CHAPTER EIGHT: PIRATE LIFE

After the buzz of joining the New Malo Pirates, the rest of Mustang’s first week at St. Nick’s flew by without much in the way of excitement. He became a little more used to Ray’s own particular brand of early morning wake-up calls. He got the hang of getting the school bus to and from New Malo, something which had seen him get on a first name basis with Mr and Mrs Trudeau as it was outside their store where the bus picked him up every morning. The prospect of navigating his way around the labyrinth of hallways and creaking wooden staircases that made up the maze-like interior of St. Nick’s had slowly become less intimidating and, as a result, no longer made him feel as though walking around with breadcrumbs in his pocket would be a prudent idea. And he’d even developed a comprehensive inventory of all of his teachers, one in which he’d separated them into those whose classes he knew he could relax in – like Sister Assumpta’s art class – and those where he just had to put his head down and hope he made it through without finding himself on the receiving end of an apocalyptic-level dressing down like those provided by his history teacher, Mr Robbins; a class where the atmosphere was so unbearably tense, it would make defusing a nuclear bomb seem like you were spending the day having a picnic in the park.

Late Friday afternoon, however, just as school had let out for the day after a double period of Spanish with Ms Guerrero – a teacher, luckily, more on Sister Assumpta’s end of the spectrum compared to the dictator-like Mr Robbins – Mustang, upon going to grab his things from his locker before heading for the bus, found something waiting for him that, immediately, made the outlook for his weekend appear far more interesting. For, wedged into one of the small vents on the door of his locker, carefully written on official school stationery, was a note from Fr. Breen. And after taking up the first few lines by apologizing for the fact he hadn’t been able to tell him the news in person – because, unsurprisingly, he was ducking out early to go golfing for the afternoon – the crux of Fr. Breen’s note was to tell Mustang that the New Malo Pirates would be having their first team practice of the new season the following morning at the municipal course in Copperhead Springs.

“Jimmy’s Jungle?!” Bill had laughed when Mustang had shown him and Ray the note after getting dropped off at the Creek by the school bus. “That’s where they play out of?! Oh man!”

“So, should I take that to mean it’s a really difficult course?” Mustang had, of course, asked, calling out the question from where he was getting changed into his golf gear in the caddies’ area of the workshop. “Or that it’s just not very good?”

“It’s kinda a bit of both,” Ray had answered, choosing to be the voice of reason as Bill was still too busy quietly chuckling to himself.

From there, Ray had gone on to explain how the muni in Copperhead Springs had first opened as an ultra-exclusive private golf club in the mid-70s when local “businessman”, Jimmy Santorini, had looked to “diversify his assets” by buying up a plot of disused land on the outskirts of Copperhead Springs and building a golf course on it. Less than five years later, though, once the origins of his substantial wealth were found to have come from a series of underhanded and fraudulent endeavours, Jimmy – courtesy of his dear friends at the FBI and IRS – was arrested and sentenced to 30-years in prison. With all of his assets, naturally, then seized following his incarceration, among the fleet of expensive cars and large mansions Jimmy had accrued in his years of wheeling and dealing, the decision was taken for his golf course to be handed over to the town of Copperhead Springs and turned into a municipal course for all local residents to enjoy.

And, for a while, that plan worked out great. 

After decades of increasingly severe budget cuts, though, the lack of sufficient funding eventually took its toll on the course and saw it fall from being on a par with Crescent Creek in terms of presentation, to an overgrown, barely playable track worthy of the moniker ‘Jimmy’s Jungle’. And come Saturday morning, as he and Ray rolled in through the gates of Jimmy Santorini’s one-time hideaway and parked Maisie in the near-abandoned parking lot outside the clubhouse, Mustang could see that for himself.

“You know, part of me was thinking that you guys were just screwing with me about this place …” mused Mustang as he took a look around at the home of the New Malo Pirates. “But now that we’re actually here? I kinda wish you had been.”

“Aw, I’m sure it ain’t that bad, really,” Ray answered, rather unconvincingly, as he made his way down the side of the car towards Maisie’s trunk. “It’s just courses like this are always gonna look like week-old Chinese food when the only places you’ve played at are like the turf equivalents of $200 steak.”

Ray reached the trunk and popped it open. The hinges, as per usual, groaned their displeasure at still not having received the oil they so desperately needed.

“Yeah, I guess I have been spoiled with some of the places I’ve got to play at,” agreed Mustang, memories of playing the likes of Bandon Dunes running through his mind as he moved towards the trunk as well.

“Just a little,” Ray grinned, teasingly, as he pulled Mustang’s bag of clubs out of the trunk and placed them down onto the cracked, pale grey asphalt covering the parking lot.

Now smiling himself, Mustang reached into the trunk and pulled out his golf shoes just as a familiar voice called out from up near the clubhouse.

“There he is!” shouted Fr. Breen, his voice soaked with its usual unwavering enthusiasm.

With the trunk emptied of everything he’d be needing, Mustang closed the lid back down and joined Ray in taking in the sight of Fr. Breen walking across the parking lot towards Maisie. Unlike his monochromatic look of all-black-everything he’d grown used to seeing him sporting whenever he’d spotted him walking around St. Nick’s during the week, Mustang was surprised to see Fr. Breen now wearing a bright red golf shirt; a pair of neatly tailored, beige golf shorts; immaculately white tube socks; and a pair of matching white tennis shoes to finish off the look that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a college football coach or a Target employee on vacation.

“I see you weren’t exaggeratin’ about how he looked …” whispered Ray out of the corner of his mouth as he smiled and waved at the still approaching Fr. Breen. “This dude’s in better shape than I am!”

“Well, unlike you, he probably didn’t spend the last few years eating five or six burgers a week just so he could work up the courage to ask a waitress out,” whispered Mustang, stealing a cheeky glance over at a sniggering Ray before calling out to Fr. Breen. “Morning, Father!”

“Good morning, Mustang,” replied Fr. Breen, arriving next to Maisie and immediately looking to shake Ray’s hand. “And hello to you, sir, I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced: I’m Father Michael Breen. You’re Mustang’s guardian, right? Mr Thackett?”

“That I am, Father,” said Ray politely as he returned Fr. Breen’s firm handshake in kind. “Though, please, call me Ray.” 

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Ray,” smiled Fr. Breen, his effortless charm just oozing out of him as he released Ray’s hand and clapped him heartily on the shoulder. “And can I just say how glad I was to find out that you’d decided to let young Mustang join up with our little team here. He’s gonna be a big hit, I can already tell.” 

“Aw, well, no need to thank me,” Ray answered, waving off the mere suggestion that such a thing was necessary. “Once the kid told me about the idea and that he’d like to do it? That was all I needed to hear, really. Plus, I figured it’d be a good way for him to meet some kids his own age and maybe make some friends.”

“Because that doesn’t make me sound like a loser,” said Mustang, jokingly interjecting.

“You know what I mean!” Ray laughed, looking over at Mustang. “After makin’ the move here? And startin’ at a new school? Havin’ a chance to make some buddies will be good for you – unless, of course, you want to stay listenin’ to Bill tell you ‘bout that “top-secret” fertilizer he’s been workin’ on?!”

Though he laughed, Mustang knew that as much as he liked Bill, he had to admit that if he didn’t have to spend another Saturday afternoon listening to him go into intimate detail about the differences brown eggshells and white eggshells had on his fertilizer, that wouldn’t exactly be the worst outcome in the world.

“Well, as I explained to Mustang during the week …” said Fr. Breen, smiling at Ray’s and Mustang’s exchange (and, admittedly, feeling a little curious about Bill’s fertilizer). “One of the biggest perks of this whole thing is that it is, indeed, a great way to meet new friends. I mean, this will be this particular group’s second season together and they’re all thick as thieves – and that’s even with some of them going to different schools.”

“But some of them do go to St. Nick’s, right?” Ray asked, looking to verify what Mustang had told him earlier in the week when he first ran the idea of joining the Pirates by him.

“That they do,” confirmed Fr. Breen, sounding momentarily distracted as he stole a quick moment to drink in some of Maisie’s eye-catching curves and creases. “Donny Fuller and Indie Kwon. Again, as I said to Mustang on Monday, I was hoping he’d have gotten a chance to meet the pair of them this week, but given they both weren’t arriving back from their summer vacations until last night, today will just have to do instead. They’re good kids, though, so I’m sure the three of them will get along like a house on fire.”

“And what about the other three?” Ray asked, capitalizing on his opportunity to get some more detailed information on Mustang’s new teammates after receiving only the bare minimum from him earlier in the week through a series of grunts and disinterested shrugs. “Where do they go to school?”

“Well, Ryan Okada and Logan Caruso? Our two elder statesmen?” explained Fr. Breen, taking to now peering in through the passenger window to get a glimpse of Maisie’s interior. “The pair of them go to the middle school right here in Copperhead Springs – though, this will be their final year there before moving on to high school.” Having seen what he needed to of the time capsule that was Maisie’s interior, her worn leather seats and carpeted floor reminding him of his beloved bright orange 1972 Corvette he had in the seminary, Fr. Breen stood back up straight and, finally, turned his attention back onto Ray. “And then last, but most certainly not least …” he continued, just as the guttural, untamable growl his Corvette used to make replayed like a long-forgotten favourite song in his head. “There’s Layla Ramirez. She attends the all-girls boarding school just outside Copperhead Springs: The Vaillancourt Academy. Fantastic golfer. I mean, from an ‘all-round’ perspective? Probably the strongest member of the team since Cody left.”

Unable to ignore the distinct change in his tone that mentioning his name had brought about, Ray couldn’t help but ask, “Who’s Cody?”

“That would be Cody Brooks,” Fr. Breen answered, the exasperated tone that had first twigged Ray’s interest now blatantly on show. “He was a Pirate for a number of years. Came into the team at the age of 10, which was a bit on the young side, but he had the talent, and … well, he didn’t disappoint. He became the lynchpin of the team pretty much right away; easily became our top points scorer; and was widely recognized as one of the best players in the entire league. He was a star.” Fr. Breen paused for a moment as he let out another exasperated sigh. He had reached the point in the story where the name ‘Cody Brooks’ had become something of a tender subject to think about. “This past April, though – just after we’d failed, yet again, to get out of our Conference – Cody informed me and the rest of the team that he’d be leaving the Pirates. Of course, we all thought – and perhaps hoped – that maybe it was just the disappointment speaking and that he’d change his mind and come back, but … sure enough … he was serious. Ended up saying he just wanted a break from competing with a team and maybe focus on playing in some singles tournaments for the year, so … what can you do?”

“So, because this Cody kid left,” added Ray, wanting to ensure he had the picture fully clear in his mind. “That’s the reason there’s a spot on the team for Mustang?”

“Correct,” Fr. Breen confirmed.

“And how does everyone feel about me replacing Cody?” Mustang asked, warily.

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be fine about it,” replied Fr. Breen casually.

“You mean they don’t know yet?!” snapped Mustang, his nerves about the situation instantly doubling in size as if he’d just swallowed a bucket of Bill’s fertilizer.

“Well, not exactly, no …” Fr. Breen answered, taking on the same confident air he had when first pitching the idea of Mustang joining the team. “But, hey, that’s what ‘pirate life’ is all about, right?! Jumping in at the deep end?! Sinking or swimming?!”

As opposed to having the intended goal of inspiring confidence in his plan, Fr. Breen, instead, just found himself on the receiving end of questioning glares from both Mustang and Ray.

“Ok, well perhaps ‘sinking or swimming’ wasn’t the best turn of phrase there,” he continued, his confidence levels dropping ever so slightly as he realized his mistake. “But either way? You are a Pirate now – and I should know, cause I’m the Captain. So, strap on some sea legs, and let’s go meet the rest of your crew, yeah?”

*

The ground was hard underfoot as Mustang followed Fr. Breen in through the gate of the Jungle’s range. Copperhead Springs hadn’t seen any rain in the preceding two weeks, and with that dry weather accompanied by quite an intense spell of sunshine, the parched grass now sounded crunchy and brittle with every step they took. After making a mental note to factor in the dried-out conditions once they got on the course, Mustang turned his attention out over the length of the range itself. And though he’d thought he’d adjusted his expectations appropriately for how the Jungle would compare to the likes of the Creek and all the other top-tier tracks he’d been fortunate enough to play, Mustang still had to do a little tinkering to those very same expectations in order to help process what lay before him.

Because he’d been expecting ‘different’. But this was ‘different’ on a whole other level.

There was next to no grass covering the range, with huge patches of dusty, compacted earth lying exposed to the elements. What grass was present was either overgrown and burnt brown by the sun or looking so desperately thin that a strong enough gust of wind looked liable to send it blowing off over the trees flanking the range. And as opposed to metal distance markers – something Mustang would have thought was a bare minimum for any driving range – there were, instead, a variety of objects scattered around the range with the yardage needed to hit them crudely scrawled across them in bright yellow paint: like a weather-beaten basketball hoop with a chain-link net standing at a 100-yards out (or, at least, that was the distance according to the ‘100’ splattered across the backboard); at a 160-yards, an old dumpster with a huge hole in its side where rust had rotted the metal away and which made the Range Picker in Mustang cringe at the idea of having to climb in there every other day to retrieve the golf balls that would, inevitably, wind up sitting inside it; and then right in the middle of the range, some 200-yards away, the ‘pièce de résistance’ that was a battered and dented 2007 Mitsubishi Lancer with blown-out windows and flat tyres.

Just as he began wondering how many shots it might possibly take him to land a ball right in through the front passenger window of the Lancer, Mustang’s calculations were interrupted by Fr. Breen sending a sharp, loud whistle piercing through the dead, muggy air suffocating the range. Knowing that whistle anywhere, the five-strong group of people warming up some 20-yards away from where Fr. Breen and Mustang were walking, immediately stopped what they were doing and turned their attention back down the range in the direction the whistle had come from. Though they were still a decent distance away, Mustang could already feel the eyes of the New Malo Pirates burning a hole straight through his chest. Spying the golf bag slung over his shoulder and the golf shoes on his feet. Putting two and two together. Confirming the harsh reality they’d been hoping would somehow never materialize. That Cody was, indeed, gone. And he wasn’t coming back.

“Good morning, everyone!” said Fr. Breen, greeting everyone warmly as he and Mustang, finally, arrived in front of the Pirates. “How are we all doing?!”

“Who’s this?” asked one of the girls bluntly, choosing to bypass Fr. Breen’s attempt at starting off with some social niceties in order to get right to the question she and the rest of the Pirates wanted answering.

Mustang, of course, knew that it was Layla Ramirez who’d spoken up – just like he knew who each and every one of the other Pirates were who’d yet to do anything bar eye him up suspiciously. After accepting Fr. Breen’s offer to join the Pirates the previous Monday, at lunchtime that very same day, Mustang – given he didn’t have anyone to hang out with – spent his hour off sitting outside, eating a surprisingly good turkey sub he’d bought in the school cafeteria and finding out everything he could about his soon-to-be teammates on his phone. And thanks to his old friend Melvin Burbage, that task was made conveniently easy for Mustang as, ahead of the previous year’s season, Melvin had done an entire piece in the ‘The New Malo Journal’ where he previewed the lineup for the 2019/2020 New Malo Pirates in an attempt to answer the overarching question of the article, “Will this be the year they finally get out of their conference?”.

So, as he left Fr. Breen to explain to a clearly disgruntled Layla and the rest of the Pirates who he was – a distinct aroma of ‘mutiny’, suddenly, lingering in the air – Mustang took his opportunity to study the real-life versions of the people he’d, previously, only read about. Like Layla, in her Converse high-tops and shorts, who perfectly matched Melvin’s description of the athletic, fiery 15-year old who was just as comfortable on a tennis court or lacrosse field as she was on a golf course.

Indie Kwon, the other girl on the team and Mustang’s soon-to-be classmate in St. Nick’s, was shorter and possessed a somewhat slighter build than Layla, but with her accurate driving, precise iron play, and solid putting, the only lefty on the team had, apparently, quickly established herself as one of the steadiest hands at Fr. Breen’s disposal since joining the team. 

Donny Fuller, though quite short for his age and in possession of a rather ‘husky’ build, Mustang’s other classmate – according to Melvin – was not one to sleep on as his physique belied an ability to generate an incredible amount of swing speed that produced awe-inspiring levels of distance for a 15-year old that, whilst not always accurate, was always a potential game-changer when he had his swing dialled-in. 

In direct contrast, then, to the ‘bomb & find it’ approach preferred by Donny, there was Ryan Okada, who, as per Melvin’s dissection, was very much cut from the same cloth as Indie, where the foundation of his game was built around steady, if not sometimes ‘overly cautious’, play designed to limit mistakes. And from the way his facial expression hadn’t changed even slightly since his arrival, Mustang seemed to think this stoic approach extended beyond the golf course and into Ryan’s everyday interactions as well. 

Then, finally, there was Logan Caruso, who, in his raggedy t-shirt, cut-off denim shorts, and leather boots, looked more prepared for a day spent labouring than playing golf. Though one of the two oldest Pirates on the team alongside Ryan at 16-years old, between his scant amount of facial hair and pierced ear, Logan could easily have passed for an 18 or 19-year old; and, going on Melvin’s judgement, though his overall game was “a little rough around the edges” and his swing rather “workmanlike”, his presence in the team seemed to bring a sense of reassuring composure and stout resoluteness to the ranks of the Pirates.

“Hey!”

With the primal part of his brain sensing her sharp tone was being directed at him, Mustang called a halt to his in-person study session and snapped his attention back out into the reality of the range, only to find Layla and the four other Pirates staring directly at him.

“Huh?” he mumbled, looking to catch up with whatever had been going on whilst he’d been lost in his thoughts.

Layla let out an irritated sigh. “Are you in or not?” she asked, the sarcastically deliberate manner in which she punctuated each word denoting the question had, clearly, already been aimed at Mustang.

“For what?” he asked, deciding the honest approach was probably his best option given the noticeable feeling of tension in the air. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

Layla glanced quickly around at the other Pirates, an exasperated smile on her face as if she wasn’t quite able to believe they were having to put up with this on their first practice session back. “You against the five of us …” Layla answered, laying out the stakes of her offer for the second time. “18-holes. If you win? You get to join the team. But when you don’t? You go back to where you belong and leave Cody’s spot free for when he comes back to where he belongs.”

Feeling as though the situation had, officially, gotten away from him, Fr. Breen stepped in. “Alright, that’s enough, Layla,” he said firmly. “Mustang’s place in this team isn’t going to be decided by a single round of golf – never mind one where it’s the five of you against him.”

“Why not?” said Layla, firing her question right back at Fr. Breen. “Cody used to take on the five of us just for practice. So, if you want to try and replace him with this guy, why shouldn’t he be able to do the same?”

“Because, Layla, you know full well that’s not what this is really abou-…”

“You’re on,” said Mustang, flatly cutting across Fr. Breen before he could finish defending him.

Pleased to hear that her bait had worked, Layla looked back over at Mustang. “So, you fully accept the terms?” she asked, wishing to cross the ‘t’s’ and dot the ‘i’s’ of their bet. “Cause once you do there can’t be any punking out or looking for do-overs when you lose.”

“If I lose, you’ll get what you want: me gone,” Mustang said, confirming that he fully understood the situation as he stared confidently back at Layla, any and all nerves now firmly flushed from his system.

“Well, in that case then, let’s g-…”

“But when I win?” Mustang continued, interrupting Layla to add his own stipulation to their bet. “Not only do I get to be on the team, but you’ll owe me twenty bucks.” He gestured loosely at Donny and the other Pirates, all of whom seemed to be quietly enjoying the tension between him and Layla. “And I don’t mean from them …” Mustang continued, the corner of his mouth twisting up into a confident grin as he pointed at Layla. “Just you.”

At that, Mustang held out his hand towards Layla for a handshake. “Deal?”

Still looking just as confident as she had been all along, Layla stepped forward and shook Mustang’s hand. “Deal,” she said, looking him dead in the eye.

“Alright then, now that’s out of the way,” said Mustang, releasing Layla’s hand but refusing to be the first to break their eye contact. “What’s the game?”

Staring right back at him – because, like Mustang, she refused to be the first to look away – Layla said confidently, “One we came up with ourselves – and, given the circumstances, I think it’s quite an apt one to play.”

“Ok …” replied Mustang, no-selling Layla’s attempt to get inside his head. “And does this ‘apt’ game have a name?

“As a matter of fact it does …” answered a smirking Layla, leaning slightly closer towards Mustang before, for effect, punctuating the next three words that fell from her mouth. “Walk. The. Plank’.”

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Chapter Artwork illustrated by the incredibly talented Kyle Petchock.