From the moment Mustang stepped up and, as per Layla’s request, smoked his customary ‘full sail’ draw right down the centre of the 1st fairway, Fr. Breen had just gotten the sense that the momentum of the match had, all of a sudden, become ever-so-slightly dislodged from the firm grip the Sharks had been keeping on it since the strokeplay session earlier that morning. It was like something in the atmosphere had changed. Like, out of nowhere, there was this indiscernible, intangible feeling of electricity hanging in the air; the likes of which you get just before a big storm hits and the heavens open.
And when they then got down to the fairway? And he watched Layla follow Tamera’s, somewhat cautious, effort into the green with a towering dart straight at the pin that wound up settling no more than 8-feet from the hole? That feeling Fr. Breen had felt deep in his bones back on the tee-box only grew all the stronger. Because the momentum was shifting; fighting desperately to free itself from the clutches of the Sharks. There was no denying it. Fr. Breen knew it. The Sharks’ supporters gathered off to the side of the green knew it. And from the deeply worried expressions furrowing the brows of the two remaining Sharks’ coaching staff, Fr. Breen could tell that even they knew it too.
And they’d every right to be nervous.
Because not even a full hole into it, one couldn’t help but feel watching Mustang and Cody line up the putts Layla and Tamera had left them with respectively, that the outcome of the anchor match was, suddenly, already on the line. If Cody managed to drain his birdie effort from some 15-feet away? Then he and Tamera would settle into the match – outrun the storm, so to say. But if he missed? Fr. Breen just got the impression that would be curtains for his former protegé and his new partner. Because, one way or another, Mustang was going to make his birdie putt. That was just a fact. And when that happened? The combination of him and Layla, even at just 1UP, would be too much for Cody and Tamera to bear. There would be no outrunning the storm – only surviving it long enough to have the match actually make it to the back 9.
So, after parking his cart off to the side of the green away from those Sharks’ supporters who’d already circled it, Fr. Breen settled in and watched. He watched Cody step in and address his ball. He watched him go through his usual pre-shot routine. One practice stroke. Then a second. And then a third. It was like watching a metronome. Always had been. Ever since the first time Fr. Breen had laid eyes on it five years previously when, as a precocious young 10-year old with a set of overly long clubs slung over his shoulder that looked too heavy for his slender frame to be carrying, Cody turned up to the Jungle, bold as brass, looking to join the Pirates.
Yet, thanks to those same five years of watching him play that followed that very first meeting one warm August morning, as Cody settled into his final stance, the one he always took just before pulling the trigger, Fr. Breen could tell something was wrong. Cody looked tense. Stiff. Rigid. Whatever word you wanted to put on it, the bottom line was that he looked uncomfortable – dare he even think ‘nervous’. It was like those very same clubs, the ones that had been slightly too long for his 10-year old self, were, once again, slung across his back; the straps digging into his shoulders and weighing them down towards the ground. And when Cody looked like that over a putt, Fr. Breen knew from experience that, more often than not, there was really only one outcome to expect … and that was a push.
Rocking his shoulders back and through, Cody’s ball popped off the face of his putter and went skidding across the imperfect surface of the green. After covering just 6-feet of its journey, though, Cody’s body language – that of him leaning backwards and emphatically pointing his putter off behind himself – began to tell anyone willing to listen that he wasn’t one bit happy with the roll he was seeing on his ball. “Left!” he barked as if scolding a disobedient dog. “Left!”
No matter how sternly he spoke to it, though, there was to be no changing the path his ball was on. It had been going right from the moment it left his putter and it had neither the intention nor the means to come back. The die had been cast. It was going to miss.
“AWWWWWW …” groaned the Sharks’ supporters, not hiding their disappointment at seeing Cody’s ball slip hopelessly past the hole and come to a stop a foot away on the other side of it. They knew the precarious position that miss had left him and Tamera in – and, mainly, because they knew who was about to putt next.
“That’s good,” said a focused-sounding Mustang, walking quickly back in towards his marker and replacing his ball. “Take it away.”
After taking a moment to frustratedly pat down a ‘scapegoat bump’ on the green with the sole of his putter, Cody hit his ball petulantly across the green towards where he and Tamera had left their bags; having played 18-holes with Mustang earlier that morning, he had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly what was about to happen. Already too locked-in on his putt to take any notice of Cody’s reaction, Mustang – with the line he needed already front and centre in his mind – stalked his way in towards his ball and took his stance. Knowing it wouldn’t be long before he pulled the trigger, Fr. Breen preemptively pulled his phone out from his pocket and held it in his lap. This was it. The potential turning point. And it all hinged on Mustang.
“Come on, Mustang …” Fr. Breen whispered hopefully, the tension almost too much to handle as he gripped his phone tightly in his hand. “Knock it in …”
Back on the green, Mustang was finally ready to make his move. He pulled back the blade on his putter and, with a confidently firm stroke, delivered it straight into the back of his ball – clearly, his plan was to take what little break there was in the 8-feet separating his ball from the hole completely out of the equation …
And it worked!
After speeding across the green, effortlessly chewing up the 8-feet it had needed to cover like a sprinter on a racetrack, Mustang’s ball dove over the edge of the hole at pace and rattled the bottom of the cup.
“YES!” exclaimed Fr. Breen, matching Mustang’s and Layla’s fist pumps with one of his own against the steering wheel of the cart.
“NEW MALO WINS THE HOLE IN THREE!” announced the referee, not needing to raise his voice all that much as the Sharks’ supporters had been thoroughly silenced by Mustang’s birdie. “THEY LEAD 1UP!”
Leaving Mustang and Layla to march confidently across the green to gather their bags and follow Cody and Tamera to the 2nd tee – both of whom had quickly departed the green as soon as Mustang’s ball had gone in – Fr. Breen pressed his foot back down onto the accelerator of the cart. With the electric motor hiding beneath the hood quietly whining as he steered the cart away from the green and on through the rough, Fr. Breen pulled his phone up from his lap. He had a call to make. And an important one at that.
After performing the delicate dance of flicking his eyes back and forth between the screen and where he was actually driving, Fr. Breen eventually managed to find the number he was looking for, dial it, and put it on speakerphone while he was at it.
“Hello?” said Ray, his hushed voice filtering through the speaker on the phone.
“Ray, you still with Logan and Ryan?” Fr. Breen asked, the pressing nature of events seeing him forego the usual pleasantries in order to get straight to the matter at hand.
“Yeah, I just watched Logan play their second into the 3rd,” Ray confirmed, keeping his voice low so as to not distract the two Sharks on the other side of the fairway who were having an in-depth discussion over what club to pull for their own approach into the green. “Why? You want me to go check on Donny and Indie or somethin’?”
“Naw, you can leave them to me – I’m on my way over there as we speak,” Fr. Breen answered as he pulled the cart back out onto the path, the gentle whoosh sound that had been coming from the tyres replaced with a harsh crunching noise as they swapped the long, green grass of the rough for loose gravel and dusty asphalt. “What you can do for me, though, is tell Logan and Ryan the same thing I’m gonna be telling Donny and Indie.”
“And that is?” Ray asked as the two Sharks he’d been watching finally came to an agreement that a 7-iron would be their best bet.
“Layla’s back,” said Fr. Breen, the mere act of saying the words aloud drawing a smile back to his face.
“Are you serious?!” said Ray excitedly, the volume of his voice creeping up ever-so-slightly above the recommended decibel level and thus drawing a displeased glare in his direction from the Sharks coach who’d been following Logan’s and Ryan’s match.
“As God is my witness,” swore Fr. Breen, taking a second to swerve away from a particularly nasty-looking pothole that had been eroded out of the path. “And she and Mustang? They just took the 1st hole with a birdie. So, like I’ll be telling Donny and Indie, if we can somehow get just a point and a half from those two top matches? Then that boy of yours is right: we can beat these guys.”
“Well, if Mustang and Layla manage to win their match, that is,” said Ray, looking to pump the brakes just a touch in order to stop Fr. Breen from getting too far ahead of himself.
“Naw, there’s no ‘if’,” said Fr. Breen, not a trace of doubt in his voice. “Just a matter of ‘when’.”
“How can you be so sure?” Ray asked, now whispering as he watched one of the Sharks players put a solid-looking swing on his ball, the crisp sound and razor-thin divot he sent floating through the air crystal clear signs that the strike had been a true one.
“Well, Layla’s looking as though she’s got her swing dialled-in dangerously well …” Fr. Breen explained, bringing the cart to a stop just down a ways from the 2nd tee-box as he spied Mustang and Layla already in situ there via the small rearview mirror a few inches from his face. “And as for Mustang? Well, let me put it this way – you remember how he looked on the 1st hole when he played Wilford Kretschko at the Memorial?”
“Oh, no!” grinned Ray, knowing the exact look Fr. Breen was referencing. “Well, that ain’t good!”
“Not if your name’s Cody and Tamera, anyway …” said Fr. Breen, his eyes still firmly locked on his rearview mirror as he saw Layla going about teeing up her ball in its reflection. “So, the way I’m looking at it? We already got a point on the board – we’re all tied up. What we need to do now, though, is just relay that to the others and get ‘em realizing that we got the momentum now. It may not feel like it just yet. But we do. So, wherever Logan and Ryan are now?”
FWWWEEEEESSSSHHHH!!!
“Just keep tryna’ hammer home that they only need to focus on winning the next hole …” Fr. Breen continued after taking a hot second to turn in his seat and catch the flight of Layla’s tee-shot so that he could track it through the air. “Cause that’s how we’re gonna get the win …”
“One bite at a time,” said Ray, knowing the exact sentiment Fr. Breen was trying to get at. “Don’t worry, I’m on it.”
“Thanks, Ray,” said Fr. Breen, getting the cart moving once more as he watched Layla’s ball land neatly in the fairway some 40-yards away. “Now, let’s go get ‘em, huh?”
*
In any sport, a little momentum is important. In matchplay golf, however, it’s everything. And as soon as Fr. Breen and Ray got word to the other Pirates about Layla’s return and how she and Mustang had drawn first blood against Cody and Tamera, it quickly became the turn of the Sharks to learn what it was like to be on the wrong side of it. Launching bombs off-the-tee. Firing at every pin in sight. Draining everything they looked at on the greens. The Pirates were unstoppable. It was like any and all inhibitions they may have had before teeing off were completely gone. Now there was no fairway too narrow, no approach shot too difficult or putt unmakeable. It was just a relentless onslaught of attacking, aggressive golf.
To their credit, the six Sharks stayed competitive and did their best to hold back the tide with important halves here and snagging the odd hole there that stemmed the bleeding. But with each hole that passed – and thanks to the Trojan work of Fr. Breen and Ray to keep everyone clued in as to what was happening around the course with a steady stream of updates – the Sharks’ resolve slowly began to crumble. 1UP leads snuck to 2UP leads. Then those 2UP leads jumped out to 3UP leads. And when those 3UP leads began to snowball into those of the 4 and 5UP variety? Though they’d never admit it, the Sharks were just looking to be put out of their misery sooner rather than later.
And, being the dutiful hosts that they were, the Pirates promptly obliged.
After failing to secure the birdie needed at 16 to extend the match, the two Sharks playing Logan and Ryan in the top match out were the first to fall 3&2. A hole further back, as soon as Indie poured a breaking 12-footer straight into the cup for birdie – her fifth such bird of the match courtesy of a red-hot putter – she left the next two Sharks with no other choice but to head back to their bus and wait to be shuttled back to Vermilion Bay; their dented egos and a 4&3 loss to her and Donny the only souvenirs they’d be taking home from their trip to the Jungle. And after hitching a ride back to the 14th while hanging precariously off the sides of Ray’s cart, a jubilant Donny, Indie, Logan, and Ryan were delighted to find that Mustang and Layla were on the cusp of putting the final exclamation point on what had been the most incredible afternoon of golf the four of them had ever experienced. Because while they had all been getting the job done against their respective opponents and putting two full points up on the board that had seen them vault into a 2-1 overall lead, Mustang and Layla had completely broken Cody and Tamera. They were 4UP. Hadn’t lost a hole the entire match. And only for Cody and Tamera coming up with some crucial halves, the match wouldn’t have even made it to the back 9.
In short, the fairytale return to the Jungle that Cody had been hoping for the past two weeks had turned into a nightmare – and going on the way he was standing off to the side of the 14th green, leaning on his putter and staring blankly off into space, he now looked as though he just wanted to wake up.
After leaving the four other Pirates grouped together on the side of the green near his cart, Ray landed alongside Fr. Breen, who was standing next to his own cart with his arms firmly crossed. “What’s goin’ on here?” Ray whispered, looking to be brought up to speed as to what was happening on the green.
“Cody has about 4-feet left for par,” answered Fr. Breen, he, too, whispering as he kept his gaze firmly locked on the green. “But if Layla knocks down this 10-footer for birdie, it’s all over.”
Having already assumed her stance over her ball, Layla ran her eyes back down the line of her putt. It was a gentle left-to-righter, with the fact it was ever-so-slightly downhill being the only real factor to be even vaguely concerned about. Deep down, though, she knew she had it in the bag. There was no way she was going to allow herself to miss this putt – that wasn’t an option. Because, yes, the whole reason she had turned her bike around in the first place and come back to the Jungle was to prove a point to Cody. But as their match had worn on and her and Mustang’s lead had continued to grow, Layla soon realized that winning this match had become every bit as much about proving a point to herself as it was about proving one to Cody. A point that she was just as good a golfer as he was; and that, contrary to what she’d often secretly felt at times over the past few years, he hadn’t been “carrying her”.
She was more than capable of standing on her own. Of forging her own path. And now was the time to prove that.
With a smooth rock of her shoulders, Layla’s ball shot confidently off the face of her putter; the pace it was travelling at a dead giveaway that there hadn’t been even a hint of hesitancy in her stroke.
“GET IN THE HOLE!” shouted the Pirates from off to the side of the green (well, everyone bar Ryan, of course), their excited cries awkwardly crossing over one another, yet somehow still melding together to form an energetically encouraging roar as Layla’s ball skid across the green to within 5-feet of the hole.
It was halfway there …
“Come on, ball!” urged Ray, as Fr. Breen quietly preoccupied himself with attempting to invoke his boss upstairs to look kindly on the line Layla had chosen.
Her ball hit 2-feet out …
“Get in …” whispered Mustang, the almost unbearable nerves he was feeling confirming for him that he much preferred being the one actually taking the putt as opposed to watching it happen. “Get in!”
There was not, however, any need for Mustang – nor anyone else for that matter – to be nervous. Because as soon as she’d lifted her eyes and taken one glance at her ball, Layla had known it was destined for one place, and one place only.
And a second later, despite the extra pace it had picked up thanks to the slope it had just cascaded down, Layla’s ball, right on cue, plunged over the rim of the hole and disappeared into the dirt-stained cup below.
“YEEEEEEEAAAAHHHHH!!” cheered the Pirates, with even Ryan, this time, finding himself incapable of not letting out a holler – albeit a reserved one.
Amidst the pandemonium that had descended on the green, and seeing an ecstatic-looking Ray and Fr. Breen taking to congratulating each other on a job well done with an uber-masculine high five and hug combination out of the corner of her eye, Layla afforded herself a quiet moment to just drink the moment in; to make a note of how exactly she was feeling so that she could carefully file it away for some rainy day in the future when she might be doubting herself for whatever reason. Because in that moment, she could just think back to this one right here. To that putt she’d just made. And remember the invincible feeling she currently had coursing through her body.
“Good game, Laylz …” said Cody, his voice quiet, though genuine.
Looking quickly up from the spot on the green she’d just been staring at for goodness knows how long, Layla – having been taken completely by surprise at hearing his voice – took in the sight of Cody standing in front of her with his hand outstretched for a handshake. Earlier in the round, just after Mustang had knocked down that birdie putt to win the 1st hole, Layla, for the briefest of seconds, had afforded herself the luxury of imagining what she’d say to Cody in this exact moment if she and Mustang managed to get the win. How she’d give him both barrels for lying to her about what had happened with Indie; for abandoning her and the rest of the Pirates to go off glory hunting with the Sharks; and, if she had time, even ask him why it felt as though he’d led her on for the past few years and made her think as though he was interested in her, when clearly he never was.
But now that the moment had actually arrived where Cody was, indeed, standing in front of her after losing the match … she didn’t feel like saying any of those things. They just didn’t seem important anymore. So, instead, Layla just reached out, took hold of Cody’s hand, and shook it.
“Thanks …” she said magnanimously. “You too.”
“Thanks …” Cody replied, knowing that was the polite thing to reply with but not really believing it to be true.
Letting go of each other’s hands, Cody looked over in the direction of where Mustang was stood talking with Tamera. “Your new partner looks like he’s pretty solid,” he said, humorously underselling what he thought about Mustang.
“Yeah, he’s a work in progress …” Layla replied, dryly, as she glanced quickly over at Mustang before turning back to look at Cody. “But I’ll show him the ropes.”
“I’m sure you will,” smiled Cody warmly. “Anyway, good luck for the rest of the season, alright?”
“Yeah, you too …” Layla replied, sensing their conversation was coming to an end.
“Though, fair warning?” Cody added, playfully, just as he began to move away. “Next time we play? It won’t be as easy as today was – I promise you that.”
“Oh, I know it won’t …” Layla replied, not missing a beat. “But I’m sure you’ll try your best, regardless.”
Laughing at what she’d said, a smiling Cody – having already congratulated Mustang – turned away and went about greeting the other Pirates, each of whom, like Layla, had decided to do the right thing and just bury the hatchet with him.
After then shaking hands with Tamera and thanking her for the game, Layla, finally, found herself standing in front of Mustang.
“So, let me guess,” she said, a wry smile on her face. “This is where you say, ‘I told you so’, right?”
“You’d think so … but nah,” replied Mustang, waving off that idea as he took in the sight of Cody pleasantly chatting with Donny and the others across the green. “Plus, I think ‘5&4’ and ‘3-1’ kinda does that for me, you know?!”
“Well, regardless …” said Layla, her smile growing all the wider. “You were right about us being able to beat them, so … I just wanted to say thank you for everything you said in the parking lot earlier. Because if I’d missed out on all this? Well, that would have sucked! So … thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Mustang replied, trying his utmost to stop himself from blushing. “But you’re right about this, though. I mean, winning the Memorial was unbelievable – life-changing, really. But this right here? This just hits differently, you know? To be honest, I dunno how you top it.”
“Oh, I’ve a pretty good idea of what might do it,” Layla answered cryptically, as she began to walk slowly backwards away from Mustang to go about celebrating with the other Pirates.
“Really?” asked Mustang, an intrigued expression causing his eyebrows to furrow. “What is it?”
“Four simple words …” Layla replied confidently. “Win the Walker Cup.”
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