In the world of professional golf, there’s no test sterner than that posed by a Major Championship. The courses are difficult. The conditions are, generally, incredibly trying. And the fields they assemble see the very best players in the world colliding over four long days of intense competition to see which one of them winds up reigning supreme at the top of the mountain – for that particular week, at any rate.
Yet, as integral as all those things are to making Majors the challenges that they are, perhaps their most potent weapon is what they do to you mentally. Because winning any golf tournament is hard – that’s a given. But to win a Major? To be that last person left standing come Sunday evening? Not only is it on another level to winning a regular tour event, but it’s almost like playing a different game in and of itself. Because the word ‘routine’ does not exist in Major golf. There are no simple shots or easy putts. Those things that, in any other tournament week, you might pull off without even a second’s thought? The week of a Major those same things each become mini feats in themselves, whether it’s the opening 9 on Thursday morning or the back 9 on Sunday; it’s why every birdie is like gold dust and every par a cause for celebration.
And the reason for this stark increase in stakes four times a year?
The answer’s simple.
History.
Because every single golfer on the planet dreams of winning a Major. And for those players who not only make it to the professional ranks but who manage to actually get into golf’s quartet of showpiece events on a regular basis, that fantasy of being crowned a Major champion – the same one they would have, undoubtedly, first played out as enthusiastic juniors when no one else was watching – doesn’t go away; if anything, it only intensifies. For, while it shouldn’t really be the case, players know their résumés will always be judged by the presence – or lack thereof – of Major Championships. So, be it a Claret Jug or Green Jacket, the U.S. Open Trophy or the Wanamaker, it doesn’t matter which one it is, as long as a golfer can get their hands on just one of them and forever etch their name in the annals of golf history, that will be enough to get the proverbial ‘monkey off their back’ that is having a trophy room without any Majors in it.
And it’s that pressure – that monkey, if you will – that makes Majors the challenge that they are. That yearning? That longing? That crippling expectation players heap onto their shoulders once a month from April to July? When you step back and consider it all, it’s little wonder that such a large percentage of players tend to wilt whenever they step into that brightest of spotlights that is a Major Championship … unless, of course, your name happens to be Mustang Peyton, that is.
Because once he’d smoked his drive right down the middle of the 1st-fairway early Thursday morning, Mustang set to the task of plotting his way around Royal St. George’s with all the skill and composure of a grizzled tour player well-seasoned in the art of playing Major golf.
And the results? They spoke for themselves.
Making the most of the relatively benign conditions he found waiting for him beyond the 1st-tee on Thursday morning, Mustang opened his account at the Open with a solid -2 (68) after making four birdies and two bogeys; a total that would eventually leave him just four shots off the overnight lead set by fellow morning starter, Louis Oosthuizen, who had gone out and set the pace early with a scintillating -6 (64).
In truth, though, when Mustang was back at the house later that evening – his right hand, as usual, submerged in an ice bath – he wasn’t so much concerned with where he stood in relation to the former Open Champion, as he was with where Fletcher was positioned after round one. Because despite not teeing-off until after lunch on Thursday afternoon when the breeze – as tends to be the case on links courses – was after picking up significantly since the morning starters had been out on the course, Fletcher had gone out and posted one of the rounds of a day with a mightily impressive, bogey-free -5 (65), leaving him just one back of Oosthuizen in a tie with Brian Harman and Jordan Spieth.
And with an early tee-time to look forward to on Friday morning, Mustang was concerned that should Fletcher carry the same form he’d shown that day into round two, then in the calmer morning conditions he could easily stretch the three-shot lead he already had over him at that stage to a margin that, around a course as difficult as Royal St. George’s, would be nigh-on impossible for Mustang to claw back without Fletcher, himself, making mistakes – something which, after day one, wasn’t looking all that likely.
As it transpired, however, when he tuned into the coverage on Friday morning to get a look at how the course was playing ahead of his afternoon tee-time – and, admittedly, to check in on how Fletcher was doing – Mustang found himself looking at a very different Royal St. George’s to the one which he’d played the previous morning.
Just like he’d seen himself upon pulling back the curtains in his room after waking up, the blue skies that, all week, had been sitting firmly over the course had now been almost entirely filled in with cloud. And whilst this had the benefit of ensuring the greens remained reasonably receptive because the water they’d been treated to overnight wasn’t evaporating as quickly as it would do were the sun not being impeded, that same cloud cover had also seen the breeze pick up far earlier than what it had done on Thursday; easily reaching the same levels it had been blowing at for the later starters on Thursday afternoon.
And, luckily for Mustang, this time around the windier conditions actually succeeded in halting Fletcher’s progress up the leaderboard, as by the time he was walking off the 18th just before lunchtime, he was having to make do with settling for a -1 (69) to sit on -6 overall. And whilst not a bad score by any means, from the subtle look of frustration he was trying his utmost to mask behind that overly rehearsed, fake smile of his for the sake of the cameras, Mustang could tell that Fletcher knew he’d missed a golden opportunity to put some decent daylight between the pair of them on the leaderboard.
In other words, he’d left the door slightly ajar. And as Mustang made his way to the course with Ray and Rodney, he knew it was up to him to make sure he used his second round to firmly kick that door off its hinges. Because he’d seen the rounds the likes of Collin Morikawa and Emiliano Grillo had been putting together as the morning wore on and the sun began to burn away the cloud cover. There were birdies to be had, and plenty of them too. You just had to go out and be brave enough to go grab them.
And wind or no wind, Mustang had every intention of doing just that.
And once he actually got his round underway? In the very final game of the day? Mustang couldn’t have gotten off to a better start in his quest to go birdie hunting, as he reeled off three of them on the front 9 to jump to -5 and just one solitary shot back of Fletcher as he made the turn. And with the way he’d been feeling about his game? Catching Fletcher on -6 hadn’t just felt like a possibility at that point – it had felt like an inevitability.
Because the actual level of golf Mustang was producing was something that even he hadn’t seen from himself before. When he tried to think back to the last time he’d felt close to being this ‘in control’ of his game on a golf course, the first place his mind went, naturally, was to his dominant display in the opening round of the Memorial Matchplay when he only needed 10 holes to soundly dispatch Wilford Kretschko – but even that showing, in itself, had been different. Yes, Mustang’s golf that morning had been just as potent from a scoring perspective, but his performance had been fuelled by spite; a sense of ‘I’ll show you’ because of how Kretschko had dismissed him so bluntly on the 1st-tee.
But over those opening 9-holes around Royal St. George’s on Friday afternoon? Whilst it would have been easy for him to invoke a similar attitude to help propel himself up through the gears given he was attempting to beat Fletcher to the Silver Medal, Mustang, instead, was just enjoying himself.
There was no anger in his play.
No spite.
No tension.
Instead, it was just like he was cocooned inside this impenetrable bubble of concentration, where every time he stepped up to take a shot – be it a drive, iron shot, or putt – all Mustang felt was this incredible sense of focus on what he needed to do with his ball, and an unwavering confidence that he was going to be able to pull it off.
And, sure enough, after successfully navigating the tricky par-4 10th and par-3 11th with momentum-keeping pars, Mustang, as he had the previous day in round one, made the most of the relatively short, downwind par-4 12th – a somewhat antiquated gem of a hole that had survived the various renovations to the course to maintain its original 19th-century charm – by grabbing his fourth birdie of the day courtesy of a 9-iron he stiffed to 2-feet after holding a fade in perfectly against the breeze.
Understandably, the deeper his round progressed into its latter stages, and the closer the afternoon grew to yielding to the early evening – bringing with it long shadows and a minor, though nonetheless welcome, drop in temperature – the intense level of focus with which Mustang had been playing since teeing-off had begun to wane as fatigue set in; and, as a result, after getting through holes 13 thru 15 without much in the way of hassle, some tired shots had forced him into scrambling for two more round-saving pars at 16 and 17 as he had done at holes 10 and 11.
Yet, after summoning up the required concentration to get just one more good drive away down 18, and follow it up with a solid approach shot to the heart of the green that set up a relatively comfortable two-putt for par, once his ball had rattled the bottom of the cup and he’d made his way towards the side of the green to wait for his playing partners to finish out – the speckled applause ringing in his ears from those die-hard spectators still left in the grandstands despite the late hour, each of them hellbent on getting the full value of their tickets – Mustang was finally able to stand back and wrap his head around what he’d just accomplished.
Or ‘try to’, at least.
Because there was a lot to unpack.
There was the fact that his game had, so far, not only held up in the crucible that is ‘Major Golf’, but actually kicked up to another level. There was the fact he’d just gone bogey-free around Royal St. George’s; something he hadn’t even done in the 36-holes he’d played across Tuesday and Wednesday in practice. And then, of course, there was the not-so-minor fact that he’d just made the cut at his first Major – something that, unfortunately, his German and South African playing partners wouldn’t be doing; meaning, as per Ray and Dallas’ agreement, Mustang would, indeed, be free to try his luck at making it onto the European Tour by going through Q-School come the fall.
And whilst he’d have expected the latter of those three things to prove to be the most exciting, as Mustang had stood leaning casually on his putter off to the side of the 18th, he’d quickly realized that wasn’t the case at all. Instead, what had been capturing his attention the most was that which had been perched high up over the back of one of the grandstands, looking down on the 18th green for all to see since the very beginning of the week: the Open leaderboard.
Because on that board – itself clad in the iconic yellow colour that was synonymous with the Open – listed just a few rows down from the names of the leaders in Oosthuizen, Morikawa, and Spieth, Mustang had seen that the name ‘Peyton’ was now right up there with them.
And that was just a whole other level of surreal.
To see his name amongst the leaders on that most famous of leaderboards? To see his score of -6 right alongside it? The score he’d worked so hard to wrench from Royal St. George’s ancient grasp emblazoned in the traditional red colour that made it stand out so boldly against the yellow? It was a moment where, regardless of how tired he was feeling or the slight pain in his head the aspirin he’d taken back at 15 had yet to nullify, Mustang had never felt clearer in what he needed to do. Because as great and all as it was to make the cut and guarantee he’d be heading to Q-School come September, the only goal Mustang cared about now, the only thing adding fuel to the fire of competition he could feel burning in his gut, was finishing the job he’d come halfway around the world to do: stopping Fletcher from completing the Amateur Grand Slam.
Because it was just down to the two of them now. The destination of the Silver Medal? It was either going to be Mustang or Fletcher left holding it come Sunday evening because no other amateurs had survived the test presented by Royal St. George’s to make the cut.
It was just them.
One or the other.
Mustang versus Fletcher.
Peyton versus Rhodes.
Winner takes all.
And given there were no other names sitting in-between theirs on the leaderboard, Mustang knew that come the following day, the battle to be that winner would truly begin, as he and Fletcher were, more than likely, going to be paired together for the third round; their first such time actually playing together since the final of the U.S. Amateur almost a year previously.
And Mustang couldn’t wait.
Because this was the face-to-face showdown he’d dreamed about as the preceding days had crept ever closer to the weekend. This was his opportunity to shut Fletcher up without breaking his hand in the process. This was his chance to prove to him that he was every bit as good a golfer as he was – if not better.
This … was going to be Mustang’s shot at redemption.
Still, after officially wrapping up the formalities of his second round and swapping out his golf shoes for his worn-in, beat-up sneakers, Mustang was just grateful to find himself climbing back into the minivan with Ray and Rodney, happy in the knowledge that he had nothing but a night of relaxation to look forward to once they got back to the house. There’d be no thinking about the third round. No thinking about the Silver Medal. And definitely no thinking about Fletcher. All of that could wait until the following morning.
Instead, he just wanted to get his usual post-round treatment for his hand out of the way – primarily, the ice bath portion of the routine. Grab a shower. Wolf down whatever their chef had prepared for dinner – which, if the rest of the week was anything to go by, would be something delicious. And then just spend the evening watching a movie or getting overly competitive with Rodney as they battled it out on the Playstation.
When they arrived back at the house, however, and found Desmond already sitting inside in the kitchen, a glass of whiskey in hand and a huge smile on his face, Mustang quickly sensed that his plan for a relaxing evening would have to be, temporarily, put on the backburner.
“Ah, there they are!” said Desmond, getting up from his seat at the table – itself already laid in preparation for dinner – and making his way towards the large kitchen island as Mustang and the others walked further into the warmly lit, aroma-filled room. “The men of the hour! The conquerors! Come! Come! Get yourselves a drink! Though, just minerals for you two!”
“So, you were watchin’ the round, then?” asked Ray, slipping Mustang’s bag down off his shoulder as he watched Desmond pour out a rather generously-sized glass of whiskey for him. “Cause we didn’t see you out on the course.”
“No, no, I was definitely watching …” replied Desmond, now carefully dropping two cubes of ice into Ray’s drink with a small silver tongs he’d used to fix his own drink earlier before leaving it on the island countertop. “I stayed until I saw your second birdie at the 6th, but as my phone wouldn’t stop ringing, I said I’d be better off just coming back here and watching what I could on television; that way I could at least keep up to date with what was happening and take the deluge of calls I was getting – two birds and all that.”
Dropping the tongs casually back down onto the countertop, Desmond grabbed the crystal tumbler with Ray’s drink inside it and began to walk it across the kitchen to where he was standing.
“Oooh, was it more transfer dealings?” Rodney asked, the excitement in his voice indicating that he was, clearly, fishing around for more of the same juicy football gossip he’d been trying to pry out of Desmond all week. “Maybe something to do with Royal Kensington signing a certain Spanish striker from White Star perhaps?”
“Well, first of all, are you mad? While they’re still trying to pay off the debt of that stadium rebuild? I think not,” replied Desmond, handing off the tumbler to Ray just as the outside of it began to cloud over with condensation. “And, secondly, no, these particular phone calls weren’t anything to do with football – they were about Mustang, actually.”
“Me?” said Mustang, his interest understandably piqued at hearing his name mentioned. “About what?”
“Well, as I would with any new member of the Guild …” explained Desmond, now making his way back across the kitchen towards the large, stainless steel refrigerator and pulling it open. “I spent the last few days putting out some feelers to the various companies we have ongoing working relationships with in regards to sponsorships; giving them something of a ‘heads up’ that they might want to keep an eye on how you performed this week as there was quite a good chance you could be making a run at the professional game in the coming months, and, as a result, would be open to picking up some sponsors.”
Having pulled out two cans of Coke from the refrigerator – ‘Coke’ which Mustang had noticed tasted considerably different to how it did back home – Desmond swung the door of the refrigerator closed before popping the cans down onto the island.
“Now, as expected, some of them had already heard of you because of your exploits at the U.S. Amateur and Walker Cup – the likes of Nike, Adidas, Puma, Under Armour. The main sports brands, essentially,” Desmond continued, as he quickly filled two tall highballs with ice from the refrigerator, the cubes clinking noisily against the glass as they tumbled into place. “And they’d been monitoring your situation accordingly. When it became apparent that you were more than likely going to make the cut, however, not only did I begin to hear back from all of those brands expressing serious interest in getting you on their books as soon as possible, but the other companies I’d contacted? Those more … ‘high-end’ brands, shall we say? They were all coming back with offers as well; and I’m talking big money from the likes of Rolex, Omega, Hugo Boss, Ralph Lauren, and J. Lindeberg here. And that’s before we even get into what the likes of Callaway, Taylormade, and Titleist have been sending through to get you into their stables.”
After emptying the two cans of Coke into the pair of ice-filled glasses as he’d been talking, Desmond, like he had with Ray’s whiskey, grabbed them both and, continuing in his new role as ‘host’, began to walk them across the kitchen to where Mustang and Rodney were standing with looks of utter disbelief etched into their tired, sun-kissed faces at what they’d just heard.
“That is so cool!” said Rodney, taking his glass from Desmond. “Think of all the free stuff you’re gonna get! And all the ads you’re gonna be in!”
Mustang, however, was still too busy trying to process everything Desmond had just said to join Rodney in his obvious excitement. “But I haven’t even played the weekend yet …” mumbled Mustang, sounding as though he believed all of this had to be some kind of massive mistake. “Surely they’d want to see where I finish on Sunday before signing me, no?”
“Not everything in this game is based on leaderboards, Mustang …” answered Desmond, carefully handing off the other glass to him as the sound of a message popping into Ray’s phone almost made him instinctively reach for his own. “In fact, in cases like this, the whole thing is more akin to playing the stock market: where any sum of money a company might pay you is like them investing in your talent because they feel there’s a good chance they’ll wind up making that money back in the long run. And the more confident they are that will happen? The bigger and more lucrative that investment is – which, as you can imagine, is exactly what we’re striving for.”
With his mind only becoming more clouded following Desmond’s explanation, Mustang took a sip from his drink to try and gather his thoughts – which, going on how he was feeling, felt as though he was attempting to herd some cats. “So, when do I have to decide which ones I go with?” asked Mustang, after swallowing his mouthful of soda. “Tonight?”
“Goodness, no!” replied Desmond, vehemently shaking his head at such an idea. “These are merely just opening offers, old chap; expressions of interest. There’s a whole process we’ll have to go through over the next few weeks – possibly even months – before anything is set in stone. So, for now? You just focus on what you do best, and that’s playing golf.”
Feeling a warm sense of relief spreading throughout his chest at knowing he wasn’t going to have to spend the night poring over contracts, Mustang smiled and nodded his head – his planned ‘evening of relaxation’ was, thankfully, still on the cards.
“Uh … we’ve got the Golf Channel here, right?” asked Ray, suddenly piping up from behind Mustang and Rodney as he began to move briskly towards the living area that formed part of the open-plan layout of the kitchen.
“Yes, I believe so …” said Desmond, not liking the faint hint of concern in Ray’s voice. “Why?”
“I just got a text from Jeanie tellin’ me to turn it on,” Ray answered, grabbing the remote control from off of the glass-topped coffee table sitting in the middle of the living area and aiming it at the large, widescreen T.V. hanging on the wall. “Apparently, they’re gonna be talkin’ about Mustang.”
After scrolling quickly through the bevy of sports channels they had at their disposal, Ray finally found the Golf Channel.
“Welcome back to the final hour of our coverage here on the Golf Channel as we, finally, wrap up all the action from day two of the Open at beautiful Royal St. George’s,” said the host, Selena Rodríguez, her white teeth sparkling as her perma-smile showed, admirably, no signs of waning after what had, no doubt, been a long shift in front of the camera. After turning smoothly towards a second camera swooping down from a height inside the Golf Channel studio, Selena transitioned seamlessly to the next segment as she walked slowly across the studio floor. “Now, as is the case with all Major championships, they’re never short of a good storyline or two …” she said, gesturing subtly with her hands for added emphasis when needed. “Of course, these storylines are usually reserved for those battling it out atop the leaderboard or those making a back-9 charge on Sunday, but, in some instances, the most interesting storylines we see play out over Major weekends not only come from those players further down the pack, but often run a whole lot deeper than just what’s happening in-between the ropes – isn’t that right, Jake?”
Having come to a stop, as planned, just off to the side of it, Selena turned her attention towards the large screen sitting in the middle of the studio where Jake Maxwell, their resident on-site reporter, was already waiting with a microphone in hand.
“Ugh, this guy …” groaned Mustang at seeing Jake’s gurning face taking up the screen of the television.
“Who’s he?” asked Rodney, using the few seconds-worth of delay between the Golf Channel studio and Jake’s earpiece to find out who he was.
“Jake Maxwell …” sighed Ray, his voice soaked with the same annoyance as that of Mustang’s as he watched Jake just beginning to nod his head as Selena’s link finally came through on his end. “He’s this new ‘shock jock’ they hired a few months ago off the back of his podcast gettin’ so big, and he’s just the most obnoxious dude goin’.”
“It absolutely is, Selena,” said Jake, finally launching into his spiel from a position overlooking the final hole at Royal St. George’s. “See, just in the last hour or so, the final game of round two came through the 18th hole off behind me here – which, as you can probably see, is just beginning to undergo some minor maintenance before being tucked in for the night by the greenkeeping crew here at Royal St. George’s. Now, while this might not necessarily seem like it would be the source of the kind of juicy storylines you alluded to so masterfully in your link, when you dig a little deeper, however, you’ll find all the intrigue you could possibly want. Because in that same final game I mentioned just a moment ago? Amateur player, ‘Mustang Peyton’, was among the trio of players to finally complete their second rounds here in the late evening sunshine – posting, it must be said, a more than respectable round of 66 to find himself sitting comfortably inside the top 10 heading into the weekend on -6.”
Mustang and Ray exchanged a worried glance. Jeanie was right. They were talking about him.
The fact it was Jake Maxwell doing the talking, however, was most definitely not a good thing.
“Now, for those of you at home who might be thinking to yourselves right now, ‘Hey, wait a minute, Mustang Peyton, why do I know that name?’ – well, let me see if I can’t help jog your memory, shall I?” continued Jake, the tone and intensity of his voice steadily ramping up as it tended to do when he was beginning one of his clickbait-worthy rants. “He was in the final of last year’s U.S. Amateur? No? Not ringing any bells? Ok, how ‘bout this one – he was on the U.S. Walker Cup team last year at Seminole? No? Still nothing? Hmm, ok. Oh! I know what’ll probably do it: he was the thug you probably saw assault Fletcher Rhodes at the Valero Texas Open back in April and got kicked out of the Masters and U.S. Open as a result! Yeah, that Mustang Peyton! So, while everybody else might be fawning all over this kid just because he’s the youngest guy in the field, and just because he made the cut, I think it’s imperative that we don’t forget that.”
An uncomfortable heat began to creep its way up the back of Mustang’s neck. This wasn’t good. He was being castigated on live television; ‘live television’ which was being beamed, right this second, through hundreds of thousands of screens all over the world, including that of his own television back in Marais des Voleurs, that his grandfather and Jeanie were currently watching.
And the worst thing is, it wasn’t even over yet.
“Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not bringing this up because I’m trying to stir up some kind of ‘witch hunt’ – not at all …” said Jake, despite his tone and everything else he’d said up until now pointing to the opposite being true. “But when we consider the fact that both Augusta National and the USGA took it upon themselves to remove Peyton from their tournaments in light of what happened between him and Fletcher, it really does beg the question: why did the R&A then deem it appropriate to allow one of their very few invitations for the Open to go to Mustang Peyton? Does that seem fair to you? Does that seem right to you? And, especially so, now that the race for the Silver Medal has come down to just Peyton and Fletcher? I mean, imagine being in Fletcher’s position – just for a second. Here he is on the cusp of completing one of the greatest feats in modern golf with his attempt at completing an unprecedented Amateur Grand Slam; yet, there’s a chance it could all be ripped away by someone who not only physically assaulted him three short months ago, but someone who, you could make the argument, shouldn’t even be in the field in the first place. No, if you ask me – if there’s any karma in the world at all – the only way this storyline gets the happy ending it deserves? Is if come Sunday, we’re watching Fletcher Rhodes, after everything he’s been through, walking onto this very green behind me here to collect the Silver Med-…
Before Jake could finish, the television screen went black as Ray quickly shut it off with the remote – he reckoned they’d all seen enough of Jake Maxwell for one evening.
“Don’t mind that idiot,” said Ray, tossing the remote down onto the couch as he watched Mustang move slowly and silently towards the kitchen island. “We know what actually went down with Fletcher and that’s all that matters – right, Desmond?”
Despite giving him an easy setup to help alleviate the concerns he felt Mustang must surely be experiencing after what they’d just seen, Ray was dismayed to find no answer forthcoming from Desmond; instead, finding he was just continuing to stare at the now blank television screen – clearly, deep in thought.
“Desmond?” said Ray, adding a little more point to his voice in order to try and snap Desmond out of whatever trance he happened to be in so that he could get some much-needed backup to manage the situation they now found themselves faced with.
“Uh … yes, absolutely …” said Desmond, finally coming to, but doing so rather unconvincingly as he was, obviously, still trying to work out what he’d just witnessed. “What I don’t understand, however, is why bring this up now? I mean, it’s been common knowledge for anyone who cared to look that Mustang was going to be playing in the Open since last Sunday; yet, there wasn’t so much as a peep about you punching Fletcher all week – not even in the tabloids over here, and that’s saying something. So, why do it now?”
“Yeah, it doesn’t make any sense,” said Rodney, chiming in too as he struggled to see the logic of such a public takedown at this stage of the week. “I mean, unless it’s just an attempt to drum up a bit of drama to get more viewers over the weekend? But, even then, to hinge that around two amateurs seems like a bit of a stretch with such a stacked leaderboard, right?”
“It’s Fletcher.”
Having not spoken in a while, everyone turned and looked across the kitchen at Mustang as if it was the very first time they’d heard him speak at all.
“What are ya talkin’ about, kid?” asked Ray, seeing that Mustang had now jettisoned his glass down onto the countertop of the island. “What d’ya mean, ‘It’s Fletcher’?”
“What we just watched …” answered Mustang bluntly, gesturing loosely at the television. “It’s got Fletcher written all over it. You wanna know why we haven’t heard anything about what happened in Texas until now? Because Fletcher was waiting to see whether or not I’d make the cut. And once he saw that I had? Or that it was looking likely that was gonna happen? He used those exact same media connections he taunted me with when he called me at the Walker Cup to make sure me hitting him got back in the spotlight.”
“But why?” asked Rodney, trying to make sense of what Mustang was saying. “What’s the point?”
“To create a circus …” said Desmond, sounding as though everything, suddenly, was clicking into place. “He wants to draw as much attention as possible onto your race for the Silver Medal in order to try and ramp up the pressure – turn the screw, as it were, to see if you’ll break.”
“So, what do we do, then?” said Rodney, annoyed at how much sense all this was now making. “How do we respond?”
“By doin’ the only thing we can do …” Ray answered, a slight air of weary exasperation now seeping into his voice as he and Mustang locked eyes across the kitchen. “Not break.”
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