“Ok, page 331 … 331 …” Mustang said quietly to himself as he flicked backwards from the index in search of the page he needed, the faintly musty smell emanating from the paper reassuringly familiar. “Ah, ok … the Walker Cup.”
Despite his insistence that they didn’t need to make a fuss or buy him anything, when Mustang had woken up on the morning of his birthday the previous month – his first one without his mom around – the pile of neatly wrapped presents he found waiting for him when he walked into the kitchen quickly told him that his requests had fallen on deaf ears. Travis had sent him his usual gift of a birthday card with a crisp $20 bill inside. There’d been a box of Bridgestone golf balls from Bill, ones he’d had specially personalized so that the number on each ball was ‘16’ to commemorate what his seeding had been in the Memorial. Even though she’d only bought him a new pair of golf shoes for the final of the Memorial back in May, Jeanie – being as generous as she was – had gone and gotten him some really cool golf clothes to go with them that, unlike what he’d had to wear against Kretschko, Blackridge, and Skip, weren’t a few sizes too big and/or raided from a ‘Lost & Found’ bin. And, if all that wasn’t enough, Ray had bought him a brand new set of golf clubs too – as in, driver, woods, a putter, and some brand new blades as well.
Except for a new 5-iron, of course; that spot still belonged to his trusty 1964 Arnold Palmer Tru-matic.
There had been one other present on the kitchen table that morning, though. One wrapped simply with brown paper and string. No card saying who it was from. A book. One that, as per the neatly written inscription on the inside cover, had once been gifted to Beau and that he now wanted Mustang to have. The very same book that Mustang was, currently, trying to keep steady as Ray weaved Maisie along the final stretch of pockmarked road that led to the Creek.
“Trophy Hunter: A Champion’s Guide to Golf’s Most Coveted Prizes” by William T. Beckwith was a thick, beaten-up paperback with yellowing pages and tiny black print that Mustang had been steadily devouring ever since his birthday – and it was like taking a crash course in golf history. He’d learned about the history of all the Major Championships, both in the men’s and women’s games. He’d poured over the detailed descriptions of some of the famous courses that had hosted each championship from Royal Troon on the west coast of Scotland all the way to the links overlooking the Pacific at Pebble Beach. And he’d so carefully studied the detailed sketches of the trophies the book spoke about that, if blindfolded and put into a room with them, he was pretty confident he’d be able to tell which trophy was which. What it was now proving to be most useful for, however – given he’d yet to make it to the amateur section of the book – was enlightening to him as to what exactly the Walker Cup was.
“Established in 1922 following the popularity of an unofficial contest the previous year at Royal Liverpool Golf Club,” said Mustang, reading aloud over the guttural rumbling of Maisie’s engine. “The Walker Cup Match – so named after its founder, George H. Walker (the maternal grandfather and great-grandfather of former Presidents George H.W. Bush and George W. Bush respectively) – is a biennial …” Mustang stopped reading and looked over at Ray. “What does ‘biennial’ mean?”
“Something that happens every two years,” Ray answered.
“Aw, ok …” said Mustang, before looking back down at his book and continuing to read from where he’d left off. “Is a biennial event for male amateur golfers which sees two 10-man teams, one representing the United States of America, the other, Great Britain and Ireland, compete in a two-day long contest for the Tiffany & Co. made USGA International Challenge Trophy – or, as it’s more commonly known, the Walker Cup.”
Closing the book, but keeping his thumb marking the page, Mustang looked over at Ray again. “So, it’s like the Ryder Cup, then?”
“Sorta, yeah,” said Ray, readjusting the brim of his hat so that it better shielded his eyes from the bright morning sun hanging irritatingly low in the sky. “I mean, it’s still based around ‘match play’ but the format is a little different. Plus, the Ryder Cup is for pros from the whole of Europe against our guys, but … yeah, it’s the same idea.”
“Oh, ok …” said Mustang, turning his attention out through the windshield for a second to file away everything Ray had just said before reopening his book and taking to scanning back down through the page he’d marked. After only a few more seconds of quiet studying, however, another question quickly presented itself to Mustang. “The role of hosting the match switches back and forth between the USGA and R&A, and, as a result, has seen the match play out on some of the most famous courses in the world, from Winged Foot and Shinnecock Hills in the United States to the Old Course at St. Andrews and Royal County Down in Great Britain and Ireland.” Again, Mustang looked at Ray. “So, where’s this year’s match being played?” he asked. “Here or over there?”
“Oh, I only read it in the paper last week …” sighed Ray, frustratedly, as he began trying to coax down the name of the course in question from its perch on the tip of his tongue. “It’s in Florida … uh … it’s not Streamsong … it’s S- … S- … Seminole! That’s the one!” Delighted to have thought of it, Ray turned and glanced over at Mustang. “It’s Seminole,” he said, proudly repeating his answer as if speaking to the host of a game show. “That’s where it’s gonna be this year.”
“Hmm, never heard of it,” Mustang said, shaking his head. “What about the players who’ve played in it, though?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, is there anyone I’d know who’s played in it?”
One of the things Ray had enjoyed the most since Mustang had come to live with him was seeing him become more and more obsessed with golf; and not just the ‘playing’ side of it, but actually learning about the game itself and all of the top players, both past and present. And what this meant in practice, is that ever since his birthday back in July, whenever they’d be on their lunch break at the Creek – cramming in enough food to give themselves sufficient energy to last through another long afternoon of caddying – or when they’d finally get back home in the evenings, when he hadn’t been reading the book Beau had gotten him, Mustang had been burying his head in his phone watching YouTube videos of all the greats Ray had told him about. So, he’d seen Jack Nicklaus build his hoard of eighteen Majors. He’d discovered why Arnold Palmer was the kind of man who’d have his name on golf clubs. He’d watched Gary Player defy the odds and become one of the few players to complete the career grand slam and win all four Majors. He’d gone down the rabbit hole that is watching the endless hours of highlights that prove Tiger Woods is a wizard. Or an alien. Or an alien wizard. In short, he’d seen everybody. And, as a result, he wanted to know everything he could about them.
“Oh man, yeah,” confirmed Ray, flicking on Maisie’s turn signal as they got within eyeshot of the entrance into the Creek. “Nicklaus, Monty, Tiger, Phil, Rory, Rickie, Jordan, DJ, Bryson – and I could go on, but I think you get the idea. Those Walker Cup rosters? They can run real deep.”
After easing onto her brakes just enough to have her gently coast up to it, Ray guided Maisie smoothly in through the open gates of the Creek’s entrance. Now out of the direct path of the sun thanks to the tall banks of trees lining the avenue, Ray, with the relief of not being semi-blinded anymore, readjusted his hat so that it wasn’t sitting so low over his eyes and, much to Maisie’s approval, stepped on the gas.
“And do you think that could be why Dallas wants to see me?” Mustang asked, posing the question somewhat hesitantly, as if he didn’t want to fully open himself up to the possibility that it might actually be true. “Because he wants me to be on this year’s team?”
“I dunno, kid,” replied Ray, taking his eyes, momentarily, off of the sun-dappled avenue in front of him to look over at Mustang. “I mean, it could be, but … I really dunno. It just depends on how many slots he’s already filled on the team, I guess.”
Feeling unsure as to whether Ray’s non-committal answer was really what he wanted to hear or not, Mustang fell silent for a second or two. Deep down, he knew that he did want it to be true; that they’d arrive at the clubhouse, Beau would introduce them to Dallas, and he’d tell him that he did, indeed, want him to go to Florida as part of the team. But as Mustang had learned the hard way over the years, in his experience? ‘Hope’ was a dangerous thing to have. So, as per usual, he did his best to quell it.
“And does he pick everybody on the team? Mustang asked, his stomach starting to feel a little queasy as they passed the point he’d come to recognise as being halfway up the avenue.
“Naw, there’s some guys who automatically earn a spot in the team, I think,” answered Ray, his face screwing up in concentration as he tried to recall that same article he’d read in the newspaper the previous week as it had outlined what the exact selection process was. “Like, the top three Americans in the world amateur rankings get a spot; and if there’s an American winner of the U.S. Amateur, they get a spot as well.”
“Ok, but what happens with someone like Fletcher then?” Mustang said, posing the question as if feeling stumped by a particularly complicated brain teaser. “Cause he won the U.S. Amateur and he’s number one in the rankings? So, what happens then?”
Ray let out a heavy sigh. “Again, kid, I really dunno,” he said, sounding just as stumped as Mustang was after trying to untie the ‘mental knot’ that was the question he’d asked. “But luckily for us? We’re about to meet the one guy who can tell us for sure.”
*
After completing the final leg of their journey in nervous silence, Ray wheeled Maisie around in front of the clubhouse and brought her to a stop. Having been waiting patiently for them to arrive, Beau stepped down off the porch as Maisie’s engine fell silent and Ray and Mustang popped open their doors.
“Morning, gentlemen,” Beau said, his usual bright and cheerful voice easily cutting through the pristine morning stillness that had yet to be tainted by too many people descending on the Creek. “My apologies for dragging you all the way out here so early; I know you’ve had a long two days of travelling.”
Though he’d actively avoided coming to the Creek after the untimely death of his brother, Henri, a few years previously, ever since Skip had convinced him to come to the Memorial in order to make sure Mustang would get to play in the final against Byron Ballas, Beau had, once again, become a regular fixture at the Creek. And after so many years of the cantankerous Mr. Denby running the show and walking around as if he owned the place, it was a welcome change of pace to have the actual owner back where he belonged on a daily basis.
“Believe you me, Mr. LaFleur,” replied Ray, as the solid thud from him closing his door echoed loudly around the deserted exterior of the clubhouse. “When you find out that Dallas Rugger, of all people, is lookin’ to meet you?! It ain’t no trouble!”
Having wondered why Ray had been saying his name with such giddy reverence from the moment he’d found out he was waiting for them at the Creek, after taking up the first part of their drive to the course explaining who exactly he was, Mustang now had a far better understanding as to why he wasn’t just about to meet some guy called ‘Dallas Rugger’.
No, he was about to meet the Dallas Rugger, basketball Hall of Famer.
Though he’d played well before Mustang’s time, according to Ray, Dallas was one of the very best shooting guards of not only his generation but of all time. After getting drafted to the Wyoming Eagles in the late 60s – where, in just his rookie season, he put the team on his young back and, for the first time in franchise history, carried them all the way to the second round of the Western Conference Playoffs – Dallas, three seasons later, wound up making the move that would come to define his career when he headed east and signed for the Kansas City Lions. By the time he then hung up his sneakers ten years later in the early 80s, Dallas had helped build the Lions into one of the most powerful dynasties in basketball, secured his path into the Hall of Fame, and won an impressive seven championships.
Not content to just fade into obscurity and enjoy his retirement, however, Dallas’ thirst for silverware couldn’t be quenched and, as a result, he turned his attention to trying to become one of the very best amateur golfers in the country after becoming hooked on the game courtesy of playing big-money matches with his head coach at Kansas City – and fellow Hall of Famer – Buddy Bates. And, just like had been the case before he swapped varnished hardwood floors for tightly mown fairways and greens, Dallas, once again, proved his credentials as a bonafide winner as, in the span of a decade, he went on to become the only person in history to win the U.S. Amateur, the U.S. Mid-Amateur, and the U.S. Public Links Championship.
In short, while there was no such thing as the “perfect” résumé with which to get yourself considered to be the Walker Cup Captain? Dallas’ would come pretty darn close.
“And how ‘bout you, Mustang?” asked Beau. “You as excited to meet Dallas as old Ray here is?”
“I guess so,” Mustang answered, arriving in front of Beau and, as per usual, shaking his outstretched wrinkled hand. “Though, to be honest, I’m more nervous than anything else – especially after hearing how much of a big deal he is.”
“Aw, no need to be nervous,” said Beau, reassuringly, as he turned and shook Ray’s hand as well. “Dallas happens to be an old friend of mine and, trust me, behind all the records and … accomplishments, and what have you? He’s just like you and me.”
“Ok … if you say so,” smiled Mustang, feeling a little less nervous about the whole situation.
Beau smiled warmly. “At a boy! Now, come on – let’s go get you two properly introduced, huh?”
“Lead the way,” answered Ray, placing one of his large hands on Mustang’s shoulder and giving it an encouraging squeeze. “Is he in the Members’ Bar or …?”
“No, he’s not in the Members’ Bar,” replied Beau, a touch cryptically, as he turned on his heels and began to walk towards the side of the clubhouse. “He’s actually down on 18.”
“Oh? Did he decide to get in a few holes or somethin’?” asked Ray, quickly doing the mental math to try and figure out what ungodly hour Dallas would have had to have gone out at that morning to already be at the 18th.
“No, not quite …” answered Beau, his words, again, tinged with an undeniable sense of mystery as their convoy reached the rear of the clubhouse where the familiar view of Crescent Creek’s famous 18th hole stretching off away from them greeted Mustang and Ray.
Except this particular morning, however, that same ‘familiar view’ just so happened to look a little different than it normally did.
For there, sitting smack bang in the middle of the sun-soaked 18th fairway, neatly parked on the grass about 190-yards out from the green, was a small airplane.
And about 10-yards away from it, standing at the edge of the lake that ran all the way up the left-hand side of the hole, his back to the clubhouse and a fishing rod in hand, was the plane’s owner – one, Dallas Rugger.
“So … what was that you were saying about Dallas being just like you and me, again?” Mustang asked Beau, dryly, as he and Ray stared off in wide-eyed disbelief at the bizarre scene laying before them.
“Well, he is …” replied Beau, the delight in his voice matched by the wide grin on his face as he looked at Mustang. “For the most part.”
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