“So, I’m afraid that’s how this whole regretful situation came about,” sighed Fr. Breen, still lamenting the fact he’d allowed Mustang’s first meeting with the rest of the Pirates to go so poorly.
“I see …” said Ray, still trying to fully digest how everything had taken such an unexpected turn in the short period Mustang and Fr. Breen had been gone. “So, now, they’re gonna play this game of theirs to decide whether or not Mustang gets to be in the team?”
“Yes,” confirmed Fr. Breen, the words, again, soaked with a sigh. “‘Walk The Plank’ … it’s a game they and Cody came up with to make these practice sessions more fun. Usually, it just means they divide themselves up into two teams of three and play standard Scramble rules.”
“Everyone tees off; pick the best ball; everyone then plays from there and so on,” said Ray, summing up the basics of a Scramble as he could tell Fr. Breen was gearing up to explain the rules to him.
“Exactly. Where ‘Walk The Plank’ differs, though …” Fr. Breen continued. “Is that if one team outscores the other on a hole, then that team gets to eliminate one member from the opposing team – or, in other words, they make them walk the plank.”
“Meanin’, on the next hole, it would be three against two and keep goin’ like that until one team loses all its players,” concluded Ray, putting the pieces together. “I get it. Sounds like a solid game.”
“Yes, it’s always one they’ve enjoyed playing,” said Fr. Breen, looking towards the threadbare 1st tee as Donny returned from running to the pro-shop and joined up with the rest of the Pirates, all of whom were congregated together on one side of the tee, whilst Mustang stood off alone on the opposite side. “Where this ‘Lone Wolf’ version of the game came into being, though – the version Mustang has to play – is because of Cody. See, every now and then he used to have the five here club together and take him on by himself; he said it was more helpful for him to get ready for an upcoming match than playing the regular version. And because it was Cody saying it? That’s what they’d do.”
“And how used those ‘Lone Wolf’ matches tend to go?” Ray asked, seeking a benchmark to try and get a read on what exactly Mustang was going up against.
“Well, they were always pretty tight – as you can imagine with it being five against one,” answered Fr. Breen, trawling through his memories of those matches. “So, they’d always go the full 18 and Cody would, generally, be down to the last of the three lives he got at the beginning of the game; the five whittled down to one or two. But if my memory is serving me correctly? I think the overall record had Cody with the edge – but only just.”
Ray glanced over towards the side of the tee where Mustang was standing. He’d already pulled his driver from his bag and had it leaning up against his leg as he carefully studied the scorecard in an effort to familiarize himself with the unknown entity that was Jimmy’s Jungle. Instinctively, Ray wanted to walk straight over and help him – after all, as far they’d been concerned earlier that morning, this whole practice session was meant to be nothing more than a casual knock around wherein Mustang could get familiar with the course and meet everybody. Instead, as everything had transpired, he now found himself just moments away from teeing off in an intense matchplay situation where not only would there be actual stakes on the line, but it was all going to be unfolding on a track where he was going in completely blind.
So, naturally, the caddie in Ray just had to do something.
“Right …” he said, sounding a touch distracted as he decided what his next course of action needed to be. “Hey, any chance I could talk to Mustang real quick before everythin’ gets started? You know, just to see how he’s doin’?”
“Absolutely, by all means,” replied Fr. Breen, sounding more than willing to accommodate Ray’s request. “Take as much time as you need.”
After nodding his appreciation, Ray quickly mustered himself into life and made his way briskly across the 1st tee towards where Mustang was still studying his scorecard.
“Hey, kid, how ya doin’?” Ray asked as he landed alongside Mustang, his voice hushed so as to avoid drawing the attention of the Pirates, all five of whom were now limbering up with their respective clubs of choice for the opening tee-shot.
“Yeah, I’m good,” answered a preoccupied-sounding Mustang, his eyes still glued to the scorecard in his hands. “Just checking the layout of this place.”
“Cool, yeah, good idea …” replied Ray, trying to strike that fine balance between coming across nice and relaxed, whilst still eager to move onto the reason he’d come over to Mustang in the first place. “Hey, I was just talkin’ to Fr. Breen over there and he was tellin’ me that Cody kid? He used to be able to beat the five of these – not always, but he was able to do it. That bein’ said, though, I’d still be expectin’ this to run deep into the 18; but after the 36 you went with Fletcher at Bandon, I can’t see that bein’ an issue. Now, as for strategy? Well, what I was thinkin’ might work was -…”
“Woah, woah, woah!” interrupted Layla, accusingly, from across the tee. “There ain’t no caddies in the 66, and the same goes for here. So, if you can’t plot your way ‘round a course without needing someone to hold your hand? You should just save us all some time and concede right now, so we can get back to our practice.”
“Alright, Layla, you’ve made your point,” said Fr. Breen, firmly interjecting once again.
“No, that’s alright, Father,” Ray said, waving off his attempt to ride to his rescue. “If those are the rules, those are the rules.”
With Layla happily returning to making casual practice swings with her driver, Ray looked back down at Mustang. “Sorry, kid,” he said, apologizing quietly. “Looks like you’re gonna have to do this one solo.”
“That’s ok,” replied Mustang, watching as Layla began to add a little more speed and conviction to her swing rehearsals. “With or without you, the five of them against me is unfair no matter what way you look at it …”
“Well, as true as that is,” agreed Ray, feeling as though he were fighting an uphill battle to try and buoy Mustang’s spirits. “Ultimately, all you can do is give it your best shot, right? And win or lose you still ha-…”
“Lose?” Mustang said, cutting across Ray as if he’d just, inadvertently, begun speaking in tongues or some strange alien language.
“Yeah …?” replied Ray, not really getting what was catching Mustang with what he’d said. “You know, because of how unfair it is that it’s the five of them against you? Like you just said?”
“Oh, that?” said Mustang, finally realizing what Ray was talking about as he folded his scorecard and slid it into the back pocket of his shorts. “Yeah, no, I meant it was unfair for them.”
With that, Mustang grabbed his driver and began to walk towards the two tee markers stuck into the thirsty-looking turf that made up the 1st tee. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” he announced confidently, pulling a tee from his pocket and piercing it into the parched ground. “I’ll lead us off.”
Looking decidedly unfazed at Mustang claiming the honour, Layla just gestured loosely in the direction of the fairway stretching off away from the tee-box. “Have it your way …” she smiled, goadingly, before glancing around at the other Pirates. “It’s not like it’s gonna make a difference either way.”
Having moved back across the tee-box in the time Mustang had taken to tee-up his ball and begin his pre-shot routine, a smiling Ray arrived back alongside Fr. Breen.
“Sorry about Layla,” said Fr. Breen, almost sounding like an embarrassed parent as he lowered his voice to barely that above a whisper. “I can’t say she’s not normally this fiery because … well, she is – in fact, that edge is probably one of her best qualities, really. But ever since Cody left? That same ‘edge’ has gotten so sharp that, sometimes, she veers into just being downright rude.”
“Aw, no need to be sorry …” whispered Ray before pausing as Mustang pulled the trigger on his drive.
FWWWEEEEESSSSHHHH!!!
After watching Mustang’s ball set off like a rocket unleashed – the faintest hint of a draw seeing it settle into a gentle curve from right-to-left that was, undoubtedly, going to see it land in the centre of the fairway when it eventually came crashing back down to earth – a still smiling Ray turned and looked at a gobsmacked Fr. Breen, himself continuing to diligently track the flight of Mustang’s ball.
“I’ve a feeling she will be, though,” assured Ray through a confident grin.
*
Popping off the face of his putter with a buttery click, Mustang’s ball began hurriedly gobbling up the eight short feet standing between it and the hole. Putting on the greens at the Jungle had been an “interesting” experience for Mustang. On those he’d played in the past, whilst the line and speed of individual putts were always factors that needed deciphering, they all, at least, had the one common denominator of occurring on a uniform putting surface. At the Jungle, however, as opposed to adhering to this traditional idea of how greens should run, a more “laissez-faire” or “interpretative” approach to the art of greenkeeping had, clearly, been adopted.
For instance, there were some greens where the putting surface looked like a patchwork quilt someone’s grandmother would put together as they were covered in haphazardly placed patches where the length of grass differed wildly from one patch to the next. There seemed to be no consistency with how much water each green was getting – and therefore how fast they were running – as they all varied so much in colour, from the deepest of greens to the lightest of browns, that playing each hole was like walking through a real-life paint chart. And whilst Mustang had come across some courses where a green might have a bunker in the middle of it – like the par 3 6th at Riviera he’d seen in highlights of the Genesis Open – Jimmy’s Jungle had its very own version in the shape of one green with a burrow dug right out of the middle of it that was so huge it seemed to betray the fact there was an entire city of rabbits scrambling around beneath the green – well, that or perhaps a bear.
And, yet, even with all these inconsistencies in the greens, Mustang clearly had their number.
Because he couldn’t stop draining putts.
“Get in …” Mustang said, walking confidently after his putt and raising his putter expectantly up into the air. “Get in …”
Sure enough, two seconds later, Mustang’s ball broke back to the left through the small patch of dead grass he’d been aiming for and dove down into the hole.
“Come on …” he grunted, punctuating it with a firm fist-pump as he dropped his putter back down to his side and went about retrieving his ball from the bottom of the near-overgrown cup.
“And that’s another win for Mustang!” Fr. Breen announced, not that any of the Pirates – and especially not Layla – needed reminding that, despite their best efforts, Mustang had won the first four holes of their match with a quartet of birdies. “Layla and Donny? Better get your swimsuits on ‘cause one of you is about to take a very long walk off a short plank!”
Having plucked his ball out of the cup and returned it to his pocket, Mustang flipped his putter up off the ground so that he was holding it casually at his side and looked off at where Layla and Donny were standing at the side of the green. Layla, to her credit, still appeared defiant in the face of how Mustang had exploded out of the blocks and systematically decimated her crew, while Donny appeared as though he just wanted to be put out of his misery. Of course, Mustang already knew who was next on his hit-list. Before they’d even walked off the range he knew that he wanted Layla to be the last one left standing of the five Pirates – that was a lock. As for who’d have to hit the water before her, however? Those were choices Mustang had decided to shoot from the hip on.
So, as it had been both his drive and his approach shot that everyone had wound up choosing to play on the 1st, Ryan Okada had been the first to go when Mustang bagged a 10-footer for birdie after Ryan and the rest of the Pirates had all failed to convert his birdie putt from 12-feet out. When she’d shown herself to be one of the most in-form putters among the five after seeing birdie efforts lip agonizingly out at 1 and then again at 2, Indie Kwon was the next overboard when she and none of the others could match the tap-in birdie Mustang had left himself after stiffing an 8-iron to within a foot. Then, come the 3rd hole, though it had been a close call between choosing to condemn either him or Donny to the same fate as that which had befallen Ryan and Indie, Logan Caruso, ultimately, got the nod following Mustang’s second successive tap-in birdie as he had shown himself to be a slightly more consistent ball striker than Donny.
Now, however, with his fourth birdie in a row on the card following a picture-perfect, high, raking draw with a 6-iron, Mustang’s decision for who was going to find themselves on the business end of his sword this time around was an easy one.
“Sorry, man,” said Mustang, loosely pointing the head of his putter at Donny. “It’s you.”
“Alright then …” said Fr. Breen, once again acting as moderator. “Donny, you heard him – you’re out.”
Looking almost relieved to have been chosen, Donny nodded his head and sloped off across the green to join up with the rest of the Pirates. With Logan and Indie jokingly commiserating with Donny about joining ‘the plank club’ – whilst Ryan continued to sport the same stone-faced expression he’d had since being eliminated on the very first hole – Mustang looked back across the green at where Layla had been standing … except she was no longer there. With the sound of her irons clanging together drawing his attention towards the path leading away from the green in the direction of the 5th tee-box, Mustang quickly grabbed his bag of clubs and set off running to catch up with her.
“Hey! … Layla! … Wait up!”
Looking back over her shoulder, as soon as she saw it was Mustang running up the hill to try and catch up to her, Layla just turned her attention back onto the pothole-ridden path in front of her and carried on walking.
“Layla! … Come on! …” Mustang called out again, his breathing now fast and ragged as the steepness of the hill began to make his lungs burn. “Just wait up a second! … Please!”
Letting out an annoyed sigh, Layla ground her sustained march up the hill to a halt and turned around. “What?!” she snapped impatiently.
With the momentary window she’d given him, Mustang scaled the final few feet of the hill and landed alongside her. “Look …” he began, trying his best to get the words out in as composed a manner as possible whilst still attempting to catch his breath. “I know we got off on the wrong foot … and I know you’d rather it was Cody here today instead of me … but can’t we just … I dunno … start over?”
“What do you mean ‘start over’?” Layla asked, her icy demeanour thawing just a touch.
“I dunno …” Mustang answered, his lungs now almost back into their regular rhythm. “Maybe just call this whole ‘Walk The Plank’ thing a tie and get back to a regular practice session with everybody else? I mean, the first match of the season is next week; shouldn’t we be focused on that instead of trying to … you know … one-up each other?”
Appearing as though his words had struck a chord, Layla took a moment to think over Mustang’s proposal. Recognizing that perhaps he’d managed to break through her tough exterior, Mustang asked. “So … what do ya say?”
“Well …” said Layla, letting out a definitive-sounding sigh as if she’d just come to her decision. “I say …” She turned and looked Mustang square in the eye; what little ‘thawing’ Mustang had thought he’d seen in her demeanour now completely vanished. “We do this until it’s over. If you don’t want to? You know what to do.”
With her message delivered, Layla turned on her heels and carried on walking, her steps eventually falling silently as she moved from the gravel-covered path onto the grass covering the 5th tee-box. Seeing his olive branch had been firmly rejected, Mustang let out a disappointed sigh and followed Layla up to the tee-box.
“I know you have the honour but do you mind if I go?” Layla asked just as Mustang reached the tee and popped his bag down onto the ground. Given she was already in the process of teeing up her ball, however, Mustang felt Layla wasn’t so much making a request in the interest of playing ‘ready golf’, as she was merely telling him what was happening in the form of a question.
“Yeah, sure …” replied a disinterested Mustang, unperturbed at the fact Layla had usurped the honour from him. “Go ahead.”
Knowing full well not to expect a word of appreciation from Layla – and especially so since she’d already begun her pre-shot routine – Mustang, instead, preoccupied himself by casting his eyes off down towards the green. The 5th was the first of the two par 3’s on the Jungle’s front 9, and with it only measuring a buck over 140-yards – and downhill, at that – it was one Mustang had earmarked as being a possible ‘green light hole’, meaning he reckoned could stand to get a little aggressive with his tee-shot. And now that he was seeing it in the flesh as opposed to just its measurements printed out on a piece of card, that ‘green light status’ was most definitely confirmed in his head as, bar a pond lurking at the front of the green – one which, going on the layer of green scum coating the top of it and the amount of weeds choking the water, looked as though it badly needed to be cleaned – the hole seemed to be there for the taking.
Seeing her move in behind her ball out of the corner of his eye, Mustang finished his dissection of the potential challenge posed by the 5th green and shifted his attention back onto Layla. From the very first hole, even though he’d been gunning to take her and the rest of the Pirates down, Mustang couldn’t help but be impressed by Layla’s game. Between Fr. Breen’s endorsement and that of Melvin Burbage, he knew going into the round that she was supposed to be the best all-round golfer on the team. But once he’d actually seen her wield a club in front of him, Mustang could see that not only was that, indeed, true but also why Layla came so highly touted.
Whilst her swing was very much one that he could tell had been “constructed” by a golf coach given the textbook nature of her setup and the positions she hit throughout her swing, it was how Layla managed to sync all of that knowledge up with her natural athleticism and translate it all into producing a swing that was not only powerful and well-balanced, but incredibly smooth to watch, that impressed Mustang the most. It was like watching prime Ernie Els or, given the way she allowed her left knee to fold in during her takeaway, Mickie Wright. And after Ryan had led the way for her and the other Pirates on the 1st, Layla, utilizing that very same swing, had settled into the task at hand and been the one whose ball everyone had wound up playing as she started firing at every pin in sight. And if it wasn’t for her putter being just slightly cold, then Mustang knew, chances were, he’d still be staring down all five Pirates. She was that good.
Unfortunately for Layla, however, the swing she produced on the 5th was not the same as those which Mustang had seen on the previous holes. Her takeaway was a touch faster. Her club ran a little long at the top of her backswing which, given the amount of shoulder turn she generated, saw the head of her 7-iron dip right down towards her ear. And as opposed to her usual smooth transition that would see her sweep her club down towards the ball with her body leading the way in one synchronous motion, Layla, instead, got her timing wrong and wound up whipping her body too fast from the top of her backswing and got her club ‘stuck’ behind herself as a result. Feeling this, she, of course, tried to rescue the situation by increasing the speed the club was travelling at and flipping her hands over through impact to try and square up the face …
THWWWIIIPPPPP!!!!
But it was too late.
About two seconds into seeing the trajectory her ball was travelling on, Layla quickly realized she’d blocked it out to the right and turned away in disgust, vehemently cursing herself under her breath for making such a mistake. Because she knew what the end result of that swing was going to be. As did Mustang. And as he watched it sail down towards the green, losing altitude at a rapid rate, Mustang decided that, if Layla wasn’t going to, he’d, at least, be her ball’s final audience.
SPLASH!!!!
Piercing the layer of green scum like a missile, Layla’s ball disappeared beneath the surface of the pond with the same minimum splashback as that of an Olympic diver en route to a medal. Suddenly, hearing the sound of gravel crunching beneath the sole of someone’s shoes, Mustang turned around and saw Fr. Breen, along with the four other Pirates, standing on the path and looking down towards the green. Having arrived just in time to see her ball plunge into the murky depths of the pond, they all turned their attention across the tee-box and looked at Layla.
After taking her moment to internally chastise herself, Layla – who was still running hot – turned around to go about walking towards her bag to get another ball. When she saw Fr. Breen and the rest of the Pirates standing off to the side of the tee-box, however, she stopped dead in her tracks. Part of her was hoping that they hadn’t seen what had just happened, but, as soon as she saw the vaguely sympathetic expressions plastered across their faces, she knew that was merely wishful thinking on her part. Because they all knew what this whole game had really been in aid of; what she had been playing for – or, more accurately, who. Layla knew that. She wasn’t naive. But now that she’d found the water with her tee-shot, leaving the green vacant and pin unguarded with Mustang still to play, she already knew how this movie was going to end. And with everyone looking at her as if she was about to break into a million pieces, she suddenly didn’t feel much like hanging around for the end credits.
“Here …” said Layla, pulling a crumpled up twenty-dollar bill from the back pocket of her shorts and holding it out for Mustang to take.
Though he didn’t want to take it, Mustang could tell from the expression on Layla’s face that now wasn’t the time to try and argue with her about accepting the money. She needed to do this. And he understood that – so, he took the bill from her outstretched hand.
“You win …” she said flatly, a defeated look in her eyes. “Congratulations.”
With that, Layla walked past Mustang, grabbed her bag, and disappeared back down the path past Fr. Breen and the other Pirates.
Practice was over.
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