“What do I want?!” said Fletcher, rephrasing Mustang’s question as if aghast that someone could think him capable of having anything but good intentions. “Can’t a teammate – a friend, even – just pick up the phone and see how you’re doin’?!”
“Well, given you’re neither of those things, I’d have to say ‘no’,” replied Mustang sternly, trying his best to not get lured into whatever game it was that Fletcher was attempting to play. “So, again, what do you want?”
“Really, Oscar?! You don’t think of me as a friend?! Well, I gotta say that hurts me deeply – it really does,” replied Fletcher, his faux-dejection laid on nice and thick for effect. “I mean, if I weren’t a friend, would I be tellin’ you that you might want to consider wipin’ that sour look off your face? You know, what you bein’ on T.V. and all?”
Unsure as to whether or not he was just trying to mess with him, Mustang slowly lifted his gaze and began subtly combing the range, scanning for signs of the camera Fletcher claimed was currently watching him.
“Warmer … warmer …” teased Fletcher. “That’s it … almost there …”
Though hating the fact that he needed to, Mustang gritted his teeth and heeded Fletcher’s instructions, continuing to turn his head further to the left until, up in a tower, he finally spied the camera he’d been looking for.
“There he is!” said Fletcher, the delight in his voice slithering through the speaker on Mustang’s phone. “The money shot!”
Not happy with how exposed he was suddenly feeling at knowing Fletcher could see him, but not the other way around, Mustang immediately turned his back to the camera so that his face was no longer visible.
“Nice try …” sneered Fletcher. “But it’s gonna take a lot more than just turnin’ around to get them to stop wantin’ to see the oh-so-famous ‘Mustang Peyton’! You kiddin’ me?! Come on, Oscar!”
“What are you talking about?!” hissed Mustang, feeling as though he should lower his voice, even if he knew it was illogical to do so. “Who’s ‘them’?!”
“Oh, you haven’t heard?” asked Fletcher, effortlessly switching from devilishly gleeful to angelically innocent. “You’re the talk of the town! The T.V. networks? They can’t get enough of you! And, let’s be honest, who can blame them, really? I mean, after all, what a story! The teenage runaway who gets taken in by a lonely army vet turned caddie? And then just months later the pair of them wind up playing in the Walker Cup?! That’s good stuff!”
Mustang froze. It was like he was back on the 1st-tee all over again. Paralyzed by this overwhelming, crushing sense of anxiety that, second by second, was squeezing every last breath from his lungs. Except this time, he was painfully aware that just closing his eyes and swinging a golf club wasn’t going to do even a solitary thing to help him.
After winning the Memorial and coming to the decision that they were going to try entering a few junior tournaments over the course of the summer – with an eye, eventually, to then making a run at trying to qualify for the U.S. Amateur – Mustang and Ray, for the sake of not drawing any more attention to themselves beyond what Mustang’s age would already do, agreed that it would be for the best if they kept the story of how they came to be living together under wraps. To have it be a case where if they were to be making headlines, they wanted it to be because of what they were literally doing on the course, not for how they came to be there in the first place.
And as the summer had gradually slipped into the fall, Mustang and Ray had succeeded in doing exactly that. If people had been talking about Mustang, it was because of his ability as an extremely promising up-and-coming golfer, and nothing else.
Everything had worked out perfectly.
But to now think that, somehow, the cat had been left out of the bag? That, right that second, there were golf analysts off in some studio somewhere – strangers – talking about Mustang’s private life? Him running away from his foster parents? Living in his grandfather’s car? Possibly even talking about his mother?! It was just too much to bear.
“But … but how?!” Mustang stammered, almost forgetting that it was still, in fact, Fletcher he was speaking to as his brain desperately tried to figure out how all of this could have happened.
“Oh, well, you know how these things go, Oscar,” said Fletcher, his sly tone betraying that he knew exactly who was behind all of this. “All it takes is someone – we dunno who – mentionin’ somethin’ off-hand to a few friends of theirs in the media. Next thing you know Twitter gets a hold of it. And from there? Well, it’s really only a short jump away from people on T.V. talkin’ ‘bout how ‘courageous’ and ‘strong’ you are for gettin’ to where you are – you know, what with your mom bitin’ the big one and all.”
When Fletcher had called Ray a bum the previous Sunday night, in that moment, Mustang had felt an anger unlike anything he’d experienced before – ever. He’d wanted to hit Fletcher. To hurt him. Become so consumed by the anger he’d been feeling that it had felt as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist. It was an anger so visceral that, once it had actually dissipated, Mustang thought it would be quite some time before he’d feel himself caught in the white-hot grasp of something even remotely close to it once again.
And, yet, just under a week later, standing on the range at Seminole, with the lens of a television camera burning a hole through his back, that was exactly what was after happening – except this was only worse. Because this wasn’t just anger Mustang was feeling. No, this was rage. In its purest, most poisonous form. Thundering through his veins. Clouding his vision. Making him feel light-headed. It had completely taken over, leaving Mustang wanting nothing more than to just reach his hand inside his phone, grab Fletcher by the collar, and pull him through the screen.
But, instead, he could just stand there. His hand shaking as he held onto his phone. Powerless to do anything.
“It was you?!” snarled Mustang, trying his very best to keep his composure. “How did yo-… why?!”
“Why?!” snapped Fletcher, his tone instantly shifting from teasing and playful to a bile-soaked, vindictive bark. “I’ll tell ya why! Cause they needed to know!”
“Who did?!” growled Mustang, fighting hard to stop himself from just straight roaring down the phone.
“EVERYONE!” shouted Fletcher, his voice distorting the line such was the ferocity it was laced with. “See, you mighta’ convinced all these idiots that you’re somethin’ special by beatin’ a bunch of losers and nobodies in some podunk matchplay horse crap in the middle of nowhere, but I know the truth! I know who you really are! I saw it from the moment I laid eyes on you in Oregon!”
“Oh, is that right?!” said Mustang, snapping back as he began to care less and less about whether or not he was still on-camera. “And who’s that exactly?!”
“A stray dog,” sniped Fletcher, steeping each word in as much venom as he could muster. “The same kind of ratchety mongrel who’d always show up to my grandpappy’s farm whenever we’d visit him in the summer. Scroungin’ around. Lookin’ for someone to take pity on ‘em. And you know what? Sometimes we’d do exactly that. We’d take ‘em in. Give ‘em some scraps from the kitchen. A warm place to sleep in outta the rain. Hell, maybe even give ‘em a fun little nickname if they stuck around for long enough. But that right there? That was always the problem with strays, Mustang. Each and every one of ‘em were the exact same. Once they’d gotten what they wanted outta ya? First sign of trouble? They were gone. It was just in ‘em – they couldn’t help but run. And that very same ‘break’? That urge to bolt as soon as the pressure comes on and things get a little too real? That’s what I saw when I looked at you at the U.S. Amateur. And you wanna know how I know that break is in you? Because whoever your actual father is? What did he do the first chance he got? Oh, that’s right, he made a break for it. And, like it or not, that kind of mental weakness is genetic. Your deadbeat daddy had a break in him, and so you do, Oscar. It’s in your blood. Your bones. You want to fail. So, do everyone a favour, and just do it already, so they can finally move on from this lie that you’re ever actually gonna be somebody.”
With that, the line went dead.
Fletcher had hung up.
Though part of him was furious that Fletcher had absconded without giving him a chance to reply, another part of Mustang – one of the quiet few not blinded by rage – was relieved that he had. Because, truthfully, if Fletcher had stayed on the line to hear his rebuttal, Mustang wasn’t sure that he’d have been able to come up with anything all that different from the silence he was currently hearing through his phone.
“Who was that?”
Having been so lost in the swirling mess that was his own thoughts, Mustang hadn’t heard Ray arriving back to their hitting bay, and, as a result, was now feeling suitably caught off-guard.
“Uh … what?” he said, trying desperately to come across as normal as possible as he turned around and set about hurriedly stashing his phone back inside his bag.
“You were on the phone to somebody?” said Ray, immediately noticing Mustang’s peculiar behaviour. “I could see you as I was walkin’ back over here.”
“Oh, yeah … that …” replied Mustang, still trying – and failing – to shake off the effects of his call with Fletcher. “It was just, uh …”
With the feeling growing all the stronger that he definitely seemed rattled over something, Ray placed the bag of fruit and six-pack of water bottles he’d nabbed for their round on top of the golf bag and really focused in on Mustang. “Yeah, kid?” he asked, concern growing.
“Father Breen …” answered Mustang, somehow summoning up the required mettle to not only steel his voice but match it with a convincingly relaxed-looking expression. “Yeah, he just wanted to wish me luck before the match with Finn.”
“Oh, well that was nice of him,” said Ray, buying Mustang’s act but still looking as though he felt that there was something he was missing. “You sure there’s nothin’ else goin’ on, though? You seem a little … off.”
“No, really … I’m fine. I just know you don’t like me being on my phone when I’m warming up, is all,” said Mustang, surprising even himself with not only how quickly the lies were coming out of his mouth, but the ease with which he was doing it. “So, I thought you’d be annoyed with me taking the call.”
“Yeah, I think I can let it slide today, kid!” replied Ray, jokingly, as he grabbed the water and fruit once again. “After all, it’s not every day you find yourself about to play in the match that could decide the Walker Cup, now is it?!”
With Ray taking to bending down in order to start packing away their supplies inside the various pockets on the bag, Mustang’s brave face began to wilt ever-so-slightly.
“No …” he said, attempting to swallow the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. “I guess it’s not …”
*
“COME OOOONNNN!” roared Finn, fist-pumping the air with a vicious right hook as his ball toppled into the hole. “LET’S BLOODY GO!”
For all his trash-talking and just all-around brash demeanour – not to mention how generally unpleasant he’d proven himself capable of being – Mustang had come to realize throughout the course of their match that Finn Hennessy, annoyingly, was every bit as good as the reputation that preceded him.
Strong off-the-tee. Accurate with his irons, be they short or long. Consistent with his wedges. Competent on the greens. There was no denying that from a purely technical, ‘nuts & bolts’ perspective, Finn had everything necessary in his armoury to take apart any course put in front of him.
Yet, having played the bones of almost 17-holes with him, what Finn could do with a club in hand – as impressive as it was – hadn’t been what had left the most memorable mark on Mustang. Instead, it was the seemingly effortless way in which the young Irishman had imposed himself on proceedings.
It was a well-known fact that the Finn Hennessy who played in the foursomes at the Walker Cup and the Finn Hennessy who played in the singles were two very different animals entirely. Whilst the version who played in the foursomes was, of course, always extremely competitive and, going on the more-than-decent record he’d amassed, quite successful, as soon as he entered the high-stakes, egocentric arena that was ‘one-on-one’ matchplay golf, the cocky Dubliner’s entire game went up to a completely different level – so much so, in fact, that he’d never been beaten.
And, going into their match, Mustang had been well aware of this phenomenon.
It just wasn’t until he stepped foot onto the 1st-tee, however, that he actually understood it.
Baiting the crowd into booing him during their official introductions by cupping his hand to his ear. Getting them to make as much noise as they could during his opening drive, one that he then promptly ripped right down the middle of the 1st fairway. Finn pulled out all of the tricks and all of the antics that had garnered him his reputation for being such a unique and challenging opponent across the last two Walker Cups.
Of course, for those spectators gathered around the tee or those watching at home, they may have viewed what Finn was doing as nothing more than harmless theatrics – parlor tricks to goad a reaction from a hostile crowd and get the spotlight he loved so much shining, as per usual, on himself. For Mustang, though? To be the “other” guy standing on the tee watching all of this happen? He knew by engaging with the crowd and making himself the pantomime villain, what Finn was really doing was trying to heap even more pressure onto Mustang’s shoulders to be the one to ‘shut him up’.
In essence, he was attempting to turn their match into an emotionally-charged street fight before they’d even walked off the 1st-tee-box.
And it worked.
Because with Fletcher’s words continuing to burn a hole straight through his stomach like he’d been force-fed a glass of battery acid, Mustang was feeling in the mood for a fight. So, if it was down into the gutter Finn wanted to go? Then that’s where Mustang would meet him.
Like countless boxers before him, though, Mustang would soon learn the consequences of ‘fighting angry’ – and, especially so, against a seasoned brawler like Finn Hennessy. Trying to pulverize every tee-shot. Firing at every pin in sight. Being far too aggressive on the greens. It was like Mustang was actively attempting to replicate how he’d played in the final of the U.S. Amateur; subconsciously trying to prove Fletcher wrong, and make himself feel better in the process. And, in the early stages of the match, this strategy – regardless of how reckless it was – did, actually, work, as Mustang, though completely against the run of play, clipped Finn with a stiff jab at the 3rd to win the hole and go 1UP.
Just like it had in Oregon, however, the more the match wore on, this ‘swinging for the fences’ mentality Mustang continued to stubbornly employ – even in spite of an exasperated Ray begging him to reel it in – only served to, inevitably, put him in more and more trouble with each hole that passed. And as soon as he’d overturned the one-hole deficit he’d faced after the 3rd with a quickfire birdie at 4? Finn – smelling the faintest hint of blood in the water on account of Mustang’s erratic play – had bared his teeth and moved in for the kill.
Employing his very own policy of incessant bombardment, Finn had backed Mustang right up against the ropes and kept him from there from the 5th-hole onwards, causing him to dodge and weave for his life by making him sink clutch putt after clutch putt just to stay in the match.
After doing this for the guts of nearly three and a half hours in the withering, late summer heat, however, as Mustang got wearily back to his feet after replacing his ball on the 17th green, he honestly didn’t know how much gas he had left in the tank – even though the match was, miraculously, still all-square. Because having just seen Finn get in for a huge par before him – and, as he’d done ever since the match had started, celebrate with an intensity that had only grown as the afternoon had crept into the early evening – Mustang was seriously beginning to wonder how many times he could keep going back to the well before the pale would come up empty. It was getting too hard. This constant barrage of pressure. The crushing expectation. It was just too much. No one could be expected to withstand this. No one.
“LET’S GO, MUSTANG!” shouted someone in the crowd, his lone, beer-soaked voice cutting loud and clear through the silence that had descended on the green in the time a distracted Mustang had been staring blankly at the 6-footer he’d left himself for par to halve the hole.
Once the obligatory chorus of disapproving shushes had rung out, and the stewards surrounding the green had all promptly raised their arms to signal for nothing other than perfect silence, Mustang began to walk in towards his ball. His legs felt heavy. They had for quite some time. He’d tried not to show it, of course, what with Finn having been bouncing energetically around from hole to hole all afternoon. But given his feet now felt as though someone had encased them in concrete, it was getting harder and harder for Mustang to keep up the act – both for Finn’s sake and for who he knew was watching at home.
Finally settling himself into his stance, and grateful to be standing still once again, Mustang took another look at the hole. Being on a similar line to that which Finn had stared down for his par just a few moments previously, Mustang knew that it was a pretty straightforward left-to-right putt slightly back up the hill – or, at least, as ‘straightforward’ as a putt can be when you’re playing the penultimate hole in the final singles match of the Walker Cup and need to halve the hole just to give yourself a chance at still getting a point out of the match.
Which is to say not straightforward at all.
Feeling his mind beginning to wander down a dangerous path, Mustang quickly dropped his eyes back over his ball – now, of all moments, wasn’t the time to be getting distracted. Not when that’s exactly what Fletcher wanted.
So, Mustang set his hands on the grip of his putter.
Rocked his stiffening shoulders as smoothly as he could manage … and hit the putt.
Though not the purest of strokes he’d ever hit, Mustang turned his head and watched as his ball covered the first 2-feet of the putt across the green, the surface – just like Mustang, himself – now starting to show the tiniest hint of wear and tear after a long week.
His ball hit 4-feet out.
The pace was looking good.
3-feet out.
The disjointed cries of “GET IN!” and “GET IN THE HOLE!” began to ring out around the green.
“Come on …” thought Mustang, every fibre of his being urging his ball to find the bottom of the cup.
2-feet out.
It began to break back to the right.
“Please! …” thought Mustang.
1-foot out.
His ball just about had the hole in its sights …
It grabbed a piece of the left edge …
AND WENT IN!
As the crowd erupted with one of the same thunderous roars they’d been producing right the way throughout the afternoon, Mustang could only let his head drop into his chest. He didn’t have the energy to fist-pump. He wanted to. But he knew he couldn’t afford to needlessly expend what little gas he had left. So, instead, he just closed his eyes and breathed out a huge sigh of relief. The match was still all-square. He was still alive. Still in with a chance. And that’s all that mattered … even if he felt out on his feet.
*
FWWWEEEEESSSSHHHH!!!
Though an undoubtedly tired – and tense – swing, having given his ball’s trajectory an extra second’s worth of scrutiny just to be completely sure it was going to wind up in the fairway, Mustang bent down, grabbed his tee, and began to trudge back over to where Ray was standing at the side of the 18th tee-box. His gas levels were now running dangerously low.
“Nice shot, kid,” said Ray, headcover already in hand as he, too, agreed with those members of the crowd who’d managed to sneak up near the tee-box and were still whooping and hollering after seeing Mustang follow Finn into the fairway.
“Thanks …” replied Mustang, now beginning to feel a touch light-headed as he handed his driver off to Ray. “Any chance we have some water lef-…”
Before he could finish his question, the sound of a loud cheer, one carrying on the breeze that had been whipping steadily around the course since the beginning of the singles, cut across Mustang and instantly captured everyone’s attention around the tee-box. Given the only match left on the course apart from his and Finn’s was that between Byron and Maddox Breckon, Mustang – and everybody else – knew to, immediately, look towards the 18th green.
Having seen them being welcomed onto the putting surface with a gracious round of applause just as he and Finn had been making their own way onto the 18th tee-box, Mustang – in a much-needed effort to try and distract himself from the pressure of his tee-shot – had spent the entirety of his time waiting for Finn to tee-off attempting to get a read on what had been happening up on the green between Byron and Maddox. And after hearing the unmistakable sharp intake of breath that could only have followed a missed putt from Maddox in the immediate aftermath of Finn pummeling his drive right down the middle of the 18th fairway, it had taken nearly every ounce of concentration Mustang had left at his disposal to focus on his tee-shot and not what was happening 400+ yards away.
With the cheer he’d heard now evolving into a loud, rumbling chorus of ‘U-S-A!’ amongst those supporters gathered around the final green, however, Mustang knew it could, realistically, only mean one thing – Byron had beaten Maddox!
The problem now, though, was that Mustang had no idea what Byron’s win meant in the overall context of the match. Because, yes, Mustang had been hearing the various roars echoing around Seminole from the other matches as he’d been trying desperately to keep his head above water against Finn. The raucous cheers from holes won in the name of the United States. The pained groans from those lost to Great Britain & Ireland. But, unfortunately, because it had gone back and forth so regularly between the two, it had made it nigh-on impossible to get a read on who, if anybody, was assuming the ascendency.
And with the nearest scoreboard, frustratingly, not visible from the 18th tee-box, Mustang still had no idea whether the U.S.A. or Great Britain & Ireland were actually winning. Sure, he’d heard the results from some of the earlier matches, mainly thanks to overhearing snippets of conversations in the gallery following his match; but, in reality, hearing that Miles Radford and Charlie Riggs had finished all-square, and Fraser Campbell had defeated Conrad Kennedy 3&2, only told Mustang so much.
Right as he began to mull over the possibility of just asking the crowd if they could tell him the score, Mustang noticed a cart speeding up the side of the 18th fairway on a beeline for where he and Ray were standing on the tee-box.
“Is that … Dallas?” said Mustang, putting the question to Ray as he lifted his hand up towards his face to shield his eyes from the rapidly lowering sun.
“Looks like it …” Ray answered, using his hand as a makeshift visor as well.
After a few more seconds of watching his cart chew up the ground between them, Mustang and Ray had their suspicions confirmed as Dallas did, indeed, arrive at the tee-box. When Mustang saw the stern, somewhat consternated, expression wrinkling his face as he stepped out of the cart, however, he couldn’t help but feel a knot begin to tighten deep inside his stomach.
Whatever Dallas had come to tell him? Clearly, it was deathly serious.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” asked Mustang, not waiting for any niceties. “Byron just won there, right?”
“Yeah, he won …” replied Dallas, flatly, as he finally came to a stop in front of Mustang and Ray, his brow noticeably beaded with sweat. “Don’t worry …”
“Alright …” said Mustang, still not understanding why Dallas looked so troubled. “So, what’s the problem?”
Dallas looked Mustang dead in the eye. “It’s all tied-up, kid …” he said, frankly. “Byron? He just made it 12½ points apiece – which means it’s all down to you.”
“So … if I don’t win the last?” said Mustang, the stakes, suddenly, becoming soberingly real as that same lump made an unwelcome return to his throat. “They retain the Cup? A half is no good?”
“No …” confirmed Dallas with a loose shake of his head. “It’s make or break.”
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