FWWEEEEEESHHHH!!!
As pure a strike as was physically possible to achieve. And if the sound it made wasn’t enough of a clue that Mustang had found the very centre of the clubface, one look at the ball told Ray everything he needed to know about how solid a hit it had been. Setting off with all the speed of a rocket fired from an RPG, Mustang’s ball seared its way out of the tee-box in a hail of awed gasps from the crowd before climbing exponentially upwards into the sky as it set off on a trajectory down the right-hand side of the fairway.
Before his ball had even begun to get anywhere close to reaching its apex, however, Mustang – with his driver now in one hand down by his side – set off marching towards the exit to the tee-box, not even looking at what his ball was doing. He didn’t need to. Because he knew it was good. Like everyone else around the tee, though, Ray couldn’t help but track the flight of the ball as it began to draw beautifully back towards the centre of the fairway after reaching its peak and beginning to plummet back down towards the ground. With the ball still dropping and the crowd starting to clap in sheer amazement at what they’d just seen, Ray grabbed his golf bag, slung it over his shoulder and set off walking across the tee-box to catch up to Mustang, who was now already a good twenty yards away.
“Play well, boys!” quipped Ray brazenly as he strode past Wilford and Marvin, both of whom were just stood with their mouths agape as they watched Mustang’s ball pitch two yards past where Wilford’s had settled, get a firm bounce and then bound off down the fairway a further ten yards.
“Cause I’ve a feelin’ you’re gonna need to …”
*
“I can’t believe Mustang did that,” smiled Maggie in disbelief as she looked out at the swathes of green grass stretching off into the distance. “I mean, he’s fourteen years old; playing in the biggest money match in Louisiana; he’s never teed off in front of a crowd that big before, and what does he do? Steps up and smokes a draw 289 yards right down the middle! Like … what?!”
“Insane, right?” said Ray, replaying the memory of that shot again in his head. “But it’s that … ‘ability’, I’d guess you’d call it, which set Mustang apart, you know? I mean, he had the talent, undoubtedly – that’s a given. But the level of fight in that kid? Was just somethin’ else. And the way he could harness it too? Like, comin’ from the perspective of someone who, back then, was a self-confessed hothead? I dunno how he did it – I really don’t. But when he was dialled-in like that? It gave him an extra three gears that not many other golfers had or could contend with.”
“Not even Kretschko?” asked Maggie, looking over at Ray as he navigated the UTV off the path they’d been following and back onto another perfectly-cut fairway.
“Especially not Kretschko!” answered Ray, gleefully, as he stepped on the gas a little more and opened up the engine now that there was nothing but open grass ahead of them once again.
“So I take it Mustang did beat him, then?” queried Maggie, reaching up and wrapping her hand around the grab handle for a little extra stability as the UTV burned across the undulating contours of the fairway.
“Not only did he beat him …” replied Ray, proudly, as he stole a glance over at Maggie. “The kid whooped him.”
“You’re kidding!” exclaimed Maggie excitedly. “By how much?!”
“Well, remember how Kretschko said to Mustang that if he was lucky it would all be over by the 10th?” teased Ray, sneaking a daring peek over at Maggie as he began to gradually ease onto the brake of the UTV.
“No way!” said Maggie, quickly turning her attention outside the UTV and looking around to see if she could recognize where they were driving as being the 10th hole. “He didn’t!”
Finally bringing the UTV to a complete standstill, a smiling Ray switched off the engine and turned to Maggie, “Come on, I’ll walk ya through it.”
Not needing a second invitation, Maggie hurriedly popped open her door and stepped out onto the fairway. The grass was crunchy beneath her feet as she walked around the front of the UTV to join up with Ray, who was already busily scratching Lola after she’d jumped out of the flatbed at the rear of the UTV as soon as it had come to a stop. In the few seconds this took, Maggie was able to match their surroundings to the mental blueprints she had of Crescent Creek – and, sure enough, they were, indeed, on the par 4 10th.
Back down behind them she could see the kink in the fairway where it meandered off to the right and around a corner of trees to create the dogleg left you’d be facing off-the-tee. Off to the right of where Ray had parked the UTV, there was the long, cavernous fairway bunker which, if Maggie was remembering correctly, sat 290 yards away from the tee in order to play on the minds of those bigger hitters who could cut the corner of the dogleg by turning the hole into a guaranteed three-shotter if they were anything less than perfect with their tee-shot. And then, of course, around 155 yards further down the fairway was the green – though, given it played a hair uphill, Maggie reckoned it was probably closer to 158, maybe even 159, to cover the pair of yawning greenside bunkers guarding the two front corners of it.
In other words, a beauty of a par 4.
“So, to ‘set the scene’, as it were …” said Ray, grabbing an old tennis ball out of the flatbed as Maggie finally reached his side of the UTV and laid eyes on a suddenly very attentive-looking Lola. “Mustang and Kretschko have both teed off and they’ve both found the fairway – right about here, give or take.”
“Two pretty big hits to get to here,” noted a surprised-sounding Maggie, turning and running her eye between the UTV and the fairway bunker to try and get a rough gauge on possible distances.
“Well, they both caught ‘em pretty sweet, if I’m rememberin’ correctly – plus …” replied Ray, trailing off for a second in order to finally put Lola out of her misery by throwing the ball off to the side of the fairway for her to set off sprinting after. “At that point, there was probably a one, one and a half club breeze after picking up, and it was blowing straight down here.”
“And if the fairways were as firm as you described them, then with the run-out and everything – yeah, that makes sense,” said Maggie, the matter already closed in her head having heard all the facts. “The big question is, though, who’d outdriven who?”
“On this occasion, Kretschko had just about pipped Mustang,” answered Ray, bending down and grabbing the tennis ball which Lola had promptly returned in the meantime and dropped at his feet. “At that point, though, we weren’t worried about gettin’ into long-drive contests – we didn’t need to be. The only thing that mattered is that when we looked at the board the scorer was walkin’ ‘round with, it was showin’ Mustang was 9UP – so even if Kretschko was blowin’ it thirty yards past us on every hole, that wasn’t gonna eat into our lead. He needed to start makin’ some putts – and fast, at that.”
“And was that Kretschko’s problem?” asked Maggie, watching Lola sprint off after her ball that Ray had, once again, launched back into the rough on the other side of the fairway. “His putter – or should I say putters – just went cold on him?”
“Funnily enough, at the beginnin’ of the match? Like, over the first five holes? He was actually puttin’ really well – probably as well as I’d ever seen him roll it, honestly” replied Ray, flatly dissecting Kretschko’s performance like he were a pundit on a golf broadcast. “The problem, though, is that Mustang came outta the blocks like a runaway freight train; which meant for every routine two-putt for par Kretschko notched up from 1 thru 5, Mustang was drainin’ birdies. So, despite the fact he’d played well, walkin’ to the 6th tee, Kretschko found himself 5DN and battlin’, not only Mustang, but a red-hot crowd who were completely on the kid’s side. And, to be honest, from that point on? I think Kretschko was beat. I mean, his head dropped. His shots started to get a little loose. He started losing his temper. And once that happened, that’s when the putters started to act up.”
Again, after yet another successful recovery mission, Lola came proudly trotting back over to Ray and dropped her tennis ball at his feet.
“So, if Mustang was -5 thru 5 …” pondered Maggie aloud as she decided to give Ray’s back a break by reaching down and plucking up the tennis ball from under Lola’s nose. “By the time he got to here what score was he?”
“He was …” replied Ray, needing a second to try and remember as Maggie, much to Lola’s delight, flung her ball way down the fairway. “-7, I think?” He paused again to run through his memory of those holes in order to verify. “Yeah, no, ‘cause he birdied 7 and 9 …” he continued, sounding far more confident in what he was saying this time around. “And won 6 and 8 with pars after Kretschko three-putted the pair of them.”
“Wow, so by the time the two of you got here you must have been feeling pretty confident, right?”
“Mustang sure was, yeah – I mean, the kid had been practically levitatin’ since he won the first hole!” laughed Ray. “As for me on the other hand? While I was feelin’ confident, I was still in ‘caddie-mode’, right? So, to see us 9UP after 9 and sittin’ pretty in the middle of the 10th fairway, I was just about ready to try and close the match out. The only problem with that sentiment, though, was that me and Mustang had two very different ideas for what ‘closin’ out the match’ actually looked like.”
*
“Ok, now as it stands,” muttered Ray quietly to avoid being overheard by Wilford and Marvin, who were only fifteen or so yards away on the right-hand edge of the fairway. “If you and Kretschko get the same score on this hole, you win. So, because of that – and as you’re hittin’ first – I think the play here is to take the bunkers outta the equation, go for the middle of the green and set yourself up for an easy par; that way Kretschko knows he’ll have to make birdie and we can force him into gettin’ aggressive – which, given where his ball is, means he’ll have to try and work a big fade ‘round that bitta tree juttin’ out near the green there to have any chance of gettin’ near the pin.” Ray looked down at Mustang. “Which, frankly, is unlikely – so what do you think?”
Having been taking sips of water for the entirety of the time Ray had been speaking, Mustang – after having his eye, momentarily, distracted by the gallery moving to the left-hand side of the fairway – brought the bottle down from his mouth and asked, “And what happens if I make birdie and Kretschko doesn’t? I’d still win, right?”
“Uh, yeah …” replied Ray. “If you make birdie here and Kretschko doesn’t, you win the hole and the match, 10&8. But, again, you don’t need to make a birdie here, kid – Kretschko has to chase you. So that’s why I’m sayin’ take the easy shot and play for par – make him produce somethin’ special.”
From the expression on his face as he stared off up the fairway at the green, Ray could tell Mustang was seriously considering what he’d said.
“You know what … let’s go for the dagger,” he said, confidently, as he turned to look at Ray after a few seconds of silently weighing up his options. “Let’s finish this.”
Knowing this was his final decision, Ray nodded his head and reached into Mustang’s bag. He pulled out the 8-iron and held it out for him to take. “8-iron. Bring it in from the left. All you got.”
Knowing he had Ray’s backing, and with his instructions clear in his head, a smiling Mustang placed his bottle of water back on top of his bag and took the club out of Ray’s hand. After that, as had been the case all morning, from the moment Mustang had what he wanted to do in his head, there wasn’t a single moment of hesitation. He just stepped up to his ball, went through his routine and swung.
Just like Ray had instructed, Mustang put everything he had into the 8-iron, squatting down into the ground and swinging hard through the ball.
THHHHWWWIIIPPP!!!
The contact was perfect as the ball left the clubface, splitting the air before it like a scissors through wrapping paper. The wafer-thin divot carved off the top of the turf by the 8-iron floated up into the air before quickly falling out of the sky like a dead duck, but Mustang’s and Ray’s eyes were glued to the ball still soaring triumphantly through the air in the direction of the green. Exactly as he’d designed, Ray watched as the ball began to bleed off to the right as it made its way towards its apex and continued doing so as it cascaded down the other side of it.
With his brain completing the most complex of mathematical equations every millisecond that it was in the air, Ray could tell from the angle it had settled on and the speed it was travelling at that Mustang’s ball was on the perfect line.
“Come on, be good …” urged Ray as the ball pitched firmly on the green and immediately kicked off to the right. “Be good!”
And from there it was just a case of watching and waiting. Watching as the ball rolled to the top of the backstop behind the pin. Watching as it toppled down over the edge of the ridge and began to tumble down the slope. And then, finally, watching as it crept up to the hole and came to a stop no more than an inch away from dropping straight into the cup.
Having been tracking Mustang’s ball as closely as he and Ray had been doing, to see it finish so agonizingly close from dropping in for a hole-out eagle, the crowd at the side of the fairway – and those who’d streaked ahead in order to get around the green – erupted in a feverish chorus of cheers, whistles, and whoops which clattered around the trees and, no doubt, carried on the wind for all those matches behind to hear.
“At a boy!” said a beaming Ray, turning and fist-bumping Mustang as he took the 8-iron back off him. “What a shot!”
With a somewhat sheepish smile on his face, as that reaction from the crowd had been the loudest of the morning by far, Mustang – clearly just looking for something to preoccupy himself with – reached out and grabbed his bottle of water as he opened up his glove with his teeth.
Once he’d given the grooves on the 8-iron a quick wipe with his towel and popped it back into the bag, Ray, like Mustang, switched his focus onto Kretschko – and he looked frazzled. He’d seen Mustang now had a kick-in birdie waiting for him up at the green, so, suddenly, everything had become soberingly clear – he had to make an eagle or that was it. And, from the look of the rather heated discussion he was having with Marvin, Kretschko didn’t appear to be best pleased with having to face up to such a stark reality.
“Just give me the number for the goddamn pin, you idiot!” he barked petulantly at Marvin, who was nervously scribbling into his yardage book to figure out exactly that.
“Uh … 1-50 … uh … 7! 157!” whimpered Marvin after working out the requisite distance.
Without saying another word, Kretschko yanked the club he needed out of his bag – from where Ray was standing it looked like a 9-iron – and shooed Marvin out of the way. If there was any doubt left in his mind as to where Kretschko was mentally following Mustang’s dagger of an approach shot, seeing the way he stepped straight into his ball before Marvin had even gotten fully out of the way with his bag told Ray exactly what he needed to know.
And that was that this match was over.
Having foregone any semblance of his normal pre-shot routine, Kretschko took one quick look at the green before pulling back his club and putting a swing on the ball which looked even more short and fast than it usually did – and, unsurprisingly, the results weren’t good. As soon as it was airborne, one look at his ball told Mustang and Ray that Kretschko had massively overdone it with the fade and produced a vicious slice that was peeling off to the right at an alarming rate and it wasn’t coming back.
A second later the sound of urethane smacking against bark echoed back down the fairway as Kretschko’s ball careered into the trees right of the green and out of bounds. A timely “OOOOOOHHH” sounded out from the crowd along with a combined sharp intake of breath at seeing Kretschko’s ball disappear into its leafy grave. They knew the match was over – and they weren’t the only ones.
With his ball lost – and not a notion of dropping another – Kretschko let his club fall up against his bag, turned around, and began to walk towards where Mustang and Ray were standing, taking his cap off as he moved.
“Oh man, he’s conceding …” whispered Ray, sounding bizarrely panicked as he nudged Mustang with his elbow. “He’s conceding!”
“Well, what do I do?!” asked Mustang, the fact Ray was panicking causing him to do likewise.
“Uh, just go up and shake his hand,” replied Ray, finally getting some bit of a grip on himself. “And whatever he says, just say thanks … or something.”
Not looking overly impressed with Ray’s advice, Mustang – realizing he was just going to have to play this by ear – put his bottle back on top of his bag and went to meet Kretschko.
“Alright, kid,” he muttered, coarsely, as the pair of them got to within a few steps of one another. “You got me – fair and square.” He reached out his hand for a handshake and, straightaway, Mustang obliged. This time there was nothing half-hearted or disinterested about their handshake as Kretschko firmly gripped Mustang’s hand. “Well played,” he said, looking Mustang dead in the eye.
“Thank you, sir,” replied Mustang, sincerely.
Having said his piece – and after acknowledging his reply with a curt nod of his head – Kretschko let go of Mustang’s hand and turned around to begin walking back over to Marvin. As soon as he’d left, Ray – who’d been trying and failing to listen in on their conversation – snuck over to where Mustang was standing.
“So? How’d it go?” he asked.
“Yeah, really good, actually,” answered Mustang, half-smiling as he replayed his interaction with Kretschko back in his head. “He was really cool about it.”
“Well, that’s good,” said Ray, relieved that he wouldn’t have to be attempting to fight off an intense wave of anger once again.
“Yeah, it is …” replied Mustang, before turning around and looking very matter-of-factly up at Ray. “So, who’s next?”