As word of his last-minute withdrawal spread like wildfire across all four tightly-mown corners of Seminole, Fletcher’s plan to hijack the opening session of the Walker Cup had gone off without a hitch. No matter where you went during the foursomes, the one name on everyone’s lips was ‘Fletcher Rhodes’. The anchors on NBC; the spectators hurriedly scrolling through social media; even the rest of the American team, they all wanted to know the exact same thing – what had happened to the world number one?
In turn, the problem this created was that with everyone trying to decipher why exactly Fletcher wasn’t playing, it, exactly as planned, completely changed the atmosphere around the course. Where the 1st-hole had been red-hot for the top match out, with the American crowd making their far superior numbers felt by sending a rapturous chant of ‘U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!’ ringing back down the fairway towards the tee when Byron drained a 20-footer for birdie to take the 1st against Finn and Fraser, as soon as the news hit that Fletcher had pulled out, it was like someone had taken a bucket of ice-cold water and doused the crowd with it, completely extinguishing that very same heat.
Of course, recognizing that Fletcher’s no-show would be a most unwelcome distraction, Dallas had moved quickly to get ahead of the problem by releasing a statement as soon as he’d subbed Miles Radford in for Fletcher, and seen him and Conrad off in the second match out. But, despite his best efforts, Dallas citing Fletcher’s “injured back” as the reason for his absence did little, if anything, to help right the ship. And come the actual end of the foursomes? America’s hopes of winning back the Walker Cup were already firmly on the rocks, as the Great Britain & Ireland boys had capitalized on the disarray in the American ranks with the ruthless efficiency one would come to expect from two-time defending champions.
Miles Radford and Conrad Kennedy? They fell 3&2 to Maddox Breckon and Henry Tatum. Samson Hamada and Austin Andrade? They were swept aside 4&3 by the all-Scottish pairing of Hamish Campbell and Angus Black. And in the final match out? Greyson Ortega and Axel Brogan were on the wrong end of a 7&6 trouncing by the indomitable Riggs Brothers, Charlie and Reggie. It was a massacre. A systematic dismantling of the Americans orchestrated by Desmond Finch and carried out by his squad of go-to-killers in the shape of ‘The Six’ – well, save for a third of them, of course.
Because as terribly as the morning had gone for them, there had been one positive the Americans had taken into the afternoon singles, and that was how the scoreboard had read 3-1 as opposed to the clean-sweep of 4-0 it could so easily have been. And the reason for that lone splash of red on the board? Byron Ballas.
Following his long birdie putt at the 1st, a fired-up Byron had proceeded to keep his foot firmly planted on the gas pedal and put it straight up to Finn and Fraser to try and run him and Blake off the road. And try as the Great British & Irish pair did, there was just no shifting the Byron-driven American duo. In fact, come the time the flagstick was being dropped back into the cup on the 14th green, Finn and Fraser – having watched Byron drain his seventh individual birdie putt of the morning – had been left with no alternative but to begrudgingly reach for their hats and shake hands with him and Blake for soundly overwhelming them in a comfortable 5&4 win.
Of course, while the rest of the morning would go on to show that Byron and Blake’s sole point would prove to be the only bright spot in an otherwise forgettable session, it did give Dallas the tiniest sliver of a silver lining to cling onto heading into the afternoon singles. Knowing they’d have to come out of the blocks quickly to try and get the crowd reinvigorated and forgetting about Fletcher, Dallas made an audible right before the deadline to submit his playing order for the singles and subbed Byron – who was, clearly, the hottest hand he had at his disposal – in for the more experienced and higher-ranked Conrad Kennedy in the number one slot. And, credit to him, just like he had in the foursomes, Byron went out and repaid Dallas’ faith in him by not only delivering another whole point, but did so by taking out the other Campbell cousin, Hamish, 3&2. Meaning, in just two sessions, Byron had gone up against half the members of ‘The Six’ and come away with two full points for his trouble – which, by anyone’s standards, was a more-than-impressive debut for a rookie.
Alas, despite Byron’s best efforts to lead the charge, by the end of the singles, his point, once again, was one of the few highlights in what had been a long, tough afternoon in the baking Florida sun for those with Old Glory emblazoned on their chests. Of the 8 points that had been up for grabs in the singles, team U.S.A. had managed to limp away with just 2½ of them in comparison to the 5½ Great Britain & Ireland had managed to accrue; leaving Dallas’ troops in the unenviable position of heading into the second day staring a hefty overall deficit of 8½ points to 3½ square in the face.
As opposed to finding himself facing the expected questions of ‘what went wrong?’ and ‘do you really think you can overturn such a large lead?’ in his post-round press conference, however, Dallas, instead, found himself ambushed with a bevy of questions relating not only to Fletcher’s withdrawal, but a subsequent video he’d posted on Instagram as soon as the final singles match was in the books and down as yet another point for Desmond Finch and Great Britain & Ireland. Given he’d been so busy with the actual match itself, Dallas had, of course, not seen the video they were talking about, but when informed by one of the journalists that in it, though Fletcher had extended a positive message to both him and his teammates, he did also appear to have made a subtle reference to the fact that the intense practice schedule Dallas had put in place for the week leading up to the match may have played a part in aggravating his back, needless to say, it had caught everyone’s attention.
Naturally, as this hadn’t been his first rodeo, Dallas had managed to deal with this unexpected development in a suitably diplomatic fashion that didn’t add any more fuel to the fire the journalists had set in light of seeing Fletcher’s post. But as soon as he was out of the glare of those camera lenses that had been aimed directly at him as if he’d been standing before a firing squad? Mustang and everyone else on the bus back to the Breakers could tell Dallas had been furious with Fletcher’s insinuation that he’d overworked him – and, by extension, the rest of the team – in the run-up to the match starting, and perhaps that had been the reason they found themselves losing by 5 points.
In other words, it had been yet another example of such perfectly crafted and executed manipulation that, if it hadn’t been so diabolical and spiteful in its intention, Mustang might actually have been impressed with Fletcher’s day’s work.
As soon as he’d seen the downtrodden expressions plastered across the faces of his teammates during their team meeting later that evening, however, the feeling Mustang had towards Fletcher was most certainly not one of admiration – more like complete and utter disdain. Because for many of those inside that room, gathered on the various plush seats that had been placed loosely in a circle, Mustang had known that this could well be their one and only Walker Cup appearance – either through them turning professional in the following two years or through their form inevitably dropping off as ‘real life’ took over from spending every waking moment playing golf. And unlike him, who’d only learned about the match because Dallas had wanted to meet him, Mustang knew that to get to be in that very team room and have the opportunity to represent the United States would have been something those same people would have spent years striving to achieve. It would have been a target on a corkboard. A date on a calendar. A means through which to make oneself focus when the idea of going out practicing seemed tedious and unappealing.
And, yet, to Fletcher that meant nothing. All that time. All that work. All that hope? Merely collateral damage. Because, ultimately, Fletcher didn’t care about the Walker Cup – quite frankly, the more he dealt with him, Mustang was beginning to wonder if he cared about golf, period. No, Fletcher cared about one thing and one thing only, and that was himself. And if getting what he wanted meant other people – even his own teammates – got caught in the crossfire? So be it.
Pushing open the grand, oak door of the American team room, Mustang was glad to feel that the tense atmosphere which had been hanging thick in the air during their after-dinner meeting had now since dissipated, with only the faint smell of the various colognes everyone had been sporting betraying that anyone at all had been in there recently.
Admittedly, it hadn’t been the greatest of team meetings. Given how long a day it had been to be repping the stars and stripes, the majority of those who’d played in the two sessions were, understandably, not much in the mood for listening to Dallas as he attempted to rally their spirits. ‘It ain’t over ‘til it’s over’. ‘By my count there are still 14 points up for grabs tomorrow’. ‘A fast start in the foursomes can change everything’. Dallas had wheeled out all the expected clichés one would expect from a captain whose own back and that of his team were pressed firmly up against the wall. Any hope he’d had of them actually eliciting a fired-up response from the team, though, had, seemingly, fallen on deaf ears. Sure, the likes of Byron and Blake had tried to row in behind him, so too the only other Americans who’d managed to come away from Seminole with any points in the shape of Austin Andrade and Mason Sedgwick. But try as they could to light a fire under the rest of their teammates, they weren’t having a bar of it – they may as well have been trying to set one at the bottom of a waterfall. Because going on the way the likes of Conrad and Greyson were moping all the way throughout the meeting, their fighting spirit had obviously been so well and truly quenched that were it a case the Walker Cup operated under the same rules as boxing, then Mustang was pretty confident they’d have thrown in the towel after the singles if they could’ve and be halfway back to California by now.
Of course, from a personal standpoint, the team meeting had been one to remember for Mustang. Because with Fletcher withdrawing as he had done, Mustang had figured that, with the following day’s singles session seeing ten matches as opposed to the eight that had made up that afternoon’s, he would be playing to make up the numbers. And, sure enough, just before the end of the meeting, after he’d named the pairs for the following morning’s foursomes, Dallas made the announcement that, though he hadn’t decided exactly where he’d be sitting in the order, Mustang would indeed be playing in the Sunday singles as Fletcher’s replacement. And though the ensuing round of applause started by Dallas had felt somewhat ‘phoned in’ as the rest of the team, clearly, had just wanted to go back to their rooms, Mustang didn’t care. He’d come to Florida thinking that he wouldn’t be playing at all, but after Fletcher’s stunt, that was now no longer the case – and he couldn’t have been more excited.
Once he’d raced back to his room and told Ray the good news, however, when he went to pull out his phone to go about calling Travis, Donny, Beau, Fr. Breen, heck, pretty much anyone who’d listen, that he’d be playing in the singles, Mustang quickly realized that he’d forgotten it in the team room. So, after making the annoyingly long trek back downstairs, that’s how Mustang now found himself down on his hands and knees, rooting underneath the chair he’d been sitting on for the meeting looking for his phone.
Finally feeling the cool metal it was made from beneath his fingertips, a grateful Mustang pulled his phone out from underneath the chair and got back to his feet. Just as he took to blowing away the few bits of dust and lint that had gathered on the screen, though, the sound of a chesty cough coming from the large balcony attached to the team room caught Mustang’s attention. Having thought the room to be empty, an intrigued Mustang slipped his phone into the pocket of his jeans and moved towards the glass doors that led out onto the balcony to investigate. And, as expected, as soon as he looked out through the spotlessly clean panes of glass, Mustang did, indeed, find himself looking at the source of the cough he’d heard – all 6″5 of him.
Standing with his back to the hotel and staring out through the darkness at the moon glinting across the ocean, Dallas struck a contemplative, if not even a tad forlorn, figure as he smoked a cigar. Though, initially, he felt as though he should just leave him alone, Mustang’s gut quickly wade into the discussion and told him to go talk to him – so, the next thing he knew, Mustang was pulling down the handle on the door and walking out onto the balcony. Hearing the sound of the door being opened, Dallas turned his head to see who he was being joined by. Upon seeing that it was Mustang, a tired smile stretched across his face.
“Everything alright?” Dallas asked, sounding surprised to see Mustang.
“Yeah, no, everything’s fine …” Mustang answered, walking slowly across the balcony to try and feel out whether or not his presence was an unwanted intrusion. “I just forgot my phone. I found it, though, so …”
“Well, good, I’m glad to hear it,” said Dallas, his smile just starting to lose some of its enthusiasm as he turned his gaze back out towards the water.
Satisfied that Dallas didn’t seem to be that troubled by him being out on the balcony, Mustang walked over and took up a position a few feet away from him, looking out at the ocean just like he was.
“How about you, though?” asked Mustang, plucking up the courage to ask the question as he kept his attention firmly focused on the water, watching as the reflection of the moon glowed almost a dusky yellow colour across the gently bobbing waves. “You alright?”
Dallas took a deep breath in. “Well, let me see …” he sighed, bringing his cigar up towards his mouth that had curled into a wry grin in light of Mustang’s question. “We’re down by five heading into the second day; half my team seem to have already given up any hope of actually making a comeback; my phone’s been ringing the entire evening with journalists and T.V. networks looking to see if I’ve any comment to make about Fletcher, essentially, accusing me of being a bad captain; and I just found out that I’ve been called in for a meeting next week with the heads of the USGA regarding my position as captain going forward towards St. Andrews in 2022 …” Dallas turned and looked at Mustang, the wry grin getting all the wider. “So, all in all? Pretty good!”
After taking a moment to share a laugh at how dire the situation had really become, Mustang, eventually, composed himself enough to speak. “You know he’s faking, right?” he said, feeling confident enough to finally say the words out loud to someone else bar Ray. “Fletcher, I mean?”
“Yeah, I’d figured that,” replied Dallas with a rueful nod of his head before finally taking a long, deep drag from his cigar that saw the ash at the end of it gently crackle and glow orange. Once he’d blown the resulting cloud of smoke back out through his mouth and nostrils, Dallas continued. “He came to me last night talking ‘bout how he felt he and Conrad should be heading out first in the foursomes, not Byron and Blake. When I explained to him that I wasn’t gonna be changing my mind, though? Well, let’s just say he didn’t seem all that happy with my decision. So, to then see him pull out with what … two minutes to go before he was due to tee-off? Yeah, I smelled a rat straight away – not that I could ever say that, of course, but what can ya do? It’s like golf: sometimes you get outplayed by someone and you’ve no other choice but to take your beating and tip your hat to ‘em.”
Just like that, a thought suddenly hit Mustang. All day long when he’d been watching the American team scrape through both sessions with barely enough points to give themselves a puncher’s chance heading into Sunday, all Mustang had been preoccupied with and thinking about was how annoyed he was that it had been Fletcher who had been the main architect behind their disastrous first day. And, really, the reason he’d been so frustrated was for the exact reason Dallas had just mentioned – it was knowing that for everything Fletcher had done, there was absolutely nothing they could do to get him back … or, at least, that was how things had appeared at the course.
Standing on that balcony, however, with the way everything had gone down throughout the day, this particular idea that had just popped into Mustang’s head – though it seemed like such an obvious solution – almost felt fantastical now. Yet, at its core, it could be broken down to the same four words Layla had said to Mustang the day before he and Ray left for Florida in the first place: ‘Win the Walker Cup.’
“Well, we’ve only been outplayed by him if we don’t win tomorrow,” said Mustang, sounding as though he’d just figured out the answer to a question that had been eluding him for years.
Having taken a drag from his cigar in the meantime, Dallas blew out yet another cloud of smoke before looking out the side of his eye at Mustang. “Well, yeah …” he replied, trying to be polite in the face of what he deemed to be a rather obvious statement. “But, as you might have noticed today, that’s a lot easier said than done – and, especially so, when you’re five points down heading into the final day.”
“Ok, fair point …” said Mustang, taking that dose of reality on the chin but not letting it completely derail his renewed sense of optimism. “But, still, it was like you said in the meeting: if we get off to a fast start in the foursomes, that could change the complexion of the entire match, right? I mean, if we come out of that with all four points? All of a sudden, it’s 8½ to 7½ and we’re just a point down heading into the singles – and, at that stage, it’s anyone’s game!”
“And in an ideal world that’s exactly what we’d do,” said Dallas, a smile on his face that said he appreciated Mustang’s enthusiasm, but at the same time knew he had to bring him back down to earth. “But, again, a clean-sweep is a lot easier said than done, Mustang. I mean, if I know Desmond Finch – and I’m pretty confident I do – then he’s gonna frontload that foursomes session tomorrow and try to all-but-kill us off before we even get to the singles. So, because he’ll correctly assume that I’m gonna be putting out Byron and Blake in the top match again, then he will, 100%, be putting the Riggs Brothers out first to try and knock the two of ‘em off ‘cause he knows they were our strongest pair today.”
Mustang fell silent for a moment as he thought about what Dallas had just said. It made total sense. After the lead they’d amassed in the two Saturday sessions, Desmond Finch – being the elite strategist that he was – would, of course, look to go for the jugular before the singles began. And the four points that a clean-sweep in the foursomes would provide should they manage it? That would get them up to 12½ points, meaning they would then need just a solitary half from one of the ten singles matches to retain the Walker Cup. So, going as strong as he could with his pairings in the foursomes? It was the only move that made sense – and that, in turn, meant the Riggs Brothers out in the number one slot to take down Byron and Blake, plus the rest of ‘The Six’ spread throughout the other three matches. It was like playing chess with someone who’d backed you so far into a corner that the only moves they’d left you with would just lure you further and further into their trap until the inevitable loss happened.
Luckily for Mustang, though, the Walker Cup wasn’t a chess match. It was golf. And in golf, no matter how bad the situation you find yourself in appears to be, you always have a shot – a lesson Mustang had come to learn well from dealing with a certain tree named ‘Old Abe’.
“Well, if Desmond thinks he already knows what we’re gonna do …” mused Mustang, the idea still formulating in his head as he vocalized it. “Why don’t we just change it?”
“Change it how?” asked Dallas, intrigued by Mustang’s proposal, but not sounding exactly sure what he meant.
“Well, right now, Desmond is rightfully thinking that you’re putting Byron and Blake out first to go up against the Riggs Brothers,” explained Mustang, the words coming quicker and quicker the more excited he got.
“Yeah?” said Dallas, still not catching Mustang’s drift.
“So, instead of doing that, switch up the pairs – give him a list of names for the foursomes that he isn’t expecting,” continued Mustang, his brain now firing on all cylinders. “Make him think that, given the score, you’ve already started looking towards St. Andrews in 2022 and want to give as many of the younger guys who’ll, more than likely, be going to Scotland as much playing time as possible – with a little luck, that’ll see the Riggs Brothers and the rest of ‘The Six’ take their foot off the gas for the foursomes and that’s when we catch them off-guard!”
Mustang carefully scrutinized the expression on Dallas’ face. Amazingly, he didn’t appear to be rejecting his idea out of hand. He was actually thinking about it – after all, you know what they say about desperate times.
“So, when you say the ‘younger guys’ on the team …” said Dallas, looking to bore into the details of Mustang’s plan. “I’m assuming you’re including yourself in that group?”
“Look, I know this might sound like some farfetched attempt to try and get a spot in the foursomes, but I swear to you it’s not,” said Mustang, holding up his two hands in an effort to further prove his innocence. “Ok, I’m just tryna’ come up with a way to turn all this around – that’s all. But if you ask me my honest opinion? I think if you put me and other young guys out in the foursomes and explain to them what we’re tryna’ to do? Then, hand on heart, I think we can get the clean-sweep or damn near close to it.”
Dallas took another glance out over the water, releasing a contemplative sigh as he did so. He knew what Mustang was pitching was a risk. If he sent out a mostly young and inexperienced contingent into a pivotal foursomes session where the result of the match was, essentially, on the line, and it wound up being a rout? Then there’d be no need to worry about team selections for St. Andrews in 2022 because he most definitely wouldn’t be the captain anymore.
“I guess I could sell it to the two older guys I’d have to sub out that I’m looking to frontload the top two matches in the singles with fresh legs …” pondered Dallas aloud, flicking some of the spent ash from the end of his cigar into the ashtray he’d brought out onto the balcony with him.
“Exactly!” agreed Mustang, enthusiastically. “And because they’d be going out first and second in the singles, it would make them feel like you’re backing them to go out and get some red on the board to lead the way for the rest of us.”
From the expression on his face, Mustang could tell that Dallas was growing warmer and warmer towards his idea – but he still wasn’t quite over the line with it.
“Hmm, I dunno …” grumbled a conflicted-sounding Dallas. “It’s still a mighty big risk to take. I’ll need to give it some serious thought before I decide one way or the other.”
“Well, given I like to be alone when I need to think about something important, I’ll leave you to it,” smiled Mustang, looking to extract himself from the situation to remove any semblance of pressure that Dallas might be feeling was coming from him.
With that, Mustang turned on his heels and began walking back across the balcony to leave Dallas to enjoy what remained of his cigar in peace. Just as he reached the door, however, Mustang couldn’t help himself from stopping short of reaching out and grabbing the handle. He had something else he wanted to say – and he needed Dallas to hear it.
“Hey, Dallas?” said Mustang, turning around and looking back over at where he was just sending more smoke creeping upwards into the increasingly chilly night air.
“Yeah?” replied Dallas, taking in the sight of Mustang once again as the lingering remnants of smoke tickled the back of his throat.
“Well, I know I said it last week when we were talking about Byron …” began Mustang, his earnestness making him sound a touch nervous. “But I know that you’re the captain here, and, ultimately, this is your team – so, you can make whatever decision you wanna make. All I want you to know is … is that whatever you do decide? I’ll back it all the way to the end – you have my word on that.”
“Thank you, Mustang,” replied Dallas, looking over at him with a warm smile on his face. “That means a lot … it really does. Now, go on, go get some sleep; we’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
*
Hearing the shower in Ray’s room burst noisily into life, a bleary-eyed Mustang reached over to the bedside table, fumbled around for his phone, and pulled it over to straight in front of his face. After clumsily punching in his passcode to unlock it, the screen lit up, searing his tired eyes with its brightness. Once he’d taken a moment to blink a few times in order to help them adjust, Mustang looked back at his phone through slightly squinted eyes and saw the time had just gone 5 a.m. Knowing he wouldn’t be needing his alarm anymore, Mustang made the necessary few swipes and taps on the screen to dismiss it before pulling back the covers and throwing his legs out over the edge of the bed.
Though the room was still quite dark, there was enough light creeping in underneath the curtains drawn across the balcony windows to help Mustang make out the rough outlines of the various pieces of furniture dotted around the room. Realizing he should take a shower like Ray was currently doing – even if the thought itself was massively unappealing – Mustang, reluctantly, reached over and flicked on the lamp sitting on the same bedside table where his phone had been.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Hearing the sound of three sharp raps easily cutting through the muffled sound of Ray’s shower, Mustang snapped his head in the direction of the door to his room – suddenly, he wasn’t feeling so sleepy anymore. Not needing to be reminded of what had happened the last time someone had come knocking at an unusual hour, Mustang pushed himself warily to his feet and began to cross the room in the direction of the door.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Another three raps. Mustang could feel his apprehension beginning to grow. Though there hadn’t been a noticeable sharpness to the knocks, he still didn’t like this. A caller? At this time of the morning? That wasn’t normal – unless, of course, it was some room service Ray had organized as a surprise, but that just seemed implausible. After taking a second to slip on his sneakers – a preemptive move to guard against possibly finding himself barefoot outside again – a cautious Mustang finally reached the door. As opposed to pulling it straight open like he had done that fateful night a week previously, Mustang, instead, had the wherewithal to first take a quick look out through the peephole to see who was behind this impromptu, pre-dawn visit.
As soon as he saw that it wasn’t Conrad Kennedy, Finn Hennessy, or God forbid, Fletcher Rhodes standing outside, however, a mightily relieved Mustang immediately dropped his guard and opened back the door.
“Hey, Dallas …” he said, his eyes, again, squinting as the lighting in the corridor irritated them.
“Sorry for calling so early, but I’ve been up for a while and I don’t have a lot of time,” replied Dallas, looking to get straight to the point that had brought him to Mustang’s door in the first place.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it …” said Mustang, the breeze coming in through the door cold against his exposed legs. “What’s up?”
“Remember the morning I first met you at the Creek?” Dallas asked, an expression of deep concentration on his face. “And I had you hit that shot across the lake? Do you remember why I said I did that?”
With his mind still clouded due to the fact he’d only just woken up, Mustang took a second to go back to the morning in question that Dallas was talking about.
“Uh … it was something like … you needed to know that if you had to end up playing me this week that I’d be able to handle the pressure, right?” said Mustang, plucking what he believed to be the correct answer from the few fragments of that morning his brain could come up with at such an early hour.
“Correct,” said Dallas, glad to hear that Mustang had, at least, a vague recollection of what he was referring to. “I said I needed to know that if I passed you the ball, you’d make the shot – just like I used to when I was playing with the Eagles and the Lions.”
“I did that, though, right?” said Mustang, now sounding a touch worried as he woke up more and more with each passing second.
“You most certainly did,” confirmed Dallas, moving quickly to reassure Mustang as he could hear the note of concern in his voice. “And it’s because you did that, that I’m here right now at all … ‘cause I’m passing you the ball, kid.”
Now with a decidedly curious expression on his face, Mustang pulled the door fully back so that he was standing right in front of Dallas.
“What do you mean you’re ‘passing me the ball’?” said Mustang, repeating what Dallas had said in an effort to try and work out what exactly he’d meant.
“I mean, I’m giving you the shot you wanted,” confirmed Dallas, now smiling. “You wanted in on the foursomes? Well, you got it. You’re in.”
“Are you serious?!” said Mustang, his eyes now springing open in disbelief. “I’m playing in the foursomes?! Really?!”
“If you want it …” replied Dallas, his smile getting a little wider at seeing how excited Mustang was. “Which, I’m assuming, you do, right?”
“Are you kidding?! Of course, I do!” exclaimed Mustang excitedly. “Aw, man! I swear I won’t let you down, Dallas!”
“Well, I sincerely hope that’s true …” said Dallas, his smile now turning to that wry grin of his. “Cause I’m asking you and Byron to go out and do what no one else has been able to in the last three Walker Cups – take out the Riggs Brothers.”
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