Written by Stephen F. Moloney
Having carefully slid his coin in behind it, Mustang plucked his ball up off the green and began to walk back over towards where Ray was waiting on the fringe just beyond the front-left bunker. He gently tossed his ball to him – as per their usual routine for when they got on any green – and Ray, immediately, set to wiping it with the dirt-stained towel he’d been carrying around all weekend. Once happy that he’d successfully removed any and all particles of dust and grass stains from the dimples on the ball, Ray held it back out for Mustang to take, who, in the interim, had busied himself with tamping down his pitch mark once again with the sole of his putter in order to make sure it was properly flat.
“Thanks,” whispered Mustang, taking the ball and slipping it into the pocket on his jeans for safekeeping.
Now, technically, ‘off the clock’ until it was Mustang’s turn to putt – and not getting the sense that he was much in the mood for chatting as he had turned his gaze out over the lake in the direction of the 15th tee-box – Ray, after slinging the towel over his shoulder, decided to take a moment just for himself to try and drink in the scene that he, suddenly, found himself at the very centre of.
Byron and his caddie – having looked somewhat shell shocked for a time after seeing what Mustang had managed to conjure up for his second shot – were now already deep into the process of trying to decipher what his putt was going to do, with Byron prowling around the hole and studying his greens book like he was cramming for a test, and his caddie straddling the line between his ball and the hole as part of his aim pointing process.
To the right of the green, Bill had parked the golf cart he’d been chauffeuring Travis and Jeanie around in all day at the bottom of the stairs that led up the bank to the clubhouse – stairs on which a stern-looking Truman and Mr. Denby were watching from – and the three of them were now all standing nervously out in the rough alongside those players from the Memorial who’d chosen to hang around for the weekend despite being eliminated; some of which included the trio of players Mustang had seen off en route to the final in Wilford Kretschko, Horton Blackridge, and, of course, Skip.
And then, off behind Ray, in a move more akin to what you’d see on the final hole of a Major, the crowd that had squeezed in around Old Abe to see Mustang’s miraculous recovery shot had now taken to occupying a position that saw them stretching right the way across the fairway in front of the green, forcing the stewards to form a human chain in order to keep them from encroaching any further on the putting surface.
The one notable absentee Ray couldn’t help but notice from this picture, though, was the very person who’d ensured he was actually getting to see it all from the relative isolation of the green – Beau. So, much like a real-life version of ‘Where’s Waldo?’, Ray began scanning the sea of faces surrounding the 18th for that of Beau’s.
As the possibility that perhaps he had just left the Creek began to take a firmer foothold in his mind with each passing second that his scan turned up no sign of him, however, movement from up on the second floor of the clubhouse suddenly caught Ray’s eye. Shifting his attention high up above the crowd, the flickering of the net curtains behind the glass doors which led out onto the balcony of the ‘LaFleur Suite’ betrayed the fact there was someone pottering around inside the famous old room – and, realistically, it could really only be one person.
Sure enough, a few seconds later, the glass doors opened out and, like a king making an understated return to his rightful place on the throne, Beau slipped out through the net curtains and took up a position leaning his two hands on the balustrade fronting the balcony. Whilst taking in the sight of his demesne, a nostalgic smile causing the already present wrinkles on his face to grow even deeper, Beau’s gaze, naturally, wandered over the green and, inevitably, met that of Ray’s.
Though feeling a surge of panic as he hadn’t game-planned for what he’d do if he actually saw him looking up there, Ray was relieved to see Beau set the precedent for their interaction by smiling down at him and lifting his hand up to his forehead to give him a casual salute with his first two fingers. Promptly returning Beau’s greeting with a smile and subtle salute of his own, Ray turned his attention back down onto the green to give Beau some privacy in what must have, undoubtedly, been a somewhat bittersweet return to the balcony for the first time without Henri at his side.
In the time he’d been otherwise preoccupied, however, Ray was surprised to now find that Byron was practically ready-to-go with his birdie putt, as his caddie had removed the flag and moved down to the same lower tier of the green where he and Mustang were standing; whatever read he’d deduced from his aim pointing, clearly, already after being divulged with the same level of secrecy as the nuclear codes.
And, yet, as Byron remained down on his haunches, leaning against his putter for support, and still carefully scrutinizing the line between his replaced ball and the hole, Ray – just like he had with Mustang back at 17 – couldn’t help but get the impression that he looked uncomfortable. It was almost as if, despite their thorough dissection of each one of the seventeen feet separating his ball from the bottom of the cup, he still didn’t quite trust what he was seeing in front of him.
And Ray couldn’t blame him.
Because where the pin was on 18, it wasn’t just its proximity to the lake that had seen it become the traditional pin position for the final of the Memorial – though, that was, of course, a big part of the reason the hole was cut there – but it was also what seemed to happen to putts in that part of the green which made it so alluring for the Tournament Committee year after year.
Enigmatic. Unpredictable. Even downright diabolical. These were just some of the words that had been used to describe the small area of green in the top left corner of the 18th over the years; words which, for a Tournament Committee, spell out their favourite one of all – ‘drama’. And with good reason too.
See, just like Old Abe gobbling up golf balls, this tiny portion of green had repeatedly shown its credentials in having the innate ability to, without fail, utterly bewilder the two golfers burdened with the unfortunate task of having to try and navigate their way through it every Sunday afternoon of the Memorial Day weekend – because, so tough was this section of the green, the pin was only ever actually placed there for the Memorial Matchplay, as to do otherwise would risk inciting a full-blown insurrection among the membership.
Because regardless of what side or what angle you seemed to come at it from, such was the scale and reach of the labyrinth of subtle, sly breaks lurking beneath the surface of the green, there was not a single putt to be had around that pin which one could describe as ‘easy’ – even 4-inch tap-ins required nothing less than maximum concentration and all the mettle you could spare.
What was perhaps most mysterious about this portion of the green, though – and what Ray was sure was the thing stumping Byron – was the fact that, like ever-shifting sands in the desert, it seemed to forever be changing and evolving. For instance, you could go and drop a few balls in that area of the green and stay rolling putts for an hour with the aim of finally cracking its code once and for all, but depending on the day, the season, or even the weather, the only thing you’d end up with is a sore back and a plethora of contradictory data.
Because a putt that, one day in the middle of spring, you’re absolutely convinced is left-to-right and one cup outside the left edge, could, come the summer, leave you completely baffled because, against all logic, it now seems to be going right-to-left and three cups outside the right edge; it was like visiting one of those weird towns where water runs uphill and dogs meow instead of bark – it doesn’t make any sense, yet there you are seeing it happen before your very eyes.
Having been caddying at the Creek for eight whole years, however, and having seen countless people – from members to guests – always take a moment at the end of their rounds to roll some putts in that portion of the green, Ray had, by way of osmosis, collected thousands of hours worth of footage depicting how balls tended to break at innumerous different speeds from countless different locations within the bounds of Crescent Creek’s equivalent to the Bermuda Triangle.
And from where Byron was about to putt? The closest reference points Ray had in his library had Byron’s ball breaking one of two ways depending on what approach he wanted to take. He could either try and die it in the hole by starting it on a line just off to his right, which would see him have to contend with a lot of break and a delicate putt to get the pace correct on; or, if he wanted to take more control over the putt, he could opt to try and bring it from the left-hand side with a firmer stroke that would see him only have to contend with one more manageable break, but at the pace he’d have to put on it, if he didn’t get the read exactly right? Then because of the deceptively fast slope lying beyond the hole, he could end up not only leaving himself a tricky four or five-footer back for par, but possibly even run the risk of winding up in the fringe above the lake.
The margins were that fine – hence, why Byron, currently, had his two hands clasped around his eyes to shield them from what sunlight was still managing to creep up over the horizon and onto the green in order to see as much of the two lines as possible in order to make a decision.
“Now, make sure you watch how this rolls, kid …” whispered Ray, nudging Mustang with his elbow as Byron, finally, picked up his coin from behind his ball a moment or two later and returned to his feet. “Cause yours is on a pretty similar line.”
With his eyes already trained on him as is for that very reason, Mustang just quietly nodded his head in response and continued to watch as Byron stalked his way in towards his ball having taken the few steps back from it which, like himself, he always took to initiate the beginning of his pre-shot routine.
Recognizing that Byron was now mere seconds away from hitting his putt, the general hum of hushed excitement that had been emanating from the crowd since they’d applauded both he and Mustang onto the green at the behest of the Scorekeeper, now gave way to an excited, but nonetheless impeccable, silence as Byron addressed his ball. From the practice putting strokes he began to take whilst looking off at the hole, Ray was pretty confident that Byron was looking to dial in the feel for the ‘left & firm’ route he’d been thinking about, as each pass he took with the putter had a very definitive ‘pop’ to it – even if it was just thin air he was putting for the moment.
Once confident he had the requisite feel coursing through his fingertips, Byron gently placed the head of his putter in behind his ball and assumed his final stance. After a few more looks back and forth along the line he was looking to roll it down – combined with a lot of twitchy wiggling to stop himself from seizing up and getting too stiff – Byron dropped his eyes back over his ball for the final time.
He was ready to go.
With that, Byron drew his putter back to just outside the outer edge of his right shoe, rocked his shoulders smoothly back in the opposite direction, and sent the head of the putter colliding into the back of his ball, causing it to shoot off the precisely milled face with the exact ‘pop’ he’d been looking for with his practice strokes. As it hungrily ate up the first few feet of its journey, however – skidding across the green, at first, before settling into a smooth roll – Byron’s ball, suddenly, found itself with a tsunami-like wave of noise close on its heels as the crowd, once again, was free to shout “GO IN!” and “GET IN THE HOLE!” as vigorously and disjointedly as they wanted.
And going on how it looked as it passed the halfway mark to the hole, Byron’s ball appeared to be listening quite closely.
As ‘in the hole’ was exactly where it looked to be headed.
Because the line it was on? Perfect. The pace it was carrying? Perfect. In fact, every marker Ray had in his head of the putts he’d seen on a similar line, Byron’s ball was ticking each and every one of them off with all the proficiency of a World Champion Skier crushing a slalom run. And, as it got to within five feet of the cup, nothing looked as though it was going to stop it from getting to its finish line.
Nothing.
Because 5-feet out?
It took the break to the right it needed to.
4-feet out?
It straightened-up on its new line and began to head directly for the hole.
3-feet out?
The crowd up on the bank readied themselves to roar.
2-feet out?
Byron raised his putter triumphantly up into the air.
1-foot out?
He coiled back his free hand in anticipation of delivering the mother of all fist-pumps for when it went in.
His ball hit the left edge of the hole …
It peeked down into the bottom of the cup …
BUT THEN LIPPED OUT!
The ‘cheer’ that had been building up inside the crowd to salute what they had deemed to be the inevitability of his ball dropping into the hole now released itself, instead, in the form of a horrified gasp as Byron, utterly stunned at what he’d just seen, dropped his putter to the ground and collapsed to his knees. Because there was no way this was actually happening. His ball had looked in the entire way to the hole – half of it had even been beneath the actual rim of the cup.
And, yet, as everyone could now plainly see – having come to a stop less than 2-inches away from it – there was Byron’s ball sitting in the jaws of the hole after suffering the most brutal of horseshoe lip outs.
With his hands now interlocked behind his head – and not really knowing what else to do – Byron turned and looked across the green at where Truman was standing on the stairs. All he could do, however, was just look back at Byron with an equally dumbfounded expression on his face as he continued to struggle to believe what had just happened – just like everyone else around the 18th.
Well, ‘everyone’ except for two people that is.
Because whilst everybody else was still deep in the throes of trying to digest the reality of what they’d just seen, Mustang and Ray simply turned and looked at one another.
No words were exchanged.
None needed to be.
All that was needed was a look.
One that told the other that, yes, they were, indeed, thinking the same thing.
And that was that they both knew exactly what the reality of the situation now was.
That Mustang’s time to putt had arrived.
Except now, all of a sudden, it just so happened to be a putt to win the Memorial Matchplay.