Time heals all wounds … or, at least, that’s how the saying goes, at any rate.
In the weeks following his short stint in San Antonio, however – a stay which included spending a few days recovering at Dallas’ place until he was well enough to fly back to Louisiana – Mustang had been left thinking that no amount of time would ever be enough to heal the pain he was feeling.
Luckily, thanks to Dr. Miller, this ‘pain’ had nothing to do with his surgically-repaired hand, as everything with the operation had gone completely according to plan – news that, regardless of the overall situation, had come as a huge relief to everyone involved.
No, instead, the pain Mustang had been in was the kind that, unfortunately, couldn’t be fixed with a dose of anaesthetic and a scalpel – that of loss.
Having known that playing in the Masters was off the table from the moment Dr. Miller had said he’d broken a bone in his hand, Mustang had been aware that, realistically, it had left him with no other choice but to make his peace with it. He could be disappointed about it, sure. Perhaps even angry. But, ultimately, he knew that not being able to play at Augusta was his fault and his alone. He’d punched Fletcher. No one had made him do it – even though one could make the argument that perhaps Fletcher had drawn it upon himself. It was still Mustang who’d balled up his fist and pulled the trigger. Therefore, he had to bear the consequences. No matter how dire they were. And missing out on the opportunity to play in the Masters? Well, as far as Mustang was concerned, you couldn’t get much more direr than that.
Yet, to know that the officials at Augusta had actually rescinded his invitation because of what had happened? To basically say that he was no longer welcome to drive down Magnolia Lane as a participant in the Masters because of what happened? That had just hit differently for Mustang. And for the USGA to then go and adopt the exact same stance as their counterparts in Georgia by taking away his place in the field for the U.S. Open as well? The one beacon of hope he had left on the horizon? It was just too much for Mustang to take. There was just something about knowing that even if he hadn’t broken his hand off Fletcher’s jaw, there would still have been no appearance at the Masters. No staying in the Crow’s Nest. No playing in the par-3 contest. No watching the honorary starters hit the ceremonial tee-shots. And that the exact same went for the U.S. Open?
That had stung. And stung deeply.
Because ever since he’d properly caught the golfing bug, Mustang had been obsessed with the Majors. The history. The lore. The prestige. All of it. And the thought that he’d actually be getting to play in two of them? Sure, in the months before punching him, Mustang had allowed his fear of seeing Fletcher again to not only spoil his excitement about the Masters but actually make him dread the idea of going. But, in spite of all that, there had still always been the tiniest flame of excitement flickering away in a quiet corner of Mustang’s consciousness; one hidden so deep and so well, that not even the overbearing spectre of Fletcher Rhodes could extinguish it.
And yet, in the cruellest of ironies, after clinging on for almost seven months, that flame had, indeed, finally been put out … and it had been done by Mustang himself.
Those dreams of playing Major golf? They were now over. Gone. From being potential experiences that would’ve been some of the fondest memories he’d ever have to look back on, they would now, instead, just be painful reminders of what could’ve been.
Of course, none of these feelings were helped by the fact that in the days immediately following his surgery – while still groggy and dealing with the expected postoperative discomfort in his hand as it adapted to life inside the cast – Mustang had to endure watching Fletcher stroll unchallenged to the Silver Cup at Augusta after being the only amateur to actually make it through to the weekend with a total of -2 for his work on Thursday and Friday.
And to see him inside in the Butler Cabin come Sunday evening? Sitting alongside Hideki Matsuyama, and the previous year’s winner in Dustin Johnson? Being interviewed by Jim Nantz as Fred Ridley, the Chairperson of Augusta, sat waiting in the wings? Having to hear Jim vaguely reference what had happened the previous Saturday and the attention it had garnered as ‘probably not being the most ideal preparation for his first Major appearance’? That had been a particularly hard pill for Mustang to swallow – and, especially so, with Fletcher and his scabbed-over lip playing the faux-humble, ‘aw shucks’ routine to absolute perfection in response.
Yet, as the weeks added up to entire months, and spring, inevitably, gave way to summer, though still not fully “over” what had happened with the Masters and the U.S. Open, Mustang, slowly but surely, learned one of life’s all-important lessons: to just put his head down and get on with things. Because, yes, what had happened had sucked. But, regardless, life went on. And after watching him for those few weeks post-surgery, Ray, eventually, put it simply to Mustang: he could either continue to wallow and feel sorry for himself, or he could make the decision to refuse to let what had happened ruin his summer.
And despite the former sounding, temptingly, like the easier of the two options, Mustang made the decision that, no matter how tough it was, he was going to try his best to move on.
Obviously, this process hit something of a pothole when just a week after finishing his end-of-year exams at St. Nick’s and school breaking for summer vacation, Mustang had to watch Fletcher add the low amateur medal at the U.S. Open to the Silver Cup he’d won at Augusta a few months previously – unchallenged, once again. But, credit to him, Mustang had managed to move past not only that but the idea of Fletcher Rhodes altogether … for the most part, anyway.
“Seriously, kid?” tutted Ray, his eyes bleary as he walked into the living room and noticed the dawn light just beginning to creep in underneath the still drawn curtains. “You’re watchin’ this again?”
For the past few days, before going to the Creek to spend the day running the range – the only job Ray had allowed him to do since getting his cast removed – Mustang had gotten up especially early every morning, put on his work clothes, and crept down the hallway from his room to the kitchen. Then, after pouring himself a bowl of cereal, he’d made his way into the living room, turned on the T.V., and, from there, spent the hour or so he had before Ray would get up, watching chunks of the final of the British Amateur Championship that had been played the previous Saturday. And the reason? Because, as expected, Fletcher had defeated, none other, than Finn Hennessy in the 36-hole final, leaving him, simultaneously, both holding the famous old British Amateur trophy, and, most importantly, just one win away from completing his widely-publicized attempt at an unprecedented ‘Amateur Grand Slam’ at the Open Championship – a feat some bookmakers had already started to pay out on Fletcher achieving, even though the Open was still a whole week away from actually rolling into Royal St. George’s.
“I have to study it sometime …” replied Mustang matter-of-factly, his eyes never leaving the T.V. as he idly squeezed the small exercise ball he’d been given to help strengthen his hand.
“Yeah, but gettin’ up at what … five in the mornin’ to do it?” said Ray, walking over towards the curtains as a polite round of applause rippled out of the speakers on the T.V. with Fletcher knocking down a 4-footer for par. “It’s a bit excessive, don’t ya think?”
With that, Ray pushed back the curtains in one sharp movement, banishing the ghostly glow that had been filling the room courtesy of the T.V. and filled it with some much-needed, if still a little dim, daylight.
“Well, if I want to get another shot at playing in the Masters and U.S. Open next year – plus the Open – I have to make sure I get to the final of the U.S. Amateur again …” answered Mustang, shifting in his seat to escape the glare now shining on the T.V. “And to be doubly sure that I get to play in them? I need to win it. And while it sucks to admit? If there’s one thing Fletcher Rhodes is clearly better than me at it’s winning tournaments like the U.S. Amateur. So, I need to try and see if I can figure out if there’s anything specific he does that I haven’t noticed before.”
“Not the worst idea, I guess …” mused Ray, coming to a stop next to the door of the living room as if mulling over Mustang’s idea. “Hey, well, here’s somethin’ – maybe try actin’ like a colossal douche? It seems to work for him, so maybe it can for you!”
“Yeah … how ‘bout we call that plan ‘B’?!” said Mustang, with an amused shake of his head.
“Deal!” said Ray, still chuckling, as he walked out of the living room in search of the kitchen. “Right, I’m just gonna grab some breakfast, and then we’ll get goin’, alright?”
“Yeah …” replied Mustang, distractedly, as he was already refocusing his attention back onto the golf.
Just as he began to watch Fletcher run through his pre-shot routine ahead of teeing-off on the 15th, however, the sound of the doorbell ringing at the front door reverberated loudly through the early morning stillness filling the house.
DING-DONG!
“KID, COULD YOU GET THAT?!” called Ray from the kitchen, sounding as though his mouth was already full with the spoils of his hunt for some breakfast.
Knowing that was coming, a mildly disgruntled Mustang watched Fletcher’s tee-shot before pushing himself up off the couch and quickly crossing the living room to go about seeing who was at the door – if he was lucky, he’d be back before Fletcher and Finn hit their second shots.
Pulling open the door – with the bottom of it catching on the carpet as it always did – Mustang was immediately greeted with a blast of refreshingly cool morning air and the sight of a neatly wrapped parcel sitting on the doorstep.
“Thanks, Mr Landry!” said Mustang, calling out after their always punctual mailman who was just walking back down the garden path, the bag slung over his shoulder sagging heavily with the other letters that needed delivering before he could call it a day.
After getting a polite wave from Mr Landry to acknowledge that he’d heard him, Mustang bent down and picked up the parcel.
“Oscar ‘Mustang’ Peyton …” he said, reading aloud the name printed on the address label. “Hmm …”
“Anythin’ good?” asked Ray, his voice, suddenly, sounding out from behind Mustang.
“Not sure …” Mustang answered, still curiously examining the parcel as he reclosed the front door, banishing the fresh air to find another entry point.
“Oscar ‘Mustang’ Peyton …” said Ray, now taking his turn to read the address label as he took a momentary pause from eating the slice of buttered toast in his hand. “Maybe it’s from your Grandpa? I mean, it is your birthday next week.”
“Naw, I don’t think it’s from Grandpa,” surmised Mustang, going on the hunch he was feeling about the parcel’s provenance. “He wouldn’t know how to turn on a computer, let alone type up an address label and print it out. Dallas, maybe?”
“Could be …” replied Ray, though the glint in his eye betrayed the fact he had a sarcastic comment locked and loaded. “If only there was some way we could find out for sure who it was from, though, huh?”
After light-heartedly rolling his eyes at Ray – himself now grinning mischievously as he took another bite from his toast – Mustang popped the parcel down onto the small console table just inside the front door and went about opening it as instructed. Once he’d made short work of the brown paper it was wrapped in, revealing a simple, white cardboard box underneath, the thought that it might actually be a birthday present began to gain some traction in Mustang’s mind.
When he lifted off the lid and looked inside the box, though, whilst what he saw could certainly be deemed to be some presents, something about them immediately made Mustang suspicious.
“So, what is it?” asked Ray, finishing off his toast in the time Mustang had just been staring quizzically at the inside of the box.
Realizing he couldn’t just stay standing there doing nothing, Mustang reached his hands slowly into the box and pulled out the items that had been staring up at him since he popped the lid off.
“They’re golf hats …” said Mustang, taking a second to examine them. “One from Augusta … and the other from the U.S. Open.”
“Like souvenir hats or somethin’?” said Ray, he, too, quickly getting on the same puzzled wavelength as Mustang.
“Yeah …” replied Mustang, handing the hats off to Ray for his perusal. “I mean, the Masters one has no date on it. But see the U.S. Open one? It has the Torrey Pines logo on it, and it says the ‘121st U.S. Open’ – that was this year’s.”
“Well, that’s weird …” said Ray, now scrutinizing every minute detail on each of the hats. “And they’re not knockoffs either – like, these are the real deal. You can tell by the tags on ‘em. And it doesn’t say who they’re from, no? Like, is there a card or anythin’?”
“I didn’t even check …” said Mustang, realizing that would probably be a good idea.
Reaching back inside the box, Mustang began moving around the heavy-duty, balled-up sheets of crinkly paper that had been used as packing material to keep the hats from sliding around in transit. After looking as though his search would leave him empty-handed, however, right down at the very bottom of the box, having been hidden by the last of the packing material, Mustang finally found the card he’d been looking for.
And though it had no name written on it saying who the parcel was from, as soon as Mustang laid eyes on what actually was written on it, he knew instantly who the mystery ‘gift giver’ had been.
“Anythin’?” asked Ray, still unaware that Mustang had, indeed, found something.
Without saying a word, Mustang reached into the box, picked up the small card, and held it out for Ray to take. Though able to tell from the way he was acting that something was obviously up, a now stern-looking Ray, regardless, took the card from Mustang and read the two words that had been specially embossed onto it.
And, just like Mustang, it didn’t take all that much in the way of deduction to figure out who was behind all this.
“I win …” growled Ray, reading the two words aloud before sighing heavily. “Fletcher. Of course.”
*
FWWWEEEEESSSSHHHH!!!
For the umpteenth time since moving onto the driver portion of his warm-up, Donny had positively crushed yet another ball, sending it sailing high and long out into the range at the Creek. Though Mustang, himself, hadn’t played in the Pirate’s remaining conference matches – through a mixture of dropping out of the team the previous October and then actually being physically incapable of playing on account of breaking his hand – it was commonly agreed amongst Layla and the other Pirates that Donny really had been one of the most improved players over the course of the season, even if they, ultimately, just missed out on making it to the championship tournament.
And, mainly, this improvement in Donny’s game was all down to him just getting out of his own way. As opposed to being so caught up in trying to get it to look a certain way anymore, Donny, instead, had just started swinging his swing. And though it may not have been ‘picture-perfect’, there could be no arguing with the stellar results it had produced – hence why ever since they’d gotten their summer vacation, Donny had played in every single junior competition the Creek had been running on Friday mornings, finishing in the top 3 on all three occasions.
“So, just so I have this straight,” said Donny, sounding a tad confused as he turned back to look at Mustang once he’d seen his ball produce the nice, tight draw he’d been aiming for. “You’re saying you think Fletcher sent you hats from Augusta and the U.S. Open just to what … mess with you or something?”
“I don’t think that’s what he did …” said Mustang, firmly correcting Donny’s phrasing as he tossed him another ball from the basket sitting on the ground. “I know it’s what he did. Try and hit a fade this time – you’ve been hitting all draws.”
“And you know this because of the card that was in the box?” said Donny, still not sounding overly convinced by Mustang’s argument as he bent down and teed up the ball.
“Yeah, it said ‘I win’ on it,” explained Mustang, not knowing what more Donny wanted to hear. “I mean, who else could it be?”
With his ball teed-up just so, Donny, again, took a few paces back from it to go through a ‘diet version’ of his pre-shot routine. “Yeah, well, that’s true, I guess …” he admitted, pausing for a second as he let his driver rest down by his side so that he could fix his glove. “But, still, why, though? I mean, Fletcher wins the low amateur at the Masters and the U.S. Open – two huge wins – and one of his first thoughts is to rub it in your face? It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“You’re telling me,” said Mustang, sounding mildly exasperated as he watched Donny walk in to address his ball. “The only thing I can think of to even possibly explain it is that it might just be payback for me hitting him? Cause I never actually got the chance to apologize properly, so, maybe this is just his way of regaining ‘the upper hand’ or whatever? I mean, I get that he doesn’t like me. But this? It just feels like there’s something more to it, but I can’t figure it out. I dunno. It’s just weird.”
Having felt as though he’d spent enough time thinking and talking about Fletcher Rhodes to last a lifetime, Mustang decided to forget about his unwanted foe and focus his attention, instead, on helping Donny with the rest of his warm-up. And once he was feeling suitably ‘tuned up’ – and knowing that he, himself, had no other pressing jobs to do at the range until after lunch – Mustang decided a change in scenery was much-needed, and so, accompanied Donny down to the clubhouse in anticipation of his upcoming tee-time.
There was a nice-sized crowd milling around outside the rear of the clubhouse when Mustang and Donny arrived after making the walk down from the range. In truth, though, ever since the junior tournaments had started up there’d been good crowds pretty much every week, with few to any slots on the timesheets going unfilled. Beau had said that the reason for this was because of Mustang, with everyone looking to test themselves on the same track where he’d honed his skills. While Mustang, of course, had refused to believe that was the sole reason for the uptick in interest for the comps, there was no denying that the weekly events had proved to, obviously, be a tantalizing proposition for people, as it had consistently drawn participants from places like Copperhead Springs and Vermilion Bay, to even people making the trek from as far away as New Orleans to try their luck down Dead Man’s Alley.
“Ugh, damn newbies …” muttered Donny disgustedly, as he took in the sight of the putting green and saw it was packed with people.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mustang, his attention being distracted by those people hanging around the clubhouse who were stealing glances in his direction and then whispering excitedly to their friends as they not-so-subtly pointed in his direction – something he’d yet to become accustomed to even after all this time.
“What’s wrong?!” said Donny, repeating the question frustratedly. “Look at the green! Every hole is taken up! And I’m supposed to be teeing-off in ten minutes! It’s a well-known rule that during tournament play, use of the practice green is reserved solely for those players who are within 15-minutes of teeing-off!”
“Really?” Mustang questioned, as he spied someone trying to sneakily take a picture of him with their phone. “I’ve never heard that.”
“It’s an unsaid rule,” said Donny snippily.
“Ok, but how can people know about a rule if no one actually says what the rule is?” asked Mustang, confused by the internal logic of what Donny was trying to say.
Not appreciating having every word of his point mercilessly dissected, a stone-faced Donny just turned and glared flatly at Mustang. “You know, sometimes, it’s ok to just say, ‘Yeah, totally’ …” he said, dryly.
“Sorry,” grinned Mustang before catching himself. “I mean … yeah, totally.”
With a wry smile on his face, Donny just turned away and looked back at the still crowded putting green, shaking his head in amusement as he did so.
“No need to apologize, Mustang …” said a familiar voice, suddenly, from behind where Mustang and Donny were standing, causing them to instantly whip around to lay eyes on who’d spoken.
And, sure enough, just as they’d expected, there stood Layla, golf bag slung over her shoulder and dressed in her usual shorts and top that she always wore on the course. “After all …” she continued, a brazenly confident smile on her face. “It’s gonna take a lot more than a few hurried practice putts to help ole’ Donny here to beat me.”
“Layla … what a nice surprise!” said Donny, failing miserably to pull off the ‘genuine happiness’ he was going for, and, instead, just coming across as painfully guilty.
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” remarked Layla, eyes now narrowing accusingly as she looked at Donny.
“Ok, well, obviously, I’m missing something here …” said Mustang, interjecting in whatever this ‘thing’ between his two teammates was. “So, does anyone care to fill me in?”
After a momentary standoff where neither of them appeared willing to answer Mustang, Layla, eventually, approached the stand. “Alright, well, it’s like this …” she said, beginning her explanation. “I asked Donny on Monday if he was going to be playing today because, if he was, then I was gonna ask him if I could get a ride with him ‘cause neither of my parents could bring me.”
“Ok …” said Mustang, following the story so far.
“Unfortunately, though …” said Layla, continuing her tale with all the panache of an actor in a courtroom drama. “As it turned out, Donny said he wasn’t going to be playing this week, meaning, I, obviously, didn’t have a ride, so neither could I. And why was it again that you said you couldn’t play today, Donny? Something like a dentist appointment, right?”
“I believe it was an orthodontist appointment, actually …” replied Donny, now sounding incredibly sheepish. “But let’s not split hairs.”
“Yeah, well, luckily for me, my dad’s plans ended up falling through last-minute,” said Layla, sounding as though she was thoroughly enjoying herself. “So, he wound up being able to drive me after all. Yet, lo and behold, who should I happen to find standing next to the putting green when I get here?! And, what would you know, not a single stranger poking around his gums at that?!”
“Alright, alright! I’m sorry!” said Donny, unable to take any more of Layla exposing his deceit. “I shouldn’t have lied. That was a jerk thing to do. And I have been feeling bad about it, I swear.”
“So, why’d you do it then?” asked Layla, already appearing cool about the whole thing given how genuinely bad Donny seemed to be feeling.
“I dunno …” said Donny, trying to find the right wording for his upcoming confession. “I’ve just been feeling really good about my game lately, and I was thinking that I might have a good chance at actually winning one of these things. But given you’ve won it the last three weeks, I was thinking that my chances of doing it would be a whole lot better … if you weren’t here. So, I lied about not playing, so that you wouldn’t have a ride and I’d get a free run at 1st-place. I am sorry, though, Layla. I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Ah, it’s ok,” said Layla, graciously accepting Donny’s apology. “I forgive you.”
“Really? You do?” asked Donny, his face lighting up with genuine relief.
“Of course …” said Layla, placing her hand on his shoulder. “We’re teammates …”
“Wow,” replied Donny, sounding a little taken aback at how cool Layla was being about what he’d done. “Well … thanks, Layla! I really appreciate that.”
“Forget about it …” said Layla, as a mischievous grin suddenly curled the corner of her mouth. “Though, you do realize that I have to wipe the floor with you now, right?”
Donny let out an amused sigh as his head dropped hopelessly down into his chest. “Yeah …” he groaned, reluctantly accepting his fate. “I deserve it.”
“And how ‘bout you?” asked Layla, turning her attention, now, back onto Mustang. “Any word on when you’ll be free to have me beat you in one of these as well?”
Mustang, though, wasn’t listening. And he hadn’t been for a while. Not since Donny had said something that, out of nowhere, had helped him have a massive breakthrough. It was like a door had been thrown open inside his mind, revealing the answer to a question that had been plaguing him for months.
An answer he now needed to act upon.
“Mustang?” said Layla, trying to get his attention as it was obvious by the zoned-out expression on his face that he was on another planet entirely.
“I have to go …” said Mustang, suddenly snapping out of the trance he’d been in as a plan, instinctively, formulated in his head; each stage slipping perfectly into place, one after the other, as though he’d just cleared a particularly troublesome row in a game of Tetris. “Good luck with your rounds …”
With that, Mustang set off running, weaving his way through the crowd in the direction of the corner of the clubhouse; drawing curious stares both from those same people who’d been watching him earlier and, of course, Donny and Layla, who had no idea what had just happened.
Mustang’s mind, however, had never been clearer.
He had to find Ray.
And find him now.
*
Ray pulled open the door of the microwave, the same one he’d bought with his Christmas bonus, and fished out the piping-hot lasagna leftover from the previous night’s dinner. Forgoing, like he usually did, the step of grabbing something to insulate his hands from the inexplicably hot porcelain of whatever plate it was he had just used to heat up his lunch on, Ray hurriedly made the always dicey trek from the microwave to the table where the caddies and greenkeeping crew ate as the pads on his fingers got hotter and hotter with each step.
“Hot!” he hissed, examining his red-looking fingers after safely popping his plate down onto the chipped, heavily scratched surface of the table.
After coming to the conclusion that the damage to his fingers was nothing that giving them a quick wipe off the leg of his overalls couldn’t solve, Ray pulled out one of the chairs surrounding the table – the metal legs scraping unpleasantly against the concrete floor of the workshop as he did so – and sat heavily down onto it, grateful to be taking the weight off his feet after what had been a long morning covering for Bill.
Just as he reached out and grabbed the can of soda already sitting on the table to go about cracking it open, however, Ray was taken aback at seeing Mustang come sprinting in through the large main door of the workshop and carry on going until he disappeared from view once again as he headed in the direction of the lockers near the rear of the shop.
“Forget something?!” Ray called out, finally getting around to opening his can of soda.
“My bag from the Walker Cup is in here, right?!” replied Mustang, his rushed-sounding voice echoing from the rear of the workshop as he completely ignored Ray’s question.
“Uh …yeah, it should be!” Ray answered, immediately curious as to why Mustang was asking about that of all things. “Why?!”
With no answer coming from him in reply – and not expecting to be getting one any time soon either – Ray, instead, just sat back and listened to the symphony of zips being opened as Mustang rummaged hurriedly through his Walker Cup bag. Clearly, he was searching for something rather important.
“So, any chance you can tell me what’s goin’ on?” asked Ray, once Mustang, eventually, came striding purposefully back out to the front of the workshop and came to a stop next to the table.
“I figured it out …” replied Mustang, his face now flush between a mixture of excitement and the run up to the workshop from the clubhouse.
“Ok …” said Ray, somewhat distractedly, as he took to cutting up his lasagna in order to help cool it down. “Figured out what, exactly?”
“What the deal with Fletcher is!” Mustang answered, the words rushing excitedly out of his mouth. “Why he’s been acting the way that he has been! I figured it out! Everything!”
Now feeling it necessary to pay him his full, undivided attention, Ray laid his fork and knife down onto his plate and looked up at Mustang. “Alright …” he said, trying to not let his confusion as to what Mustang was saying come across as him being dismissive. “So, what have you come up with?”
“Well, we’ve been thinking everything that’s happened between me and Fletcher is because he doesn’t like me, right?!” said Mustang, now taking to pacing back and forth as he was feeling far too jittery to try and stay still.
“Yeah …” agreed Ray, his eyes roaming from side to side as he watched Mustang pace, the grit and dust covering the floor grinding beneath the soles of his sneakers as he moved. “But we couldn’t figure out what the reason was.”
“Exactly!” said Mustang, coming to a stop and staring at Ray, his eyes now wide and unblinking as though caught in some kind of hyper-focused trance. “And the reason why we couldn’t do that?! Was because there was no reason! All of this?! It’s never had anything to do with Fletcher disliking me! I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m pretty sure that he doesn’t like me. But in the beginning? That’s not what this was about. Everything Fletcher has done? All the mean stuff he’s ever said? Getting in my head at the Walker Cup? It was all done to try and sabotage me; to ruin my confidence. And why? It wasn’t because he’s just a jerk who didn’t like me. Naw. It’s because he was scared of me!”
Ray’s brow furrowed in concentration as he considered Mustang’s allegation. “Scared of you?” he said, repeating what Mustang had just said, though with noticeably far less conviction. “Why?”
“Why do you think?” said Mustang, answering Ray’s question with one of his own to try and walk him to the same conclusion he’d come to down at the clubhouse. “Anytime Fletcher’s done media this year, what has everyone, without fail, asked him about?”
Ray thought for a moment before quickly twigging what Mustang was alluding to. “The Amateur Grand Slam …” he muttered, everything that Mustang had been saying now, suddenly, slipping into place.
“The Amateur Grand Slam,” said Mustang, able to see that Ray was finally coming around to his way of thinking. “It’s all anyone’s been talking about. I mean, should he actually pull it off? To win all the major amateur honours in one season? It would mark Fletcher out as one of the greatest amateur players of all time – right up there alongside Bobby Jones himself. And for someone like Fletcher? That kind of notoriety? It’s what he lives and breathes for.”
“Ok … but where does his vendetta against you come into all this?” asked Ray, starting to fall behind, once again, with Mustang’s theory.
“The U.S. Amateur,” said Mustang confidently. “When he only managed to beat me by one hole in Oregon? That freaked Fletcher out. Because, all of a sudden, he realized his attempt at the Grand Slam might actually be in jeopardy. Now, winning the British Amateur and the Silver Medal at the Open? He knew I couldn’t do anything to stand in his way there because I wasn’t qualified for them …”
“But you could at the Masters and U.S. Open!” said Ray, his eyes, too, now widening in disbelief as he caught back up with Mustang’s train of thought.
“Exactly,” said Mustang again. “He knew I’d be getting an invite to Augusta and Torrey Pines because I’d finished second at the U.S. Amateur, so he decided to do everything he could to try and torpedo my chances of beating him when I got there. And as soon as he got worried that just getting inside my head again wasn’t gonna do the trick? Well, that’s when he decided to pull out all the stops to make sure that I couldn’t even show up …”
Knowing exactly what Mustang was hinting at, Ray’s mouth just fell open in shock. “Naw …” he mumbled, not willing to believe that this could actually be true. “C’mon, kid, there’s no way. What happened in Texas? You hittin’ him? You’re sayin’ Fletcher planned that?!”
“Well, given there’s no way he could’ve known that I was gonna be in Texas, let alone standing at the side of that putting green – I’d have to say, no, I don’t think he planned it per se …” replied Mustang, clarifying what he meant. “But once he saw that I was there? I think he spied an opportunity to do some digging on where I was at mentally and made sure to tell his videographer to keep the camera rolling as he did it. And once he found out that I was still planning on going to Augusta, and saw that I wasn’t backing down from all the trash he was talking? I think that’s when he called an audible and tried to bait me into punching him so that I’d get uninvited from the Masters and the U.S. Open – the fact that I ended up breaking my hand in the process was just an added bonus. But that’s what those hats were about this morning. Him saying he’d won? It had nothing to do with him winning the low amateurs there – the ‘win’ was making sure that I wasn’t.”
Ray could only lean up against the backrest in his chair and shake his head loosely in disbelief. This was a heck of a bombshell Mustang had just dropped. Yet, the more he thought about it, and the more he dissected each and every part … the more it made perfect sense.
“Man …” sighed Ray, not really knowing what to do or say. “I mean … yeah, I think you might actually be right, kid. It just sucks that it’s too late to do a damn thing about it.”
“Actually … that might not be the case just yet,” replied Mustang, his cryptic tone betraying that he, clearly, had something up his sleeve. “Cause there is one thing we can do …”
“And that would be?” prompted Ray, hesitantly looking to hear what scheme Mustang was after cooking up.
“Well, given Fletcher took the Masters and U.S. Open away from us …” said Mustang, his tone firming just a touch. “I say we go eye for an eye and take away his Grand Slam.”
“Ok, and as cool and all as that would be, kid,” replied Ray, hating that he needed to be the voice of reason in this particular scenario. “Fletcher only needs the Silver Medal at the Open to complete the Grand Slam, and, as you said yourself, you’re not qualified for that. And given we’re what … less than a week out from it startin’? I don’t think there’s any way we can get you a spot in the field.”
“Well, fortunately for us …” said Mustang, pulling a business card from the pocket of his jeans and placing it on the table in front of Ray. “I just happen to know someone who might …”
With a perplexed expression wrinkling his face, Ray picked up the business card – its matte black finish smooth to the touch beneath his lightly singed fingers – and read the gold-coloured writing neatly embossed on the surface.
“What’s ‘Guild 79’?” he asked.
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