Written by Stephen F. Moloney
“That’s … that’s just incredible,” said Maggie, thinking aloud in an after to comprehend what she’d just heard. “I mean, if it wasn’t enough that his first tournament ever saw him playing with your life savings on the line, to then think that Mustang was playing with all of that added pressure he was putting on himself where, in his head, the difference between winning and losing meant getting to stay with you or getting sent to that residential facility back in Florida? And to then, actually, perform to the level that he did?! I just … like, that betrays the kind of mental fortitude that, realistically, you shouldn’t have been seeing in a 14-year old kid – and, yet, he had it.”
That he did,” agreed Ray, still leaning up against the side of the flatbed at the rear of the UTV. “You know, give most people a six-footer for twenty bucks and you’ll see their knees shakin’ like you’ve just given ‘em a putt to win their first Major on the 72nd hole. But back then? As I’d come to learn, that just wasn’t really in Mustang’s DNA; as in, the more pressure he was under, the better the kid – ninety-nine times outta a hundred – seemed to play.”
“Amazing …” sighed Maggie, shaking her head in stunned disbelief.
“It really was,” said Ray, before suddenly adopting a very matter-of-fact tone of voice as his mouth stretched into a wide smile. “Now, you gonna keep on stallin’ or are you finally gonna hit?”
Having hoped Ray wouldn’t notice what she was doing, Maggie turned back around and looked out across the water separating her from where she was standing on the tee-box and the 17th green. They’d wound up parked here in the course of Ray telling her about the whole ‘Mustang getting disqualified debacle’, and somehow, in the midst of hearing the story, Ray had asked Maggie if she wanted to have a go at trying to hit the green for “research purposes” – and, for some inexplicable reason, she had said ‘yes’.
As soon as she’d found herself standing with an old, partly-rusted club in her hand that Ray had fished out of the back of the UTV, however, and one of the busted-up range balls he’d found earlier that day perched on a tee in front of her, the prospect of trying to combine the two into a shot decent enough to actually reach the green had become more than a little daunting.
“You know what?” said Maggie, trying her best to bluff her way out of the situation. “I think just from standing here? Like, with the club and the ball and the whole … picture? I think I’ve gotten everything I need, I really do.”
“Naw, naw! You ain’t gettin’ out of this that easily!” laughed Ray, leaning away from the UTV and walking onto the tee. “Now, come on – you said you play, right?!”
“Some,” clarified Maggie, raising her finger as if making an objection in court. “I said I play some golf!”
“Point taken,” replied Ray, still smiling as he arrived next to the tee markers. “But, come on now, even with just some golf under your belt I think you’ve got this. 145 to the pin. 6-iron in your hand – so, plenty cub. Wind at your back. I mean, it don’t get much easier here than that.”
“Wait a minute …” joked Maggie, adopting a starstruck tone. “Am I getting the full ‘Ray Thackett Caddie Experience’ right now?!”
“It’s somethin’ else, ain’t it?” replied Ray, dryly, as he stepped back to give Maggie some room. “Now, come on, Lawson – let’s go. Find that short grass for me.”
Feeling her confidence oddly bolstered after their exchange, Maggie focused her attention back out across the water towards the green.
‘Oh, what the hell …’ she thought, letting go of the inhibitions she was feeling with each practice swing she began to take in order to loosen up. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’
After quickly expelling the thought of hitting the mother of all shanks – which, right on cue, popped into her head upon asking herself that question – Maggie took a breath to steady herself before stepping in behind the ball. She went through her routine, as disjointed as it was, and took one more glance at the flag.
‘Here we go …’ she thought.
With that, Maggie drew back the club with a big turn of her shoulders, got it to the top of her swing, and then swung it back down into the ball as smoothly as she could, releasing the club right through the impact zone until she felt the rust-speckled shaft pressing up against the nape of her neck. Though the strike hadn’t felt the cleanest, when Maggie’s eyes chased to catch up to the ball, she found it sailing through the air in roughly the exact spot where she’d hoped to have seen it at this point in its journey.
“Go …” she said, feeling a few words of encouragement wouldn’t go astray as her ball began to hook slightly more than she’d like to see as it fell off its apex and began to descend towards the green. “Go …”
“Go on, ball!” added Ray, lending his voice to the mix as Maggie’s ball suddenly stalled in the air like a plane after losing an engine and began to lose altitude at an alarming rate. “Get there!”
Just as it felt prudent to start delivering the last rites before it tore the surface of the lake and swapped being lost in some trees for a watery grave, however, Maggie’s ball, out of nowhere, conjured up the extra few yards it needed to pitch no more than a foot beyond the wall of sleepers fronting the green and gratefully release out onto the putting surface.
“YEAAAH!” screamed Maggie, delightedly hoisting her two hands straight up into the air as she turned to look at Ray. “Can you believe that?!”
“See?!” replied Ray, a broad smile lighting up his face at seeing how excited Maggie was. “I told ya you had it! I mean, you cut it about as tight as you can physically go, but you got it there and that’s all that matters! Now, come on, let’s go putt it – see if you can’t grab a bird for us.”
“Really?!” asked Maggie, the adrenalin still pumping through her veins as if a dam had collapsed somewhere inside her body. “You have a putter?”
“Yes, ma’am,” answered Ray. “Keep it in the UTV just in case I wanna hit a few balls on the greens to see how they’re rollin’.”
“Then, in that case, yeah!” said Maggie, enthusiastically, feeling like a kid at her own personal Disneyland. “Let’s go!”
“Well, alright then,” smiled Ray, reaching out his hand to take the 6-iron from Maggie. “Here, let me grab that from ya.”
After handing over the club as requested, Maggie walked the short distance across the tee-box with Ray until they arrived back at the UTV.
“So, after you’d found Mustang and, I guess, put his mind to rest,” said Maggie, watching as Ray reached into the flatbed of the UTV and pulled out a rag from alongside a dozing Lola. “I’m curious as to what you did then? I mean, to go from the excitement of looking forward to playing in the final, to then, suddenly, having that taken away must have been quite tricky to navigate, no?”
“Yeah, it was a strange one to try and wrap your head around, no doubt,” replied Ray, sounding a touch distracted as he cleaned out the grooves on the 6-iron with the rag (old habits). “Honestly, though? My first thought was to just go back to the workshop, pick up Travis, and get the three of us outta there – like, just try to get as far away from anythin’ even remotely to do with golf as we could for the afternoon, you know? But, given what we’d just been speakin’ about, I said I’d leave the final say up to Mustang – told him whatever he wanted to do, that’s what we’d do. And, oddly enough, what he wanted to do was go hit some balls.”
“What?!” snapped Maggie, unable to contain her surprise. “Are you serious?!”
“Yep,” smiled Ray, placing the club back into the flatbed now that he was happy it was sufficiently clean. “That was pretty much my reaction as well – at least, internally. But, the way he put it, if he was gonna go get himself a handicap as soon as possible – and a scratch one, at that – he should probably go practice. So, that’s what we set about doin’. We went back to the workshop. Mustang changed back into his own clothes – ‘cause you could guarantee if he didn’t have to be in his golf clothes anymore, he weren’t gonna be in ‘em. And then – after I’d called Bill to tell him he could come back ‘cause I’d found the kid – me, Travis, and Mustang, as promised, went up to the range.”
Having pulled out the putter he’d mentioned after replacing the 6-iron, Ray handed it off to an appreciative Maggie.
“And what time would it have been at this stage?” said Maggie, sounding a smidge distracted as she gave the relic of a putter a quick once over. “As in, when the three of you headed for the range?”
“Uh … about two-thirty, I’d say,” answered Ray, moving around the rear of the UTV to go about heading back over to the driver’s side. “Maybe a little later.”
“So, did that mean Byron and Skip were up at the range when you and Mustang landed there?” asked Maggie, imagining the potential awkwardness such a run-in might have created.
“Naw, they’d already headed to the puttin’ green down by the clubhouse at that stage,” replied Ray, forensically recalling the details as he lowered himself back down into the well-worn driver’s seat, the suspension springs on the UTV juddering and creaking beneath his weight. “So, that meant we had the range to ourselves – though, that ended up not lastin’ all that long …”
*
“Just start off with a few wedges to loosen out a bit,” instructed Ray, pulling Mustang’s golf bag off the back of the cart they’d driven up to the range in and plonking it down onto the ground. “Then, once you’re warm, move on to whatever you’re feelin’, alright?”
“Got it,” replied Mustang, chirpily, as he pulled his sand-wedge out of his bag and began to move towards the neat pyramid of balls just waiting for him to plough his way through.
Now that he was back in his own clothes – even if it was just an old t-shirt, some ripped jeans, and a pair of raggedy sneakers – Mustang appeared noticeably more comfortable. It was like he could finally be himself again.
And it hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“Am I just imaginin’ things …” said Travis, lowering his voice as Ray reached in past where he was sitting in the golf cart to grab a bottle of water. “Or does he seem … fine?”
Ray looked over at Mustang just in time to see him swat away a ball with a swing so buttery-smooth it was as though the wedge in his hand had become an extension of himself, mirroring just how relaxed and at ease he seemed.
“That’s cause I think he is,” replied Ray, he, too, lowering his voice so as to not have Mustang overhear that they were, indeed, talking about him. “I mean, we’d a good talk, sorted a few things out, and … yeah, I just think he’s ‘good’, you know?”
“Well, whatever you said to him, it, obviously, worked – and that’s all that matters,” smiled Travis, reaching out his hand and clapping Ray heartily on the arm. “Good work, son.”
Whilst surprised at how much hearing that from Travis had meant to him, Ray was saved from delving too deep back into his emotions by the sound of a beeping horn suddenly piercing the peaceful tranquility of the empty range.
“What the heck is that?” pondered Travis aloud, turning stiffly in his seat to see who was responsible for causing such a racket.
“Well, it’s definitely Bill …” said Ray, joining Travis in squinting across the range in the direction of where the beeping was coming from. “Cause that’s his UTV, but … well, it looks like there’s someone else with him.”
“It’s Jeanie!” exclaimed Mustang, excitedly, as he rushed back over to the golf cart in anticipation of their arrival – all thoughts of hitting balls now vanished from his mind. “She came!”
“Jeanie?! Are you sure?!” said Ray, suddenly feeling quite panicky and nervous as he shielded his eyes with his hand in order to get some much-needed verification as to who, exactly, was riding with Bill. “But I thought she said she was working all day!”
Sure enough, though, as Bill navigated the UTV closer to their hitting bay, the beaming figure of Jeanie began to come more and more into focus until she was right there in front of the three of them.
“Look who I found down at the clubhouse!” announced Bill, happily, after switching off the engine of the UTV.
“Surprise!” said Jeanie, leaning out the side of the UTV, her broad smile shining brighter than the sun sitting high above the range.
“I can’t believe you came!” said Mustang, staring wide-eyed over at Jeanie as if not fully able to believe that she was really standing in front of him.
“I thought you said you were workin’ all day?” asked Ray, sounding blissfully confused.
“And that’s true, I was meant to be,” answered Maggie, getting out of the UTV and setting her sandalled feet down onto the grass. “But after spending the morning worrying about how you were getting on against Skip, when the lunchtime rush started and I overheard people who’d, obviously, been up here watching you play talking about this ‘crazy shot’ you’d pulled off to actually win?! Well, I just knew I couldn’t miss seeing you play in the final. So, after calling in a lot of favours to get my shifts covered for the rest of the day, I got changed, popped over to New Malo real quick, and then came straight here.”
“New Malo? Like, the name of the newspaper that Melvin guy was from?” asked Mustang, posing the question to whomever wished to answer it.
“Yeah, that’s the one – it’s just the next town over from here,” said Ray, glancing down at Mustang before turning his attention back onto Jeanie. “But that’s quite the detour to take to wind up here, no?”
“It is …” replied Jeanie, getting a mischievous smile on her face as she reached back into the UTV and pulled out a large paper bag from the footwell of where she’d been sitting. “But it was the only place where I knew I could get these.”
At that, Maggie held out the paper bag in Mustang’s direction, offering it to him.
“For me?” said Mustang, completely thrown at the prospect that the contents of the bag were really for him. “Seriously?”
“Of course it’s for you,” smiled Jeanie, reassuringly, and taking a few steps closer to Mustang.
After glancing between Ray and Travis as if almost looking for guidance as to what he should do – and receiving twin nods of the head that silently encouraged him to ‘Go on!’ – Mustang reached out and took the bag from Jeanie.
“Thank you, Jeanie,” he said, still sounding completely flabbergasted as he felt the weight of the bag in his hand.
“You’re very welcome,” she replied. “Now, go on, open it up!”
“Can I?” asked Mustang, the reality of the situation slowly beginning to sink in and his wariness now rapidly being replaced by a growing sense of excitement.
“Absolutely!” confirmed Jeanie, herself sounding as excited as Mustang was feeling. “I’ve been dying to see what you think since I bought them!”
Not needing a second invitation, Mustang pulled apart the two handles on the bag and eagerly peered in at what lay inside through the resultant opening he’d created.
“Oh my God …” he uttered, completely stunned as his eyes widened, once again, in disbelief. “No way!”
With that, Mustang plunged his hand into the bag and hurriedly pulled out the shoebox that lay hidden within. After letting the bag gently drop to the ground, he lifted back the lid on the box, quickly peeled back the delicately crinkly paper lining the inside …. and then there they were. A brand new pair of golf shoes. Just for him.
“I asked the guy in the store what kinda shoes kids your age are wearing at the moment and he said those ones are really popular,” said Jeanie, now sounding a touch nervous as Mustang continued to just stare at the shoes without saying anything. “But if you don’t like them, that’s absolutely fine, ok? I can just return them. I really won’t min-…”
Before she could finish, Mustang palmed the shoebox off into Ray’s hands and wrapped his arms around Jeanie, giving her a huge hug.
“I love them …” he said, quietly, trying to keep himself together.
“Well, good …” whispered Jeanie, squeezing Mustang back. “You deserve them, sweetie.”
Ray, Travis, and Bill all looked at one another and shared the exact same warm-hearted smile. They could tell how much this meant to Mustang.
“Now, though …” said Jeanie, trying to brush off the wave of emotion which had just hit her as she held Mustang out at arm’s-length. “You need to tell me what’s all this I’m hearing from Bill about you not getting to play in the final, though? Cause you just point me in the right direction and me and whoever made that decision will have a nice little chat about why they should consider changing their mind.”
As Mustang laughed at Jeanie’s attempt to lighten the mood – even though she would have, 100%, gone toe-to-toe with Mr. Denby if asked – Ray saw Bill silently and subtly gesturing that he wanted to speak to him about something – and, clearly, in private.
“Here, kid, why don’t you tell Jeanie the whole story while you see what the fit’s like on these beauties, huh?” suggested Ray, looking to buy a moment for him to go speak to Bill in the clandestine manner he was looking for.
“Yeah, ok,” said Mustang, enthusiastically, taking the shoebox back from Ray’s outstretched hand. “I’ll try them on over here, Jeanie.”
With Mustang preoccupied with leading Jeanie over towards the rear of the golf cart so he could try on his new shoes and catch her up on everything that had happened, Ray moved quickly over to Bill’s UTV.
“Alright, what is it?” he whispered, a sense of faint worry staining his voice. “What’s goin’ on?”
“I need to show you somethin’,” answered Bill, mirroring Ray’s hushed tone as he reached into the pocket on his cargo shorts. “When I first saw Jeanie down at the clubhouse, I got out of the UTV to go speak to her, right? You know, to see what she was doin’ here. Well, after I offered to give her a ride up here ‘cause she said she was lookin’ for you two, we sat into the UTV and this …”. At that, Bill pulled a small, folded-up piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Ray. “Was after bein’ left on my seat.”
Ray discreetly opened up the piece of paper and read aloud the short message which had been neatly written on it in the most elegant of penmanship. “Tell Ray to get Mustang to the 1st tee before 3 p.m … Skip.”
With the confusion he was now feeling causing his forehead to wrinkle and his brow to furrow, Ray looked at Bill. “Why would he want Mustang there?” he asked, more in an effort to try and help himself figure out the answer as opposed to looking for Bill to do the legwork for him.
“I dunno,” replied Bill, shaking his head. “But if Skip’s the one who’s askin’, you’ve gotta think it’s cause he’s got a legitimate reason, right?”
“Yeah,” said Ray, warily, as he reread the note to himself. “I guess you’re right.”
“So … what are you gonna do?” asked Bill, not wanting to pressure Ray into making a decision, but feeling it necessary to push him in that direction. “Cause it’s nearly three.”
Ray let out a heavy sigh as he refolded the piece of paper. After the day they’d had up until that point he was reluctant to put Mustang through any more unnecessary stress. But, in the back of his mind, what Bill had said made sense – this was Skip they were talking about. He wouldn’t drag Mustang into anything for no good reason – Ray, whether it was right or wrong, trusted his gut on that. So, he made up his mind.
“Hey, kid?” he said, turning back around and looking over towards the cart. “You got those shoes on yet?”
“Yep!” answered a beaming Mustang, standing up from where he’d been sitting on the back of the cart to give Ray a proper look at him in his new shoes. “And they fit perfectly too! See?!”
“Well, that’s great …” smiled Ray, though it was clear he had more on his mind. “How ‘bout we go show ‘em off?”
*
By the time the convoy of Ray, Travis, and Mustang in the golf cart, and Bill and Jeanie in the UTV, arrived at the 1st tee it had, as expected, already transformed into a full-blown circus.
Lured by the promise of several hundred paying customers, a number of different food trucks – serving everything from tacos and Cubanos to ice-cream and snow cones – had set up shop outside the clubhouse some sixty yards away and were already well into the process of filling the air with all number of wallet-opening aromas.
Those members of the Tournament Committee who’d avoided being roped in to become ‘ad hoc’ stewards were all gathered together on the porch outside the clubhouse, drinks in hand and chatting as they sported their official Crescent Creek blazers – which, considering they were made from quite heavy wool and the mercury was showing it was currently in the mid-80s and climbing, was purely a symbolic gesture on their part to mark themselves out as different.
There was a significantly increased media presence, even from what there had been earlier that morning, with Melvin Burbage now joined by not only other print and social media journalists, but even Connie Burkhart and Ted DiBruglia – two minorly famous sports reporters from competing local radio stations – had found their way to the Creek in search of a story and were already broadcasting live to their respective listeners.
And then, of course, there was the crowd themselves, who, having completely surrounded all three sides of the tee, had now splintered off into different pockets that saw some of them after migrating further off down the fairway in search of a better vantage point, whilst others had already made the call to stake a claim on a spot up around the green some 400-plus yards away.
Yet, amongst this sea of humanity all eagerly awaiting for the clock to strike three, Ray – having told Travis, Bill, and Jeanie to stay with the vehicles while he and Mustang ventured closer to the tee-box – only had eyes for those people actually gathered on the 1st tee. Skip and Byron were already in place with their respective caddies and making gentle swings with their drivers to keep themselves as loose as possible. Reginald Pinkly was ready and waiting to get the festivities underway in his role as the ‘Tournament Starter’, except between the nerves he was feeling over having to do exactly that in front of the biggest crowd of the weekend and the fact he, too, was now wearing a despicably warm Crescent Creek blazer, he was currently experiencing quite a severe case of ‘flop sweat’ that made him appear as though he’d just stepped out of the shower.
And then, finally, there were the two blazer-clad people standing at the back of the tee-box. Two people Ray just knew were only loving the sight they were seeing before them as they spoke quietly to one another with decidedly smarmy-looking expressions plastered across their matching red faces – Mr. Denby and Truman Ballas.
“So, what do we do now?” asked Mustang, unknowingly quelling the anger which had just begun to flicker in Ray’s stomach at seeing Denby and Truman.
“Well, Skip’s note said to get you to the 1st tee …” replied Ray, refusing to allow the red mist to even get a sniff at clouding his judgement once again. “So, let’s just do that.”
“But if I’m not playing, I’m not allowed on the tee, right?” said Mustang, pointing out the obvious problem with Ray’s plan.
Just before he could go about allaying Mustang’s concerns, the crackling sound of Reginald turning on his microphone and speaker – which, immediately, created an irritating amount of distortion and feedback in the process – interrupted Ray.
“Uh … good afternoon, ladies and … uh … ladies and gentlemen,” said Reginald, his nervous voice drowning out the general din of the crowd and making them fall silent. “For those of you joining us for the first time this weekend, allow me to welcome you to … uh … this, the 40th edition of the Memorial Matchplay here at Crescent Creek Golf Club – give yourselves a warm hand.”
With the crowd, as instructed, settling into a polite round of applause, Ray turned quickly back to Mustang and said, “Right, come on, it’s starting – now’s our chance!”
Before he could rush off, however, Mustang grabbed Ray by the arm and pulled him back.
“What do you mean ‘now’s our chance’?!” he hissed. “What is?!”
“To get onto the tee,” replied Ray, matter-of-factly, as Reginald returned to addressing the crowd now that they’d stopped clapping. “Denby won’t want to cause a scene by tryna’ get us to leave in front of all these people when they’re lookin’ directly at it – it’s perfect!”
Again, Ray made a move towards hurrying off in the direction of the tee just as Reginald began the monotonous task of naming every member of the Tournament Committee; but, once more, before he could get even so much as a single step away, he felt the familiar grasp of Mustang’s hand on his elbow.
“I still dunno about this!” hissed Mustang, again. “What if you get in trouble?! Or fired?!”
“Don’t worry, I won’t be doin’ anythin’ stupid. We’re just gonna do what Skip said and stand on the tee – that’s it. I mean, what’s Denby gonna fire me for? Standing? I don’t think so.”
Able to tell that he was still feeling somewhat hesitant about the whole plan, Ray placed a reassuring hand on Mustang’s shoulder. “Trust me,” he said, smiling. “It’ll be fine.”
“Alright …” replied Mustang, nodding his head. “But nothing stupid, ok?! I mean it!”
“I promise,” vowed Ray, placing his hand over his heart. “Now, come on, Reginald’s just about to start the introductions for Skip and Byron.”
After quickly sneaking down the roped-off path bisecting the crowd at the rear of the tee-box – and receiving quite the number of confused looks from those behind the ropes – Ray and Mustang crept as subtly as they could onto the tee and took up a position just beyond the end of the path. Despite their best efforts to avoid detection, however, their presence was immediately noticed by a quietly furious-looking Mr. Denby and Truman Ballas just as Reginald began to make the official introductions.
“And so, without further ado …” said Reginald, his sweating looking all the more profuse now that Ray and Mustang were but a few yards away from him. “Allow me, if you will, to i-introduce the players who will be battling it out in this year’s final to have the honour of being crowned the 2020 Memorial Matchplay Champion.”
With his face growing even redder on account of the anger he was feeling, Mr. Denby glared over at where Ray and Mustang were standing as Reginald began to rattle off the long list of tournament wins and personal accolades he’d been given by Truman to read out as part of Byron’s introduction.
‘What the hell are you doing here?!’ mouthed Mr. Denby silently.
“Sorry …” whispered a smiling Ray, pointing hopelessly at his ear. “I can’t hear you!”
With that serving to only infuriate him even further, Mr. Denby turned away and began having a whispered emergency meeting with Truman, who, himself, was now looking noticeably on edge.
Something was up. He could smell it.
Having seen the commotion with Mr. Denby and Truman out of the corner of his eye, Skip turned around from where he was standing next to his caddie and looked towards the entrance into the tee-box. When he saw Ray and Mustang standing there, though, Skip, immediately, got the biggest smile on his face – his note had, obviously, worked. With his pearly-white teeth still flashing, Skip nodded knowingly over at Ray, which he then promptly returned with one of his own.
Truman was right to feel nervous. There was something definitely up. And, at that moment, it was firmly hidden up Skip’s sleeve.
“And, finally …” said Reginald, sounding relieved to be at the end of Byron’s lengthy introduction. “The winner of the 2019 Louisiana State Junior Championship by a record winning margin of ten shots … from New Orleans, Louisiana … Byron Ballas!”
As the crowd, again, fulfilled their duty of politely breaking into a round of applause, a smug-looking Byron began to wave to and salute those gathered around the tee. When he turned to greet his “adoring public” on the opposite side of the tee, however, that’s when Byron saw Ray and, most importantly, Mustang, standing near the entrance to the tee-box.
And he froze.
Seeing the impact his mere presence had on Byron, a smiling Mustang slipped one of his hands out of the pocket on his jeans and waved over at him – a move that did not go down well with Byron.
Looking as though he’d just seen a ghost, Byron – now desperate for answers as to why Mustang was on the tee – turned sharply around and glared over at where his father and Mr. Denby were still desperately trying to concoct what their next move should be. The most Truman could give Byron, though, was a quick shrug of his shoulders before silently gesturing at him to ‘stay calm’ – as long as they got the match underway in the next thirty seconds, everything would be fine. They just needed to hold the line for a little longer.
“And his opponent …” said Reginald, taking his cue to speak as the round of applause from the crowd began to peter out. “He is the defending champion of the Memorial Matchplay Tournament …”.
As fun and all as it had been to send Mr. Denby, Truman and Byron scrambling to figure out why they were on the tee, with Reginald now in the process of introducing Skip – and, thus, all but starting the match – Ray was beginning to rethink why exactly Skip had wanted him and Mustang to show up. Was it really part of some ‘plan’ like he and Bill had assumed it was? Or had Skip merely used them as pawns to throw Byron off his game?
“From Atlanta, Georgia!” continued Reginald, the sound of his voice pulling Ray from his head and back onto the tee. “Skip Deve-…”
“WAIT!”
Like a clap of summer thunder, a man’s voice boomed over the sound of the speaker and, such was his surprise, left Reginald with no alternative but to cut himself off before finishing Skip’s name.
Eager to see who the owner of the voice had been, everyone both on and surrounding the 1st tee turned and looked in the rough direction of where it had bellowed from.
“How dare someone interrupt the official introductions like that!” barked Mr. Denby, craning his neck and getting up onto his tippy-toes in a futile effort to see over the crowd and identify the perpetrator. “Who was that?! Show yourself!”
Before they knew what was happening, the sound of footsteps walking down the path which led to the tee-box pricked Mustang’s and Ray’s ears, meaning, whoever the owner of the voice had been was now right behind them – so, the pair of them immediately turned around and looked back down the path.
To Mustang it was just some older gentleman in his mid-to-late 60s with snow-white hair who was wearing a white linen shirt and straw fedora with a pair of light-coloured trousers, braces, and brown loafers.
To Ray, however … well, he knew exactly who he was looking at. And he knew just how big a deal it was that he was actually here – he just couldn’t quite believe that it was really happening.
The man walked past Mustang and Ray, and stepped out onto the 1st tee for everyone to see.
“Oh, come now, Gordon …” he said, addressing Mr. Denby by his first name as he charismatically removed his hat. “It, surely, ain’t be that long, has it?”
Just like had happened to Ray, now that Mr. Denby – along with everyone else on the 1st tee – could see who the ‘vocal spectator’ had been, they all got looks on their faces like they couldn’t believe what they were seeing.
Well, except for Skip, of course. Because this had been his plan all along.
“Who is that?” asked Mustang, whispering to Ray, who was now just standing with his mouth slightly agape as he took in the sight of the man as if BigFoot, himself, had just rocked onto the 1st tee.
What Mustang didn’t count on, however, was that the man had overheard his question.
“The name’s Beau, kid …” he said, this aura of charm just emanating effortlessly from him as he reached out for a handshake. “Beau LaFleur. And I take it you must be Mustang.”