“Alright, kid, let me see one more tight draw with Arnold, and then we’ll move on to the driver.”
Hearing Ray’s order, Mustang pulled another ball out from the pile alongside him and carefully positioned it at the edge of the neatly excavated row of divots he’d exhumed thus far in the course of his warm-up. At the beginning of the week, whenever he’d taken to the range at Seminole to work his way through some balls in order to loosen out, Mustang had made sure to try and be as diligent as possible with the process. As the days had slipped closer and closer to the weekend, however, Mustang had, understandably, become somewhat more casual in his approach and gradually taken his foot increasingly off the pedal in terms of intensity – as, after all, back then, his involvement going into the weekend had looked, realistically, as being little more than just another spectator watching the action unfold.
As soon as he’d discovered that not only would he be playing in the Sunday singles, but the foursomes as well, though, that same concentration he’d had on the likes of Monday and Tuesday had returned in spades. From the moment the team bus had arrived at the course early Sunday morning, Mustang had been locked in with a sense of focus unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. The crowd? The noise? The very same things that had proven so distracting the previous day? They’d all faded into the background of Mustang’s consciousness; amounting to nothing more than a faceless mass of colours and unintelligible sound.
Because Mustang had been thinking about one thing and one thing only as he marched towards the range, and that was the Riggs Brothers.
Following their utter annihilation of Greyson and Axel the previous morning, Charlie’s and Reggie’s record in the foursomes had now stretched to an eye-watering seven wins from seven matches across four Walker Cups, and they’d still yet to need more than 16 holes to add to that tally. They were like the English equivalent of Seve Ballesteros and José María Olazábal in the Ryder Cup; except unlike the Spanish legends, ‘defeat’ was a dish still to be tasted by the formidable English twins. They were, seemingly, unstoppable. Yet, as Mustang had walked to the range, his breath hot against the cold morning air, he knew full well that was the exact task Dallas had set himself and Byron – to stop the unstoppable.
So, from the second he’d strapped on his glove and pulled his sand-wedge from his bag to begin his warm-up, Mustang had been fully clued-in to what he was doing. Every ball. Every shot. Every club. No matter if it was short pitches, sawn-offs, or full-sail sends, Mustang treated every one of them as seriously as if he were facing down the exact same shot out on the course. And, slowly but surely, with each ball he sent whistling out onto the range, Mustang felt his swing getting more and more dialled-in. The contact. The flights. The windows he was hitting. Everything he was seeing and feeling were exactly how they were supposed to be. And it felt good. Really good.
THWWWIIIPPPPP!!!!
Having shaved yet another razor-thin divot from right off the top of the turf, Mustang turned his gaze skyward to check the flight of the ball – going on how solid the contact had felt, though, he was pretty confident that it was going to be looking just fine. Sure enough, as soon as he found it silhouetted against the ever-brightening sky – itself a mixture of pastel pinks and oranges – Mustang saw his ball was just beginning to peel back to the left with the tight draw Ray had requested as it eked out the final few feet remaining between it and its apex.
“I see Arnold’s in tip-top shape this morning, then,” said Rodney, his voice sounding particularly chirpy as it rang out behind Mustang.
After watching his ball land some 175-yards away (the cold morning air taxing it a good 5-yards of carry) Mustang turned around and looked at Rodney. “Yeah, he’s feeling pretty good, alright,” he smiled, moving towards the rear of the hitting bay where Ray was already waiting to hand over his driver. “As you obviously are! Are you not cold, man?!”
Like Mustang, Rodney was wearing the first of two smart-looking uniforms that had been scripted for the final day’s play. Unlike Mustang, though, who had been wearing the accompanying red sweater and beanie hat that had come with the American foursomes uniform since leaving the Breakers to ward off the early morning chill, Rodney had already foregone any outer layer and was now just walking around in a blue polo shirt adorned with the famous red lion synonymous with the Great Britain & Ireland team.
“Cold?! Are you kidding me?!” scoffed Rodney, his eyes lighting up impishly in the manner Mustang had come to recognize well from their time together over the week. “Back home if we had temperatures like this in the middle of July we’d be counting our lucky stars!”
“Remind me not to go on vacation in England then!” quipped Ray, quick as a flash, as Mustang took the driver from his hand and replaced it with Arnold.
Now armed with the big stick, Mustang walked back over to where his few remaining range balls were scattered on the grass as Ray and Rodney shared a laugh.
“So, come on …” said Rodney, excitedly turning his attention back onto Mustang as he watched him fish a tee out of the pocket on his trousers. “How does it feel to know that in …” He looked at the watch strapped to his wrist. “Less than half an hour you’ll actually be playing in the Walker Cup?!”
After taking a moment to tee up one of the balls he’d popped neatly out of the pile with his driver, Mustang stood back up and looked over at Rodney. “Honestly? Really cool!” he answered, as he busied his right hand by loosely skimming the sole of his driver against the still dewy turf. “I mean, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous. But, really, I’m more excited than anything else – like, at this stage, I can’t wait to just get out there and see how good these Riggs Brothers really are, you know?”
Mustang, of course, already had a pretty good idea about how difficult a challenge Charlie and Reggie were going to be – and not just because of their past accomplishments either. Because as focused as he’d been on his own warm-up and honing his swing, in-between shots, Mustang had been unable to resist stealing the odd glance down the length of the range to where Charlie and Reggie had been warming up themselves. And in those glances, Mustang had seen all the building blocks with which the Riggs Brothers had built their intimidating legacy. The power and speed they generated with their 6-foot-plus, husky frames. Their ability to flight the ball up and down at will. Their shot-shaping skills left and right. Their machine-like distance control with their wedges.
What had really struck Mustang, however, was seeing how well Charlie’s and Reggie’s individual games complemented one another. Where one brother may have been slightly lacking in one area of their game? That was where the other was particularly strong and vice versa. Basically, when he put together everything he’d seen on the range, it had become pretty clear to Mustang that the reason the Riggs Brothers had never been defeated as a pair was because when they pooled their talents together? They pretty much made the perfect golfer – which, all told, hadn’t exactly made for the most reassuring of thoughts to be rattling around Mustang’s head as he was warming up, but he’d done a good job of ignoring it as well as he had.
“Well, I think that feeling’s a mutual one,” hinted Rodney, lowering his voice as if wanting to make sure he wasn’t overheard by anyone.
“Really?” asked Ray, his interest immediately piqued. “They spoke about Mustang?”
Rodney took a quick look around to make doubly sure that no one from the Great Britain & Ireland team was within earshot. “Well, I won’t say too much …” he whispered, sounding a touch conflicted as he did so. “Cause while the majority of them are twats, they are still my teammates, so …”
“Yeah, no, of course,” reassured Mustang, he, too, mimicking Rodney’s hushed tone.
“But what I will say?” continued Rodney, moving a step closer to Ray and Mustang to further reduce the risk of anyone hearing him reveal secrets from the Great Britain & Ireland team room. “Is that when everyone saw the names Dallas had chosen for the foursomes? Including yours? Well, I’ll put it this way: there were a lot of surprised faces. Even Desmond looked taken aback – and he never gives anything away.”
Mustang and Ray exchanged a loaded glance. When he’d gotten back to his room the previous night after talking with Dallas out on the balcony of the team room, Mustang had told Ray everything they’d spoken about – including the plan he’d proposed of sending out mainly the younger members of the American team to try and throw their Great Britain & Ireland counterparts off their game. So, to now hear that said plan had possibly worked? Was incredibly exciting.
“And do you think they were surprised because … I dunno … they were expecting more of a challenge, maybe?” Mustang asked, trying to subtly squeeze some more information out of Rodney.
“Well, ‘The Six’ did seem especially confident of their chances after seeing the pairings …” said Rodney, now sounding a touch hesitant as though he felt he’d already said too much.
“How so?” asked Ray, who, like Mustang, was attempting to pick up as much intel as possible before their source in Rodney dried up.
Again, Rodney took a quick look around. He was in dangerous territory. And he knew it. “Promise that this stays between us three?” he asked, negotiating his terms for revealing what he knew.
“Of course,” swore Mustang, coupling it with a stern expression to show just how serious he was treating Rodney’s request. “We promise.”
“Well, in that case, let’s just say …” said Rodney, looking a tad more relaxed now that he knew his words would be going no further than the hitting bay they were standing in. “After seeing the list of names Dallas had put forward, it was made pretty clear that the expectation for the foursomes should be a clean-sweep and nothing else – and that wasn’t just coming from ‘The Six’ either.”
Mustang and Ray didn’t need Rodney to say another word. They’d heard everything they’d needed to. Because not only had they the confirmation they were looking for that Mustang’s plan to get the Great Britain & Ireland team underestimating the Americans had worked, but were they to believe what they’d inferred from what Rodney had said that this same underestimation had been, for all intents and purposes, fuelled by none other than Desmond Finch himself? Then as far as Mustang was concerned, everybody else sporting the same red lion on their chests as Rodney was correct, the foursomes was going to be a clean-sweep.
They just didn’t know yet that they were going to be on the wrong side of it.
He was going to make damn sure of that.
*
“Do you always leave it this late to come to the tee?!” asked Byron, his tone riding the line between ‘mildly snippy’ and ‘downright irritated’.
“Sorry …” replied Mustang, hurrying his step to reach Byron as quickly as possible. “Just wanted to get a few more putts in.”
After finishing his chat with Rodney – wherein he’d excitedly wished him good luck for his match – Mustang had proceeded to hammer five or six ‘picture perfect’ drives out onto the range before heading to the expansive practice green to get his putter as suitably warmed-up as the rest of his bag was. Before he knew it, fifteen minutes of rolling every length putt imaginable had elapsed and Mustang was getting the nod from Ray that it was time to head to the tee.
What they didn’t realize, though, was that their definition of “on-time” and that of Byron’s, obviously, differed quite dramatically.
“Yeah, well, I just hope they were worth it …” huffed Byron, already taking to marching off purposefully in the direction of the 1st. “Cause we were supposed to be on the tee two minutes ago – so, giddy-up and you might get a sugar cube if you’re lucky.”
Given the scoreline heading into the second day and the seemingly insurmountable deficit they faced, as a smiling Mustang set off in stride after Byron, part of him was thinking that the raucous atmosphere which had greeted every American golfer who had stepped on the 1st-tee the previous morning would be replaced with a somewhat more subdued and muted reception.
As soon as he and Byron made their way through the roped-off pathway that cut through the crowd, however, and emerged out into the crucible that was the 1st-tee, Mustang realized just how wrong he’d been.
As in really wrong.
Greeted by a wall of sound unlike anything he’d heard before in his life, Mustang could only look around in disbelief as a neverending tidal wave of “U-S-A!” chants reverberated around the tee from the three packed galleries surrounding it. Everywhere he looked it was just a sea of red, white, and blue. American flags, both big and small, flying proudly. People with their faces painted in the same colours as that of Old Glory. There was even a small gathering of about six or seven guys directly behind the tee-box dressed in matching American flag suits and sunglasses. All of them shouting. All of them cheering. And all of them clapping. Truthfully, it was a somewhat overwhelming sight to behold.
On the final day of the Memorial Matchplay a few months previously, given the rather hectic, last-minute nature of how he’d come to find himself actually playing in the final, Mustang hadn’t had the opportunity to be affected by the volume of people who’d crammed into the Creek that day to see him and Byron duke it out. It had just been a case of him grabbing his bag, teeing up a ball, and going to work.
Standing on that 1st-tee, however, there was no escaping the reality of the situation Mustang found himself in. He was about to play in the top match out in the Sunday foursomes at the Walker Cup. That was happening. No getting around it. No ignoring it. And it was beginning to have an effect. His heart was thumping in his chest. His mouth was bone-dry. And having spent the morning doing everything he could to fight off the salt-licked chill that had been hanging in the air, he was now feeling uncomfortably warm beneath his sweater.
In short, Mustang was nervous. But this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill bout of nerves. No, this was a nervousness unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. This was all-consuming. Disorientating.
And, yet, as Mustang looked across the tee and saw the Riggs Brothers standing together and talking with one of Desmond’s vice-captains, they seemed … fine. They didn’t look nervous or pensive – quite the opposite, in fact. They were laughing. They were joking. All told, if one didn’t know any better, you wouldn’t have been blamed for thinking Charlie and Reggie were just waiting to head out for a regular weekend 18 at their local club as opposed to being on the cusp of heading out in a match of huge importance on the deciding day of the Walker Cup.
“How we doing, gentlemen?!”
With the sound of his voice yanking him, gratefully, from his thoughts before he could become too preoccupied with the Riggs Brothers’ apparent nonchalance in the face of their match, Mustang turned his attention towards Dallas, who’d emerged from the mass of people gathered on the tee to come speak to him and Byron.
“Yeah, fine,” replied Byron, he, too, sounding bizarrely unphased by the occasion. “Just wanna get goin’.”
“That’s always the way with matches like these,” sighed Dallas, knowingly, as he raised his voice to be heard over the energetic chants of ‘U-S-A!’ that didn’t appear to be showing any signs of waning. “Be it the Walker Cup or Ryder Cup, it feels like an eternity for them to start, and then when they actually do? It feels like they’re over in the blink of an eye – it’s just the nature of the beast!” Dallas turned his attention down onto Mustang, who, in the meantime, had become distracted, yet again, by the noise and colour of the crowd. “And how ‘bout you, kid?” he asked, smiling excitedly. “How ya feeling?”
Mustang didn’t know how to respond. Were he to answer Dallas’ question truthfully, he’d have to say he was feeling as nervous as a pig in an abattoir. But after doing what he could to sell him on the idea of putting out the other younger players for the foursomes and, therefore, himself in this very position? Mustang felt he owed it to Dallas to try and come across as confident as possible.
“Yeah … I’m good …” replied Mustang, somehow scrounging together enough saliva to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth and form the words. “Looking, uh … looking forward to it.”
Dallas grinned. “Wow, that nervous, huh?!” he laughed.
“What?!” said Mustang, taken aback at seeing how easily his hastily erected facade had been seen through. “No! I’m not nervous! I’m fine! Really!”
Dallas reached out and placed a reassuring hand on Mustang’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid …” he smiled, dipping down as best he could to avoid people in the crowd seeing what he was saying. “It’d be weird if you weren’t.”
Feeling a lot better at knowing he didn’t have to hide his nerves anymore, Mustang smiled weakly, though nonetheless appreciatively.
“Although …” replied Dallas, continuing to smile warmly as he kept his hand on Mustang’s shoulder. “If you want, I’ve got a surefire way to get rid of those nerves, if you’re interested?”
“Yes! Absolutely!” said Mustang, eager to hear any pearls of wisdom Dallas might have to offer that could quell the nerves churning in his stomach. “What is it?!”
“Well, it’s quite simple, really …” said Dallas, finally lifting his enormous hand from off of Mustang’s shoulder. “You just have to hit the opening tee-shot.”
Having been happily ignoring their conversation up until now, after hearing what Dallas had just suggested, Byron’s ears immediately pricked up. “What?!” he said, hoping against hope that Dallas had somehow misspoken.
“Yeah, what?!” added Mustang, his mouth beginning to experience drought-like conditions once again.
“I thought I was leading us off?!” hissed Byron, lowering his voice to avoid drawing any attention to their conversation. “You know, to make the most of the par 5’s on the front side?! Not to mention the fact I did it yesterday and crushed it right down the middle!”
“And I’m well aware of that,” replied Dallas, looking to lower down the temperature of their exchange before it boiled over for everyone to see. “But need I remind you, Byron, how nervous you were yesterday morning before hitting that very same tee-shot? And how handling it as well as you did set you up to play some of the best golf I’ve ever seen you produce?”
Much to his annoyance, Byron had no answer for Dallas. He wished he did. But he was coming up completely blank. Because, ultimately, he knew Dallas was right.
“Fine …” Byron mumbled, averting his gaze disgruntledly after having his very own argument used against him. “He can have the tee-shot.”
Recognizing that he’d gotten Byron on board with his plan – albeit reluctantly – Dallas turned and looked back at Mustang, whose mind had promptly raced into overdrive since the idea of him hitting the opening tee-shot had been proposed.
“So, what do ya think, kid?” Dallas asked, just as the starter for the match began to carefully scrutinize the face of his watch, diligently counting down every tick ahead of getting proceedings officially underway. “The shot clock’s winding down and the ball is yours … but only if you want it.”
Mustang didn’t know what to do. Part of him could, of course, see the logic in Dallas’ offer. If he were able to step up and stripe a drive right down the centre of the fairway in spite of the nerves he was feeling; the expectations of the crowd; and the sense of responsibility weighing so heavy on his shoulders it felt as though Mr Denby had taken to sitting on top of them; then there’d be nothing he wouldn’t be able to do. Given his legs, currently, felt as though they’d been replaced with iron bars, however, the prospect of merely walking over to the tee seemed challenging enough for Mustang, never mind then actually hitting a drive once he got there.
“I hate to push ya, Mustang …” said Dallas, stealing a glance at the large Rolex clock at the rear of the tee-box and seeing it was, at most, thirty or so seconds away from hitting 9 o’clock. “But I have to let the starter know who’s teeing-off before the match starts, so I need an answer – you want it or not?”
Knowing there was now a literal ticking clock hanging over his head, Mustang’s mind became even more clouded. All he wanted to do was go talk to Ray about this; see if he’d be able to use his uncanny ability to help him think about things more clearly and therefore make a decision one way or the other. Unfortunately, though, given he, too, could see the same clock as Dallas, Mustang knew that just wasn’t an option anymore. This was his decision to make, and his alone.
Luckily for Mustang, however, regardless of whether or not he could speak to him, deep down in the pit of his stomach, he knew full well that there was only one answer Ray would, realistically, be pushing him towards in this scenario.
So, Mustang decided to listen.
“Alright …” he said, narrowing his eyes and clenching his jaw determinedly as he looked up at Dallas. “I’ll do it. I want the tee-shot.”
Dallas and Byron exchanged a look. As far as they were concerned, it sure sounded like Mustang meant what he was saying – Dallas, though, just needed to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.
“You sure?” he asked, doing his best to ignore the fact the starter was just beginning to check that his microphone was ready to go. “Cause you can say no.”
Mustang cast his gaze back off across the tee-box. He saw Charlie and Reggie were just starting to ready themselves for the formalities which would precede the beginning of the match. Going on the fact Charlie had pulled his driver and was making some long, languid practice swings off to the side of the tee-box, it was clear that, just like the previous day’s session, he’d gotten the nod to lead himself and Reggie off once again.
Just as he brought his driver back down to the bottom of his swing, however – as if somehow feeling that he was looking at him – Charlie lifted his head and, in a very deliberate move, locked eyes with Mustang.
“Five points,” he mouthed silently, referencing the lead Great Britain & Ireland had over America.
Leaving Mustang with a smug grin and goading wink of his eye, Charlie then went back to making casual practice swings with his driver – no one none the wiser as to what he’d just done.
Mustang turned and looked at Dallas once more. “Naw, trust me …” he said, looking dangerously focused. “I got this.”
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