After his breakthrough moment silencing Fletcher during Monday’s practice round, the next two days went by in a blur for Mustang. Grinding through two full sets of 18-holes over the course of Tuesday and Wednesday; including range sessions both before and after each round. Hitting the short game practice area for an hour at a time to get his ‘feel’ back up to where it needed to be for those tricky greenside scrambles and sand-saves he’d, undoubtedly, be faced with once the tournament started. Rocking up to the practice putting green twice daily to try and fill his head with as many different looks as he could for how the putting surfaces rolled both in the mornings and in the afternoons. Even when they got back to the house where they were staying for the week, Ray had to come outside not only on Monday, but Tuesday as well, and practically drag Mustang in from the garden because he was outside chipping balls in near darkness; using the lights from the house as makeshift floodlights to help him see what he was actually doing.
Of course, embarking on such an intense practice schedule after being on the sidelines for so long didn’t come without its drawbacks for Mustang. On the minor end of the scale, there was the more superficial wear and tear like his hands feeling a touch blistered, or his legs just generally aching from spending nearly ten to twelve hours a day on his feet over the course of Tuesday and Wednesday.
And then on the more worrying end of the scale? Well, then, there was the uncomfortable tightness in his right hand and wrist when he, eventually, stopped to rest each night.
Though the in-house physio had assured Mustang that this didn’t indicate something more sinister was at play, simply the muscles in his hand and wrist cramping as they tried to adapt to being thrown straight back in at the deep end as they had been, the fact he was feeling any discomfort at all in the hand he’d broken had been enough to give Ray pause as to whether or not they were biting off more than they should with this strategy. Obviously, he was delighted to see Mustang feeling back to his old self and pulling off the kinds of shots he knew he was capable of – that wasn’t the problem. The issue was that with Mustang’s eagerness to make up for lost time by cranking out as many reps as possible in an effort to feel suitably sharp ahead of Thursday’s opening round, it was going totally against how Ray had made him prepare for big tournaments in the past. In any other week, he’d have limited Mustang’s rep count and how many holes he played in the days before a tournament, with a mind to keeping him fresh, both physically and mentally, for the holes that mattered – those being the ones actually in tournament.
As Ray was painfully aware, however, this wasn’t just “any other week”.
This was the Open Championship.
This was going after the Silver Medal.
This was trying to stop Fletcher.
So, despite his concerns, Ray decided to just let Mustang do whatever it was that he felt he needed to do in order to feel “ready”, and hope that the physio’s prescription of plunging his hand into an ice bath every night and massages twice daily would be enough to keep him fighting fit.
And, luckily, it worked.
After waking up at 4:30 Thursday morning ahead of his tee-time at 7:15, not only was his hand feeling fine, but Mustang, in general, was feeling great.
Naturally, his stomach was feeling as though he’d inadvertently swallowed a gutful of butterflies overnight, but he’d been expecting that. On the whole, though, the overriding feeling Mustang had was one of excitement. Because after all the work he’d put in over the previous two days, all those hours spent at the course baking under the hot sun with Ray and Rodney at his side every step of the way, Mustang felt as though his game really was in the best possible shape it could be in given the limited amount of time he’d had to prepare.
His short game was in good working order. He’d been rolling the ball pretty decently on the greens; feeling as if he’d gotten a sufficiently good handle on the speed they were running at and the severity of the grain. And carrying on from where he’d left off with that picture-perfect draw he’d conjured up in front of Fletcher, Mustang had actually been surprised with how quickly he’d seen his ball-striking return to how he’d been hitting his irons at the Walker Cup. Draws, fades, sawn-offs, full-sail moon balls, stingers; he’d been playing all the old hits again, and, fortunately, they’d been sounding just as good as they had done in the past.
The one facet of Mustang’s game that had proven a touch more difficult to rid the rust from, however, was his driving.
For the most part, it was fine; he was still able to work it both ways and hadn’t lost any significant distance – perhaps a yard or two, at most. The only issue Mustang had found, though – the sole elephant in the room, as it were – was that when he was looking to hit a holdoff fade – something that had become one of his stock ‘fairway finders’ in his arsenal – at times, his hips were getting too far ahead of his arms and he’d wind up way overdoing the fade, sending it peeling off drastically to the right at a rate of knots.
And while this occasional blip hadn’t proved to be overly concerning for Mustang when he’d seen it happen on Tuesday and Wednesday, as he found himself going through his morning routine, and noticed the time when they’d be leaving for the course drawing steadily nearer, he’d be lying if he said it hadn’t begun to seep more and more into the forefront of his mind. Because whatever about what he was going to do in his opening round, there was one minor hurdle Mustang knew he was going to have to get out of the way first – hitting his opening tee-shot. And having played the course twice in the previous 48-hours, Mustang knew that the required shot off the 1st tee-box at Royal St. George’s was none other than that very same holdoff fade.
Of course, when he’d attempted that drive on Tuesday and Wednesday, Mustang had pulled it off without any trouble whatsoever; finding the generously-sized 1st-fairway with ease. But as he knew well, there was quite a difference between doing something in practice rounds and then repeating it on the opening day of a tournament. And when that ‘tournament’ also just so happened to be a Major Championship? It took the perceived difficulty level for what was, essentially, a rather routine drive, from a six out of ten, at most, to something feeling closer to that of a million out of ten.
From the second he, Ray, and Rodney loaded into the minivan that had been taking them to the course all week, however, and they began to make the short drive back down the coastline to Royal St. George’s, as opposed to dwelling on what lay ahead later that morning, Mustang, instead, had decided it best to busy himself as best he could.
Reading the ‘good luck’ messages he’d received from back home courtesy of Fr. Breen and the rest of the Pirates. Taking a video call from Jeanie and Travis, who Ray had organized to come stay at their place back in Marais des Voleurs so that he’d not only be able to watch Mustang play on their T.V., but have some company in Jeanie as he did it. Mustang had even been surprised to find himself on the receiving end of a text from Byron wishing him good luck for his opening round – albeit in a suitably ‘Ballas fashion’, of course, given the actual message read: “Play well, Seabiscuit. Try not to blow it.”
Once they pulled in through the actual gates of the course, though, there was no more ignoring that same elephant for Mustang. Because as soon as he’d slid back the door of the minivan and set foot on the ground outside the clubhouse, he could just immediately sense that something had changed. Not in a physical way – everything still looked the exact same in that regard.
It was just the atmosphere.
It felt … different.
When they’d been dropped off in the same set-down spot the previous three days, whether it was down to seeing the pros walking casually around the property as if they were out for nothing more than a friendly round at their home courses or hearing bursts of laughter ringing out from inside the locker room between guys savouring the opportunity to catch up with old buddies they hadn’t seen in a while, Mustang had felt as though the atmosphere was just, all-around, incredibly relaxed – with everybody, apparently, just enjoying the perfect weather and idyllic surrounds of the Kent coastline.
Now, however, standing outside the minivan and listening to the irons in his bag clanging together as Ray removed them from the trunk, Mustang just got the impression that the same relaxed atmosphere had thoroughly disappeared; evaporated in the refreshingly cool morning air, never to be seen again.
The more he thought about it, though, the realization quickly dawned on Mustang that, of course, the atmosphere was different.
It was Thursday.
All those same professionals he’d seen in the preceding few days – or, at least, those with an early tee-time like he had – knew the exact same thing as what Mustang had from the moment his eyes had flickered open earlier that morning. It was go-time. The last three days of practice? They’d all been building to this precise moment.
The first day of the Open.
The opportunity to put yourself in the best possible position on the leaderboard? Whether you were looking to just make it through to the weekend or had your eyes set on loftier targets like being the one to hoist the Claret Jug aloft come Sunday evening? The work to try and make all those things happen began in earnest today; meaning, it was time to get down to business. And once he, Ray, and Rodney ventured out onto the range after he’d quickly changed into his golf shoes inside the eerily quiet locker room, Mustang could feel that same business-like atmosphere was even more prevalent as his fellow morning starters loosened out ahead of their rounds.
Again, there was little to no conversation. No joking around between the players – not even really with their own backroom teams. No, for the most part, the only sounds you could hear were those of crisply-struck iron shots and smashed drivers duelling back and forth in the morning stillness.
Truthfully, the whole scene just made for a very tense environment to be in and did little to dispel the increasing sense of nervousness Mustang was feeling about his opening tee-shot and that pesky elephant.
Still, despite how he was feeling, once they reached their assigned hitting bay on the far end of the range, Mustang quickly settled down to the task at hand and began diligently working his way through his bag.
Whilst this had been a rather relaxed activity in the days prior, with the three of them chatting in-between shots about anything and everything, given they couldn’t help but see the level of extra focus Mustang was putting into this particular warm-up, Ray and Rodney made sure to keep any and all conversation purely golf-related; whether that was Ray calling out certain shots he wanted to see from Mustang and then giving positive feedback appropriately, or Rodney running through the pin sheet for the day and giving them his two cents on where the red and green lights were in relation to the research he’d done.
Once he’d worked his way comfortably through his wedges and irons, however – having seen and felt everything he could have hoped to – when Mustang finally pulled the big stick from his bag … that’s when the problems started.
Suddenly, every time he was standing behind a ball, he was feeling uncomfortable. And because he was feeling uncomfortable, he was now taking far longer to hit each drive than what he had been on Tuesday and Wednesday. All of it because of that blasted elephant; that infernal worry that he was going to lose the ball to the right causing him to overanalyze and overthink everything he was doing.
Yet, even with all that superfluous noise playing out inside his head, the drives Mustang was still actually producing? They were perfect. Each one he hit was producing the exact holdoff fade he’d be needing off the 1st … not that Mustang was seeing them that way, unfortunately.
No matter how many drives he hit, nothing was making him happy. Nothing was leaving him with that satisfied feeling he was yearning for; the one that would make him feel as though he was finally ready to head the 1st-tee and pull off the very same shot when it actually mattered. But every time he tried to feel it? The flight was either too low or too high. The contact too clunky. The ball fading too much or not fading enough.
There was just no pleasing him.
And it hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“Alright, kid, we really have to hit the puttin’ green now,” said Ray, as soon as he saw Mustang’s latest drive, once again, settle nicely into the same fade shape he’d been aiming for since pulling the headcover off his driver.
“Just one more?” Mustang replied, looking pleadingly over at Ray as he knew well that he was now firmly pushing his luck with him.
“Kid, you’ve already hit like thirty of ‘em,” Ray answered flatly, caring little for Mustang’s pleas. “All of ‘em fades. And all of ‘em perfect. Trust me, you’re good to go.”
“He’s right, mate …” said Rodney, throwing his weight behind Ray’s assessment. “Had you hit any of those drives down the 1st? You’d have been smack bang in the middle of the fairway every time – easy.”
Despite listening to what the pair of them had to say, Mustang – with his face flushed from the exertion of hitting so many drives – was still feeling the urge to grab another ball, tee it up, and see if he could, once and for all, grab that internal validation that, up until now, had proven to be so frustratingly elusive.
“Look, kid, I know what this is about …” said Ray, the calmness in his voice seeing Mustang pull his attention back from staring down at the remaining balls littered around his feet. “You’re worried ‘bout the tee-shot off the 1st, right?”
Mustang let out a sigh – again, he really had to start working on being more of a closed book.
“It’s just … I’ve come so far since Monday, you know? Hitting that shot in front of Fletcher? Getting my game back to somewhere even close to what it used to be?” he admitted, bringing up his gloved hand and wiping away the bead of sweat that had just begun to trickle down his temple. “I just don’t wanna ruin all that by messing it up with the very first shot I take. But if I can get it perfect out here? Then I know I’ll be able to do it when I get to the tee – I know I will.”
Ray stepped forward from where he’d been standing next to Mustang’s bag. “Kid, do you remember what Dallas said to you after your openin’ tee-shot against the Riggs Brothers?” he asked, gently. “You know, after you’d frozen up before hittin’ it? He said this game ain’t about bein’ perfect, ‘cause if it was …?”
“Then no one would play the damn thing …” answered Mustang, smiling as he finished the end of the quote.
“Exactly,” said Ray, glad to see Mustang looking a touch more relaxed as he bent down and quickly plucked up a ball from the few remaining stragglers Mustang hadn’t gotten around to whacking out into the range yet. “Instead, it’s just about goin’ out there and tryna’ get one of these guys ‘round 18-holes as best you can – no matter what way you’re swingin’ it.” Ray tossed the ball he’d been holding back down onto the ground alongside the others. “So, even if your drive don’t go perfectly …” he continued, moving closer to Mustang once again. “Let’s say it goes way right into the rough. Does that mean we’re outta the tournament? That we have to pack up and go home? Naw. All it would mean is that we’d have to walk a little further before findin’ it and gettin’ back on track – and we would get back on track. Cause it’s just like I told ya Monday mornin’, kid: that’s what we do. We go out swingin’. All the way to the end.”
Mustang looked back out over the range, watching as ball after ball continued to fly across the already stunningly clear blue sky courtesy of the professionals still deep in the throes of their respective warm-ups. Though still tempted to hit just one more ball, Mustang knew that Ray was right: the word ‘perfect’ didn’t exist in golf – and that was especially the case when he was chasing it out of nerves. Because the truth is, at his core, Mustang knew that he could stay standing in that bay, hit as many more drives as he wanted, but it still wouldn’t be enough to scratch that itch he was feeling and make that elephant leave voluntarily.
Instead, he knew that if he wanted that elephant gone? There was only one thing he could do: stare him dead in the eye and make him leave.
“Here …” said Mustang, turning and holding out his driver towards Ray.
“You sure?” asked Ray, tentatively taking the driver as if it were almost a loaded weapon of some sort.
“Yeah …” replied Mustang confidently, opening the strap on his glove with a sharp tug. “Let’s go play some golf.”
*
FWWWEEEEESSSSHHHH!!!
As they had done after watching the first member of their trio tee-off – a barrel-chested South African who’d pummeled his drive right down the middle – the small crowd gathered in the U-shaped grandstand wrapping around the 1st-tee promptly gave the second golfer in Mustang’s group – a talented young German player with a surname so long and so full of vowels you just know the official starter had been having nightmares about announcing it – a similarly warm reception as they watched his ball sail effortlessly towards the sun-soaked fairway off in the distance.
“Alright, kid, here we go …” said Ray, keeping his voice hushed as the German player and his caddie exchanged some words in, what he was guessing, amounted to, ‘Nice shot’, in rapidly spoken German. “You’re up. You got this?”
That really was the million-dollar question.
In the ten or so minutes he’d spent on the putting green after leaving the range, Mustang had continued to feel good about the prospect of hitting his opening tee-shot, as Ray’s words to him had kept their impact nicely; he’d even thought he was beginning to feel that old, familiar feeling of excitement flickering and sparking into life at the idea of finally getting his round underway.
Once they’d walked through the small, dark tunnel cutting underneath one of the grandstands, however, emerging back out into the light of the tee-box and passing the Claret Jug itself as it rested on its very own plinth – the sterling silver it was made from gleaming in the unfiltered morning sunshine – Mustang’s nerves had spied an opening to make a last-ditch rally to derail his positive mindset and snuff out that flicker of excitement.
Because the crowd filling the grandstands surrounding the tee-box as they waited for the morning’s marquee groups to tee-off? The navy cladding on each of those same grandstands, all of them very clearly adorned with ‘The Open’ logo, just in case you’d happened to forget that, yes, you were, in fact, about to play in the Open Championship? The army of television cameras dotted in nearly every direction you looked, all of them primed and waiting to catch every second of every shot – be they good or bad?
The whole scene would be enough to leave anyone feeling overwhelmed and at the mercy of their nerves.
As it transpired, though … not Mustang.
Because he felt fine.
In fact, he felt more than fine.
As he’d stood on that 1st-tee drinking in all those same details, listening to the starter introducing their game number, and watching his playing partners swipe away their respective tee-shots, not only had Mustang been getting more and more excited with each passing second he’d been standing there, but that sense of ‘belonging’ he’d felt whilst flying over the course on Sunday evening? The same one that had disappeared in all the apprehension he’d been consumed by over the condition of his game?
It had come back.
And come back with a welcome vengeance.
“Yeah …” said Mustang, smiling, as he looked up at Ray. “I got this.”
With nothing more needing to be said, Mustang took the few short steps needed to reach the middle of the tee-box and got himself situated in-between the two markers, giving the starter the cue he’d been waiting for to begin his final introduction for their particular game.
“And on the tee …” he said, his polite, English accent ringing crisply through the speakers surrounding the tee-box as Mustang comfortably teed up his ball. “From the United States of America … Mustang Peyton.”
Again, as they had done for his playing partners, the crowd welcomed Mustang to the tee with a warm round of applause – with a few individuals, despite the early hour, even being so kind as to throw in a few enthusiastic whistles for good measure. Once he’d duly acknowledged the pleasant reception they’d afforded him with a brief wave to each of the three grandstands – the downside of not having a cap that he could tip the bill of – Mustang settled quickly into his pre-shot routine, standing a few paces back from his ball and staring off down the fairway through narrowed, concentrated eyes.
As expected, the silence from the crowd was pristine as he gathered his thoughts. In fact, the only sounds Mustang could hear were that of the sea lapping against the coastline off in the distance and the leather in his shoes quietly squeaking as he gently moved his feet in place, gripping the spikes on his shoes up and down against the dew-speckled turf beneath them.
He took a breath in, held it for a moment, and then let it slowly back out.
The elephant was nowhere in sight.
He was ready to go.
Stepping briskly in behind his ball, Mustang, as he had done all week, lined himself up with the large grandstand sitting off in the distance behind the 17th green – itself still devoid of any spectators – before assuming his final stance. His hands rested comfortably on the grip of his driver as he loosely waggled the head of it back and forth, feeling the reassuring weight of it at the end of the shaft before anchoring it back down behind his ball.
As he then looked out towards the fairway for the final time, seeing the grass now almost shimmering in the sunshine and feeling the gentlest of breezes brushing across his face, Mustang, for one fleeting moment, allowed himself the tiniest of smiles.
Because there was no denying it now.
He really was exactly where he was supposed to be.
And now was the time to show everybody why.
FWWWEEEEESSSSHHHH!!!
Having all happened in the blink of an eye, Mustang had launched himself into the back of his ball; the adrenaline pumping through his body seeing him whip through the contact area with an extra few notches of blistering swing speed. Despite this additional horsepower he’d succeeded in generating, however, it had not been at the expense of the quality of strike he’d managed to achieve – not at all, in fact. Because from the millisecond his ball and the face of his driver had their briefest of brief encounters, Mustang had known that he’d found nothing other than the sweet spot. The sound. The feel. Everything pointed to him having absolutely smoked it; far outstripping any of the thirty drives he’d hit on the range just over half an hour previously.
And as soon as he turned his eyes skyward upon reaching the end of his followthrough, Mustang quickly got the visual confirmation that affirmed absolutely everything he’d felt and heard. The line his ball was travelling on? The speed at which it was searing through the air? The height it was climbing to?
In short, he’d positively crushed it – and he knew it too.
Before his ball had fully reached its apex or even begun to drift back to the right, Mustang, having seen everything he needed to in the few seconds he’d spent watching the flight, bent confidently down and snatched his tee from up off the turf as the crowd, finally, began to applaud – they’d required an extra second or two longer than what he’d needed to make sure his ball was going to be as good as he’d instinctively deduced it was going to be.
With his playing partners and their caddies already beginning to make a move towards rolling out of the tee-box after seeing his drive was comfortably fairway-bound, Mustang began to walk back across the tee to where Ray was still standing with his headcover in hand and tracking his ball through the air, an impressed smile lighting up his stubbled face.
“Well …” said Mustang, grinning, as he came to a stop in front of Ray and held out his driver, “At least that one should be easy enough to find, right?!”
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