“Ah, there they are!” said Dallas, smiling brightly as he dipped down under the wing of his plane and began wiping his hands on the oil-stained rag he’d been using to check the rear wheels with. “How we doing, gentlemen?!”
“Honestly?” said Mustang, still grinning in disbelief as he let his eyes wander over the body of Dallas’ plane. “A little confused and … well, yeah, just confused, really! What is all this? What are you doing here?”
“You haven’t told him yet?” asked Dallas, turning and aiming his question off at Ray, who had taken to inquisitively examining the propeller on the nose of the plane.
“Well, given I didn’t come up with any of this, I didn’t really think it was my place,” replied Ray, defending his silence on the matter as he finally shifted his focus onto Dallas, a cheeky grin lighting up his face. “Plus, if it turns out the kid hates the idea? I didn’t want any of the blame aimed in my direction, so … that too.”
Dallas just shook his head and chuckled that same deep, bass-filled laugh of his, surprising Mustang, in the process, with how strangely reassuring it felt to hear again after all this time.
“You know what? That’s actually not the worst idea in the world!” said Dallas, smiling at Ray’s efforts to keep himself out of the firing line before turning his head and calling out over his shoulder. “Hey, Skip?!”
To now hear that, somehow, Skip Devereaux, of all people, fit into this bizarre menagerie as well, a dumbfounded Mustang could only turn and look off towards the plane in anticipation of seeing his old opponent from the Memorial Matchplay a year previously. And, sure enough, a few seconds later, crouching down in order to avoid walloping his head on the exposed frame surrounding the already open cockpit door, there appeared Skip. “Hey, kid,” he said, acknowledging Mustang as though this wasn’t an extremely odd set of circumstances in which to find themselves being reacquainted. “What’s up, man?”
“Yeah, I’m … I’m alright, I guess …” replied Mustang, sounding anything but.
“Unsurprisingly,” said Dallas, interjecting on Mustang’s behalf as he could tell his efforts to wrap his head around everything were somewhat impeding his ability to string complex sentences together. “Turns out young Mustang here has a question for you.”
“Oh, well, no prizes for guessing what that is, right?” said Skip, smiling widely as he came to a stop next to Dallas and looked down at Mustang. “Yes, pretending to fly the plane is as fun as you think it is.”
“Not actually the question we had in mind, Skip,” said Ray dryly, who, like Dallas, was still quietly sniggering at Skip’s joke. “But good to know nonetheless.”
“Yeah, it was more to do with this plan of yours?” said Dallas. “You know, the whole reason we’re here?”
“Oh, I see – yeah, that makes a lot more sense,” smiled Skip, before refocusing on Mustang. “Well, it’s simple, really. Ray was telling me that you haven’t been feeling great lately …”
Mustang turned his head sharply and looked accusingly over at Ray.
“Don’t be mad at him,” continued Skip, looking to calm Mustang’s annoyance at the fact Ray had been speaking out of school. “He’s just tryna’ look out for you – and, especially so, given you’re on the verge of … you know … royally screwing up.”
“Screwing up?!” repeated Mustang, not sounding overly pleased with Skip’s assertion. “How?! Cause of the Masters?! I already said I’ll go, what more can I do?!”
“Take it seriously,” said Dallas, once again being the pillar of calm. “Cause if you don’t? As in, take in every single second that you’re inside those ropes? Trust me, kid, you’re gonna regret it – and, don’t forget, that’s coming from someone who’s actually played in the Masters.”
Though he, of course, knew that he was a frequent visitor to Augusta, Mustang had forgotten that with his trio of wins at the U.S. Amateur, U.S. Mid-Amateur, and U.S. Public Links, Dallas would, indeed, have experienced what it was like to have had a scorecard in his hand for the actual Masters itself as well – and, if he was remembering correctly, what it was like to make the cut on all three occasions at that.
“Is it really that different to playing there when it’s just a regular day?” Mustang asked, allowing himself a second to indulge the part of himself that really was excited about the Masters – the same part he’d tried so hard to repress since what went down at the Walker Cup.
“Night and day, kid,” answered Dallas, a warm smile stretching across his face as the various memories he had of those three magical weeks played inside his head. “The electricity in the air? The roars echoing through the pines? And that’s before we even start talkin’ ‘bout the Pimento Cheese Sandwiches!”
Mustang smiled.
“And because we don’t want you to miss out on all that or taint it for yourself by not being in the right frame of mind when you’re there,” said Skip, looking to move quickly with his point as he could see Mustang’s resolve was just beginning to thaw. “We thought we’d see if we couldn’t … whet your appetite, shall we say, before heading to Georgia.”
“Whet it how exactly?” asked Mustang, now looking a touch worried at what Skip’s plan might entail.
“Well, seeing as next week is going to be your first experience of playing in a professional event,” said Skip, now smiling once again as he finally got to the exciting part of actually revealing what he had up his sleeve. “I thought it might be a good idea for you to get a taste of what one’s actually like without the pressure of playing in one. So, with that in mind, I called in a favour from a buddy of mine to get some last-minute VIP passes for you and Ray to go to the Valero Texas Open this weekend. All-access. All three days.”
“Are you serious?!” said Mustang, eyes widening excitedly. “A real PGA Tour event?! I’m going to a real PGA Tour event?!”
“Yessir,” confirmed Skip, his smile growing all the wider at seeing how excited Mustang was getting.
“And when Ray here called me up to see if I knew anywhere in San Antonio where you boys could stay for the weekend ‘cause everywhere was booked out,” added Dallas, he, too, smiling as well. “I told him you could just crash at my place.”
“Woah, wait, you didn’t come all the way from San Antonio just to pick us up, though, did you?!” asked Mustang, suddenly feeling incredibly worried that Dallas had potentially gone to so much trouble for him.
Again, Dallas chuckled. “Relax, kid!” he said, smiling reassuringly. “As luck would have it, I’m on my way to San Antonio for the Open too – they want the ‘hometown boy turned Walker Cup Captain’ to do some media work in the commentary booth over the weekend. So, when Ray called me, I was actually at the airport in New Orleans getting my fuel topped up after flying from Florida, so I said I’d just swing by and pick y’all up on my way. I can even fly y’all to Augusta, if ya want? Your grandpa too.”
“Wow, really?!” said Ray, now taking his turn to sound giddy as Dallas hadn’t mentioned that particular plan when he’d been speaking to him earlier. “Cause it would save us a hell of a drive! You sure it wouldn’t be any trouble, though?”
“Course not!” said Dallas, waving off Ray’s concern. “I’m going myself anyway, so, the more the merrier, I say – figuratively speaking, of course. Ole’ ‘Swish’ here can only carry so much weight. But you get my point.”
“Yeah, that would be amazin’! Thank you, Dallas,” said Ray, appreciatively, before turning to Mustang. “Ultimately, though … this isn’t my call to make, kid. If you’d rather not to do all this – flyin’ to San Antonio and everythin’ else – then we won’t. We’ll just stick with our original plan to drive up to Augusta on Sunday mornin’. Or if you’re still sure you don’t want to play at all next week? Then I’m not gonna force you to do that either. It’s up to you. So … what d’ya say?”
Everyone was now looking at Mustang, eagerly waiting to hear his response. The only problem was that he didn’t know what that response would be. Obviously, he knew what it should be: that, of course, he wanted to go to San Antonio – as was the argument being made by his gut.
On the other hand, however, a little voice in Mustang’s head was telling him to say ‘no’.
And to say ‘no’ not only to going to Texas for the weekend, but to playing in the Masters as well. Because for months he’d been dreading the idea of going to Augusta and seeing Fletcher again. He couldn’t count the amount of sleepless nights he’d had because of it. And, now, after spending so long trying to think of some magical excuse that would see him slip off the hook, Ray had just given him the ‘out’ he’d been looking for on a silver platter.
It was perfect.
When Mustang realized the voice telling him all this was the same one he’d heard on the 18th green at Seminole, however? The one who’d been quietly rooting for Finn to make his putt? Suddenly, the answer he should give never seemed clearer.
“I say …” said Mustang, looking up at Ray with a smile breaking across his face. “Shotgun!”
*
A loud roar peppered with sharp, celebratory whistles rang out from the large grandstands surrounding the green as Jordan Spieth tidied up neatly for birdie at the par-5 18th.
“WAY TO GO, JORDAN!” shouted Mustang, lending his voice to the show of appreciation for the 3-time Major winner as he tipped his cap to the crowd and went about shaking hands with Matt Wallace, the Englishman he’d be heading into Sunday tied for the lead with on -12.
Having told him beforehand that they’d need to leave as soon as Jordan had finished up, Mustang felt the expected tap on his shoulder from Ray to tell him that it was, indeed, time to go just as the crowd began to fall back into silence so that Cameron Tringale, the overnight leader and final member of Jordan’s group, could finish up his work for the evening.
“Man, tomorrow’s gonna be crazy!” said Mustang, excitedly, once he and Ray had battled their way through the crowd packing the grandstand and were, once again, back out in the open, well out of earshot of the green.
“I know, right?!” said Ray, sounding just as excited as Mustang. “I mean, Spieth in with a chance to win in front of a Texas crowd? The atmosphere’s gonna be incredible! I just hope he can pull it off!”
“I think he’ll do it,” said Mustang, offering his take on Spieth’s chances.
“Ya think?” replied Ray, nodding his head politely at a steward who was just walking past them on the path, her legs looking as heavy as his felt after a long day of trekking around the expansive TPC San Antonio.
“Yeah,” said Mustang, confidently reaffirming his opinion. “He’s been driving it well. Irons have been looking pure. And he’s putting like Jordan Spieth again. Mix all that together and it doesn’t bode well for Wallace and Hoffman.”
As opposed to saying something in return, Ray, instead, just smiled and shook his head.
“What?” asked Mustang, wondering what he’d said to warrant such a reaction.
“I dunno …” began Ray, measuring his words carefully. “It’s just nice to hear you soundin’ so excited about golf again – haven’t really heard it in a while.”
“Yeah, I guess …” replied Mustang, a touch sheepishly, almost afraid to say too much in case it would somehow scare off that same excited spark Ray had picked up on correctly.
“The big question, though …” said Ray, a hint of subtle trepidation in his voice as if he seemed a tad reluctant to ask the question he’d queued up next on the tip of his tongue. “Is has that excitement had any impact on how you’re feelin’ about actually playin’ again?”
Though he hesitated for a moment as if taking a second to think about Ray’s question, Mustang, deep down, already knew the answer. And it was a resounding ‘yes’. From the moment they’d arrived at the course early Friday morning with Dallas, and he’d brought them straight to the driving range to see the early starters loosening up for the round ahead, Mustang could feel his fingers positively itching to get a club in his hands. The smell of the freshly cut, dew-soaked grass heavy in the cool morning air. The layer of fog hovering just above the ground, making the most of what little time it had left before being burned off by the rapidly warming sun. The chorus of perfectly-struck iron shots and smoked drives emanating from each and every hitting bay. It had just been a feast for the golfing senses. And having not hit a ball in six months, a starving Mustang had wanted nothing more than to just grab a plate and dig in.
“Yeah, I think so …” said Mustang, deliberately not sounding overly committed to the idea, so as to temper Ray’s expectations. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m still not looking forward to seeing Fletcher at Augusta, but … well, I think I’m getting more comfortable with the idea that I shouldn’t let him ruin what could be a really cool week.”
“Well, I’m delighted to hear that, kid!” smiled Ray, punching Mustang encouragingly on the arm. “Cause you’re absolutely right. Fletcher don’t own Augusta. You earned your spot in the field just as much as he did. So, as far I’m concerned? Screw ‘im. And you know the best way to do that?”
“By not letting him get to me and by being the bigger man?” suggested Mustang, thinking that was the answer Ray was looking for.
“Well, I was thinkin’ more along the lines of beatin’ his butt to low amateur for the week,” said Ray, smiling devilishly. “But, yeah, that too, I guess!”
Off in the distance, the polite ripple of applause rang out on the increasingly placid evening air, catching up to a laughing Mustang and Ray as they reached the large practice putting green – Tringale had, obviously, finally brought the curtain down on day three.
“Alright, this is where Dallas said he’d meet us once he’s done in the booth,” said Ray, coming to a brief stop. “So, you stay here and wait for him, I’m just gonna run to the bathroom real quick, ok?”
“Yeah … cool,” said Mustang distractedly, as he was already too busy taking in the sight of the tour pros holed up on the practice green getting some late-evening reps in while they still had the light to do it.
Realizing that he wouldn’t even notice he was gone, a smiling Ray just shook his head in amusement and left Mustang to go off in search of a bathroom, a noticeable spring in his step at how well this trip had worked in getting him, seemingly, back on track.
Now on his own – though none the wiser that this was actually the case – Mustang let his eyes rove hungrily across the practice green, carefully examining the setups of the different tour pros as they attempted to dial-in in their strokes ahead of Sunday’s final round.
There were the more relaxed-looking guys who were just casually rolling balls from no set distance as they idly chatted with their caddies and other members of their teams; any and all concerns about making sure their sponsored clothes looked as presentable as possible now firmly out the window, as seen with their untucked shirts and caps pushed back up off their faces.
Then there were the ‘lone wolves’ who were, as much as possible, set up away from everybody else. They were incorporating a bit more structure into what they were doing, mainly focusing on those putts from around 6-feet out and in – the moneymakers, essentially. Though the dour expressions on their faces and the earphones shoved into their ears were dead giveaways that they’d rather be doing anything else than hitting putts at coming on to close to 5 in the evening, after their less-than-inspiring day on the greens, however, they knew they’d left themselves with no choice but to try and find something positive with their respective flat sticks that they could take into Sunday … no matter how long it took.
And then, of course, there were the grinders – those players taking up as much acreage as they could feasibly get away with without impinging on anybody else. They had their caddies and putting coaches carefully monitoring every minute detail of their setup. Their numerous gadgets and putting aids were littered across the green to carefully manage each facet of their stroke and crank it into the correct positions at every stage. And after every single putt they made – no matter if it was nothing more than just a routine 3-footer – the whole show would stop and everyone would immediately huddle around their various putting coaches in order to pour over the barrage of numbers and data filling the fingerprint-smudged screens of their iPads; as if cracking their code would somehow unlock the secret to never missing another putt.
Though the latter never struck him as an attractive way to practice his putting – preferring, himself, to go for the more ‘feel based’ approach of just dropping a few balls down onto the green and playing around – Mustang couldn’t help but be impressed by the dedication of those players who were willing to go to this much extra effort after already putting down five intense hours of tournament play. To come to the practice green after spending goodness knows how long signing autographs – legs no doubt aching, head fried from spending the afternoon concentrating – and put in the work to go in search of that elusive edge. That 1% difference. That one, single feeling or thought they might unearth that might see them go out the following day, shoot the lights out, and make a last-ditch, ‘Sunday charge’ up the leaderboard. It was inspiring.
So much so, in fact, that the more Mustang thought about it, and the longer he watched the various players work their way through their sessions, the more intense it made his urge to play some golf. It had been strong during his visits to the range on Friday and Saturday. And then again, of course, while watching the actual tournament itself – in particular, when he’d been watching Jordan rack up five birdies in his last seven holes that very afternoon.
But standing at the side of that putting green? This felt … different. This was more akin to how he felt when he was crashing with Ray in his trailer and he’d gotten his first taste for actual golf in those few weeks they’d been waiting for Maisie’s new radiator to arrive. That all-consuming kind of urge. That feeling where all Mustang could think about was when he’d next be able to get out onto the course at the Creek or up to the range to work his way through a basket of balls. Or two. Or three.
That feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time.
And it was only now he realized how much he’d missed it.
Just as he began to consider the likelihood of being able to snaffle a putter and a few balls from somewhere to scratch the considerable itch he was currently experiencing to roll a few putts, the sight of the one putting coach he’d been particularly focused on suddenly dropping everything and calling out to someone on the opposite side of the practice green caught Mustang’s attention.
“There he is!” said the putting coach, not seeming to be in the slightest bit concerned with how loudly he was shouting. “How you doin’, Champ?!”
Naturally, with his curiosity getting the better of him, Mustang – like the tour pros gathered on the green – turned to see who, exactly, had garnered such an enthusiastic greeting. And when the pros did, indeed, see who it was? They quickly returned to the business at hand of working on their putting – or for those more relaxed players who were using the green, the conversations they’d been having prior to being interrupted.
As for Mustang, however, his interest wasn’t so quick to fade in who this new addition to the green was. Not at all, in fact. Because unlike the tour pros who probably knew the 6”1, blonde-haired 19-year old that had just walked onto the green to see, and perhaps even knew of the significant reputation he’d built for himself with his exploits over the past year, they didn’t have the history with him that Mustang had. A history that, up until now, had seen him besting Mustang at every turn.
A ‘him’ the history books would show as being named ‘Fletcher Rhodes’.
“Aw, you know me, can’t complain!” said Fletcher, idly twirling his putter in his hand and smiling as though he was walking onto the set of a late-night talk show as opposed to a practice green, his every move being carefully documented by some guy with a camera attached to an expensive-looking gimbal.
Having been afraid to move from the second he’d seen him, Mustang – who had taken to barely breathing for fear of it drawing attention to himself – could only watch in quiet horror as Fletcher arrived in front of the putting coach and began shaking his hands with everyone there, the familiarity in their greetings denoting that they’d, clearly, all met before.
This was a disaster. Sure, Mustang had begun to come around to the idea that he shouldn’t let Fletcher ruin his trip to Augusta, but that was still supposed to be a problem he’d be dealing with the following week – not five minutes after coming to the blasted conclusion in the first place. And because of that, there was no way Mustang was ready to deal with Fletcher yet. Not here. Not now. He just needed to get as far away from that practice green as possible. He didn’t know where. He just knew he had to leave. So, after turning around as slowly as he could manage, Mustang convinced his legs to start moving – even though they legitimately felt like jelly underneath him – and he began to take his first tentative steps away from the green.
“Please …” he pleaded silently in his head, hoping he’d catch a break and get away without Fletcher noticing him. “Don’t turn around! Don’t turn around!”
“MUSTANG?!”
Feeling as though his heart had just dropped into his stomach, Mustang could only let out a pained sigh as his shoulders slumped dejectedly.
Fletcher had seen him.
Because, of course, he had.
Realizing he now had no other choice, Mustang turned begrudgingly around to face the music. As expected, already walking in his direction was Fletcher, a wide, gleeful smile on his face. To those tour pros glancing at him as he strode past, they’d have been forgiven for thinking this was merely the expression of a guy who was excited to see an old friend.
Mustang, however, knew better. Because he’d seen the real Fletcher. The callous snake hiding behind the polished, heavily stage-managed veneer of the ‘good ole’ boy’ he’d worked so hard to manufacture.
So, while he was, undoubtedly, pleased to see him, Mustang knew that it wasn’t because Fletcher was eager to ‘catch up’ after the six-plus months it had been since they’d last spoken. No, this was the same kind of excitement you’d see with a hungry rattlesnake coming across an injured rabbit.
“How’s it goin’, buddy?!” said Fletcher, finally slithering to a stop in front of Mustang and launching straight into his show. “Man, I haven’t seen you since when?! Gosh, it must be the Walker Cup, right?!”
“Yeah …” replied Mustang, trying his best to not get sucked into the game he knew full well Fletcher was attempting to play. “I guess so.”
“You know, I can’t remember if I called you or not after what happened with Finn …” said Fletcher, contorting his face into a suitably empathetic-looking expression. “But, man, that was just really unlucky, you know? Heck of an effort, though, on your part. I mean, just a really impressive performance – even if that putt at the end didn’t drop for ya. But, hey, I guess that’s golf, right?! Sometimes putts don’t break the way ya think they will …” Fletcher leaned in a little closer to Mustang. “And more times they break exactly like you knew they would,” he sneered, all empathy now instantly gone from his face and replaced, instead, with a goading grin.
Despite feeling the anger beginning to swell inside him, Mustang could only avert his gaze. He wanted to come back with something clever. Some witty remark or quip that would knock Fletcher back. But his mind was coming up completely blank. It was like it had gone into some kind of emergency mode where the only thing it was concerning itself with was having Mustang come out the other end of this interaction as unscathed as possible.
Fletcher, however, had no such concerns.
“Anyway …” he continued, standing back up straight so that he could return to physically imposing his far bigger size over Mustang. “That’s all in the past, though, right? Onwards and upwards, as they say! Speakin’ of which, you headin’ to Augusta next week? Or have you seen sense and decided to just watch it at home like all the other wannabes?”
Though taken aback at the fact Fletcher appeared to be dropping his mask so blatantly in public – a sign, obviously, of how confident he felt in his ability to get away with it – Mustang, this time, managed to summon up a response. “No, I’m going, alright,” he said, trying his best to not appear intimidated. “Dallas is flying me and Ray up there on Monday – my grandpa too.”
“Oh … I see …” replied Fletcher, his eyes noticeably hardening as his mood darkened. “Well, ain’t that … nice. Still, I guess you bein’ here is good practice for next week when you inevitably miss the cut and wind up watchin’ me win the low amateur from behind the ropes … you know, where the nobodies belong?”
“I guess we’ll just have to see about that next week, won’t we?” said Mustang, somehow finding enough mettle from somewhere to not only steel his voice with but force himself into looking Fletcher dead in the eye as he spoke.
“I guess we will …” grinned Fletcher, though something about it looked a tad forced to Mustang. “May the best man win, huh?”
With that, Fletcher stuck out his hand as if looking for a handshake. Mustang’s eyes darted suspiciously down at Fletcher’s hand. This seemed like a trap. He could feel it in his bones. He just couldn’t figure out what exactly Fletcher was actually up to.
After eventually coming to the conclusion that he wouldn’t risk trying anything with so many people in such close proximity to them, however, Mustang warily stuck out his hand and shook Fletcher’s. “Yeah …” he said, cautiously. “May the best man win.”
Before he could do anything to stop it, the far stronger Fletcher, quick as a flash, pulled Mustang in closer to where he was standing, squeezing his hand like a vice as he did so.
“And when I do?!” growled Fletcher, angrily, through gritted teeth. “I want you to make like that deadbeat daddy of yours and disappear once and for all, you hear me?! I don’t wanna see you. I don’t wanna hear you. Hell, I don’t even wanna smell you. We are done – you understand?! ”
A sharp pain was now beginning to radiate out through Mustang’s hand as Fletcher’s grip showed no signs of weakening. He tried to wrestle his hand free, but it was no use. Fletcher was just too strong.
“Cause I’m done tryna’ help you,” spat Fletcher, caring little for the pained grimace Mustang was trying his damndest to conceal. “I just wanted you to see what your limitations were. Stop you gettin’ your hopes up for a future that’s never gonna happen. But what do you do, instead? Listen to the likes of that idiot Dallas and that hick you call a caddie as they fill your head with lies ‘bout how you can do anythin’, right?!”
“They’re just … tryna’ … help me!” snarled Mustang, forcing the words out of his mouth despite the excruciating pain Fletcher was now inflicting on him.
“No, what they’re doin’ is settin’ you up to fail!” hissed Fletcher, his grip growing all the tighter on Mustang’s hand. “To embarrass yourself on a stage a mongrel like you has no business even bein’ on in the first place! But you know what?!”
With that, Fletcher finally released Mustang’s hand from his grasp. Relieved to have his hand free from the immense pressure Fletcher had been exerting on it, Mustang – though trying his hardest to no-sell how much pain he was actually in – glared up at Fletcher as his aching hand pulsed due to the blood rushing back in around the joints in his fingers.
“If seein’ you embarrassed is what they want?” warned Fletcher, staring dismissively down at Mustang. “Then I’m sure you’ll oblige them. On the bright side, though … at least your mom won’t be able to see it, right?”
No sooner had the final word fallen from Fletcher’s mouth than something snapped deep inside Mustang. All of a sudden, it was like every single ounce of frustration he’d been feeling for the past six months, and all of the anger he’d ever felt towards Fletcher had banded together and was now hitting him all at once; overwhelming his senses and leaving him drowning in a rage unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.
Because of all the things Fletcher had ever said to him, all the snipes, all the jabs, all the insults, he’d always gotten about as close as you can get to that unspoken line you just don’t cross without ever actually crossing it.
Until now.
Happy with his work, an irritatingly grinning Fletcher turned his back on Mustang to begin making a move towards walking away.
“Hey, Fletcher?” growled Mustang.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, Fletcher stopped and began to turn back around to look at Mustang. “What is it now?” he groaned, sounding as though he was being terribly inconvenienced by this interruption. “Let me guess, you want an apolo-…”
POW!
Before he could even finish his sentence, Mustang had balled up his right hand into a fist and thrown it as hard as he could at Fletcher’s face, catching him square in the mouth. Having borne the full brunt of Mustang’s right rook, a dazed Fletcher was sent staggering backwards, tripped over the white rope being used to cordon off the practice green, and tumbled heavily down onto the tightly mown grass.
After seeing what had happened – as had everyone else on the practice green – Fletcher’s putting coach, immediately, came sprinting over to where he was still lying on the ground, clutching his hand to his now bleeding mouth.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” he shouted angrily at Mustang before bending down to stop a woozy Fletcher from trying to stand up. “Have you lost your damn mind?!”
Mustang, though, wasn’t listening. In fact, the only thing he could hear was the sound of his heart thumping in his ears and the fast, shallow breaths filling his chest as he looked down at Fletcher. He thought he’d feel better after punching him. That he’d feel some kind of cathartic release for finally shutting him up after all the horrible things he’d said and done. But as he stared down at him and saw the way he was still looking around as though he’d no idea what had just happened, the bloodstains on his hands that were already starting to dry – not to mention the steady stream of fresh blood now pouring from his mouth and dripping down onto the green – Mustang didn’t feel anything close to catharsis. Instead, all he felt was a sense of hot, blind panic and nauseating remorse.
“I’m sorry …” he muttered, hoping the words would somehow turn back time as he took a step towards Fletcher. “I didn’t mean it …”
“Just stay back, alright!” barked Fletcher’s putting coach, taking a break from trying to get a glimpse at how bad the damage to Fletcher’s mouth was to glare accusingly at Mustang. “You’ve done enough as is!”
Knowing he wasn’t going to get the chance to properly apologize to Fletcher, Mustang did as the putting coach had ordered and retreated back a step.
Having seen the commotion at the practice green on his way back from the bathroom, Ray had ran the rest of the way up the path, eventually landing back alongside where Mustang was still standing. While attempting to catch his breath, Ray quickly took in the scene lying before him to get to the bottom of why the tour pros were now, out of nowhere, suddenly gathered in a semi-circle near Mustang.
As soon as he saw Fletcher down on the ground, however, looking as though someone had just thoroughly cleaned his clock and the putting coach now trying to stem the bleeding coming from his mouth with a towel he’d been handed by one of the caddies, it didn’t take Ray long to piece together what had happened.
“Kid?” he said, turning and looking at Mustang, his face sporting all the signs that he, too, realized just how bad a situation this really was. “What have you done?”
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Illustration by Kyle Petchock.