Having endured the excruciating wait for Spieth, Morikawa, and Rahm to all hit their second shots – with each time he saw their respective efforts landing within makeable distance of the hole feeling like just another sprinkle of salt in his self-inflicted wounds – Mustang, after using every ounce of self-control he’d had to not just break out into a full-on sprint to get there, had hurriedly strode up what remained of the 18th-fairway to go check just how formidable a challenge lay in store for him for his third.

Because having tossed a few balls into the very same right-hand bunker during the practice days at the beginning of the week, whilst coming to the conclusion that it wasn’t a great place to end up – though, what bunker is? – it wasn’t a total disaster. It was difficult, undoubtedly. But as long as you were anywhere near the middle of it and had a decent lie? It was definitely manageable. And that’s what Mustang had been hoping for as he’d rushed up the fairway: a shot. That’s all. The lie didn’t have to be perfect; it would be an added bonus if it was, of course, but it wasn’t necessary. He just needed something he could work with it – something in any way bit playable. Because after the weather they’d had? Whilst knowing that the bunkers would’ve been raked by the greenkeeping crew to loosen the sand back up after it getting compacted by the rain, Mustang’s only fear was that his ball would be after burying itself in its own pitch mark; the wet, sticky sand clinging onto it like glue, refusing to let it leave their grainy grasp.

When he’d finally reached the bunker and actually laid eyes on his ball, however, whilst finding that it had, indeed, succeeded in finding a decent lie for itself … the problem was where it had found it. Because as opposed to just rolling back down towards the base of the bunker after it had clattered into the wall of it, Mustang’s ball, instead, had just dropped like a stone, gotten caught behind this tiny ridge of sand where the prongs of a rake had dug into it, and, as a result, come to a stop right up against the wall of the bunker – with maybe two or three inches of space between them, at most.

Basically, it was bad.

Really bad.

Mustang knew it. And from the way Ray was standing alongside him with his hands resting on his hips, staring hopelessly down at his ball just like he was, Mustang knew that he was thinking the exact same thing. Because whilst he had a stance – that wasn’t an issue – Mustang knew that there was really only one way he could even have a chance at successfully extricating his ball from the sandy hell it was currently trapped in … but it was a dangerous one. 

See, were the circumstances in any way different? Like, had this happened on Thursday, for example? Mustang knew that the only sensible play would be to try and hit his ball out sideways; take his chances at chipping in for par; but, ultimately, square away the fact that a bogey would now be a good result.

But Thursday it wasn’t.

And the circumstances weren’t going to be changing anytime soon either.

Because this was a playoff. The Claret Jug on the line. And whilst a bogey wouldn’t necessarily take him out of the running, given all three of his competitors were looking at birdie putts from just inside 10-feet – with Morikawa the closest of the trio – Mustang had to think that at least one of them was going to make birdie and get to +2. So, if he wanted to give himself the best chance of staying in the mix should that invariably happen? He had to take this shot on … even if doing so meant putting his recently repaired right hand in the firing line.

Because to play this shot the way it needed to be played in order to get it up out of the bunker and anywhere even remotely near the pin? Mustang knew he would have to take his lob-wedge, open up the face as far it could go, and launch it into the sand behind his ball, following through as much as he could – a move that would, without doubt, see the head of his club smashing into the wall of the bunker beyond his ball. Sure, it was just a wall made up of stacked rows of turf. But clattering a club into it at the speed Mustang was going to be generating? An impact like that could do untold damage to his hand – something Mustang was painfully aware of.

“There’s really only one play here, isn’t there?” said Mustang, putting the question to Ray as he, himself, kept his gaze laser-focused on his ball, quietly hoping that he’d see the ridge of sand keeping it from rolling just a little further away from the wall suddenly disintegrating before his eyes.

“Against my better judgement?” replied a conflicted-sounding Ray, knowing full well what Mustang was referring to. “I’m afraid so, yeah.”

With his glove still on from when he’d hit his second shot, Mustang turned and pulled his lob-wedge from his bag, feeling the grip nice and tacky to the touch. After then turning back around, Mustang moved, once again, to the very edge of the bunker where Ray was still standing and staring down at his ball – he got the feeling that he, too, was hoping to see that same ridge of sand suddenly collapsing.

“Listen, Ray, before I hit thi-…” said Mustang, beginning to apologize.

“Forget about it,” said Ray, instantly cutting across Mustang before he could say another word. He knew that he was looking to apologize over what had happened with his second shot, but now wasn’t the time to be thinking like that – not while they were still in the fight. “You took a shot and it didn’t work out …” Ray continued, now looking sincerely down at Mustang. “It happens.”

“So … we’re good?” asked Mustang, just wanting to be sure that he was correctly interpreting what Ray was saying.

“You kiddin’ me?” smiled Ray, reaching out his hand and playfully jostling Mustang’s shoulder. “Of course, we are, kid!”

Happy to see him smiling again, Mustang allowed himself the smallest of smirks as well. Whatever about where his ball was, to know that he and Ray were, at least, cool gave Mustang a much-needed – albeit far-too-temporary – feeling of relief.

“Now, go on …” said Ray, looking to get Mustang clued back into the unpleasantness that was still awaiting him inside the bunker. “Get in there and show these dudes what us ‘Louisiana boys’ are made of, huh?” 

Feeling surprisingly pumped up, Mustang nodded his head determinedly at Ray before stepping into the bunker and moving in behind his ball. He dug the spikes of his shoes down into the sand, listening to it crunch and grind beneath his soles as he did so, before momentarily coming back up onto his tippy toes in order to peek out over the top of the bunker and burn one last mental image of where the pin was sitting into his head.

Having seen what he needed to, Mustang then hunkered back down into his original position – bending his knees slightly in order to feel as ‘solid’ behind his ball as he could given the inherently unstable nature of where he was standing – and opened the face of his lob-wedge, turning it so far out to the right that the only part actually left pointing at his ball was practically the hosel.

And it was at this exact moment, with an excited hush just falling over the crowd, that Mustang realized just how much of a ‘high-tariff’ shot this really was. Because everything about it was set up for him to fail. Everything.

Given how open he was needing to hold the face of his club, he was putting himself in a prime position to hit a shank.

Even then, if he did manage to make the contact he was looking for, there was nothing to say that it was actually going to succeed in getting his ball up quickly enough to scale the wall of the bunker – one that now appeared to be actively growing in steepness with each passing second that he stood in front of it.

And then, of course, on top of all that, there was the original problem that, regardless of what kind of shot he hit, there was a very good chance he was going to seriously mess up his right hand either way – thus making any other shot he might be required to hit nigh-on impossible to complete, apart from just hitting them solely with his left.

Yet, as quickly as all those thoughts had flooded his mind, filling his head with eerily accurate images of everything that could wrong in the next few seconds, they were all suddenly made to disappear just as quickly as they’d first arrived – and all because Mustang suddenly remembered something. The words that Ray had said to him out in the back garden of the house on Monday morning when he’d finally revealed how nervous he was actually feeling about picking up his clubs again.

That no matter what happened, they would just go out that week and do what they always did: 

‘Go out swingin’.’

So, that’s what Mustang was going to do … no matter the potential cost.

Quickly dropping his eyes back down over it, Mustang picked out a spot of sand about half an inch behind his ball and drew back his club. Once feeling it get to the very top of his swing, Mustang then gritted his teeth and fired the club down towards his ball without an ounce of hesitation, driving the edge of it as hard and as fast into that same spot of sand as he could physically manage.

THUMP!

His ball popped up into the air, racing the explosion of sand that was now chasing it towards the lip of the bunker.

At the exact same moment, however, the heel of Mustang’s lob-wedge smashed into the wall of the bunker with a sickening THUD! sending a jarring vibration jolting up the shaft of his club and straight into his hands. Moreover, though, in the process of instinctively attempting to try and lessen the impact of the blow he’d known was coming, Mustang’s right wrist had gotten trapped in an ugly, unnaturally strained position that had now just taken the full brunt of the collision … and it wasn’t long telling him what that had done.

“AAAAAAAARRRRRGGGHHHHH!!” roared Mustang in agony, quickly releasing his grip on his club as a sharp pain shot right the way through his wrist and up into his hand, immediately causing him to double over and clutch it with his uninjured left in a futile effort to somehow stop the pain from spreading any further.

Though the crowd’s first reaction had been to erupt in a deliriously-loud roar of excitement at seeing him not only get his ball out of the bunker but actually get it to stop inside 10-feet of the hole, as soon as they noticed that something was severely wrong with Mustang, however – a realization expedited by those spectators in the grandstand directly behind him who’d all let out a combined empathetic hiss when they’d heard the bone-crunching impact he’d just suffered – a concerned hush quickly descended over the 18th.

They could tell this looked bad.

“You alright, kid?!” said Ray, jumping straight into the bunker and immediately looking to tend to Mustang, who was still doubled over and desperately clutching his right hand – protecting it like an injured dog.

“I dunno, I dunno …” replied Mustang, the panic he was feeling now blatantly clear in his voice as cold beads of sweat began to seep out of his forehead.

“Alright, well, just let me take a look then, ok?” said Ray, doing his best to remain calm as he reached out and gently took a hold of Mustang’s hand. “Now, did you feel anythin’ snap?”

“Uh … no, I don’t think so …” replied Mustang, trying to think back to the moment of impact as he watched Ray carefully examining his wrist and hand, preemptively wincing for the sharp pain he could sense was lurking just beneath his skin. “It just happened so qui-AAAAARRGGH!”

“Sorry, kid,” said Ray, he, too, now wincing at having caused that particular jolt with the necessary poking and prodding he was needing to do in order to fully check out the scope of Mustang’s injury. “Can you bend your fingers back down to the heel of your hand for me?”

Despite his wariness at causing himself any more pain, Mustang, again, gritted his teeth and attempted to do as Ray had asked.

“That’s as far as they’ll go,” said Mustang, wincing once more as he watched his fingers stall out about halfway down his palm, the mere act of which was sending a dull ache coursing into his rapidly swelling wrist.

“Hmm, ok …” mumbled Ray, his diagnosis now forming as he took Mustang’s hand and had him gently rest it on his left shoulder. “From the sounds of it? It might just be a sprain. Either way, though, we need to have someone take a proper look at it – so, come on, let’s get you outta here.”

“But what about the playoff?!” snapped Mustang anxiously, any and all thoughts about the pain in his wrist temporarily abating as they stepped out of the bunker and began walking across the grass, the match referee and on-site paramedic already en route to meet them halfway. “And my ball?! I have to go mark it!”

“Don’t worry ‘bout that, ok? I’ll take care of it,” replied Ray, looking to sufficiently reassure Mustang as he released him over into the custody of the kindly-looking paramedic who, he could tell, was already trying to get a jump on examining Mustang’s wrist as she put her arm gently around his shoulders. “You just go off and get patched up, alright? I’ll be right here when you get back – I promise.”

Trusting Ray to take care of everything as he said he would, Mustang just quietly nodded his head before turning back around and refocusing his efforts on ignoring the pain that was now, once again, shooting up through his wrist.

As the paramedic led him towards the tunnel underneath the grandstand, however – the crowd, to their credit, giving him a warm round of applause as they made their exit – a panicked Mustang just couldn’t stop his mind from racing.

Thinking about his hand and wondering how badly it might be injured.

Thinking about whether or not he was going to need surgery again.

Thinking how he wished that he’d taken a better look at where his ball had actually ended up on the green.

Most of all, though, as he and the paramedic disappeared into the relative darkness of the tunnel – momentarily leaving behind the frenetic atmosphere of the 18th that was now tentatively beginning to build back up to its previous level of excitement as Jordan Spieth went about lining up his birdie putt – the thought that was proving to be far and away the most concerning for Mustang was wondering whether or not he’d just cost himself the Claret Jug.

And that? 

That thought alone was causing Mustang almost as much pain as his wrist was.

*

“Righteo …” said Ash, the paramedic who’d come to meet Mustang out on the 18th, as she put the final finishing touches to the strapping she’d spent the last few minutes carefully wrapping up his hand and wrist with. “How does that feel? Good?”

“As good as a sprained wrist can be, I guess …” replied Mustang, still wincing slightly as he admired the exceedingly neat job Ash had made of his strapping, the look of it now making him feel very much like a boxer. “Is it supposed to be this tight, though?”

“That’s just the swelling making it feel a bit uncomfortable is all,” replied Ash chirpily as she popped the scissors and roll of tape she’d been using down onto the gurney where Mustang had been sitting since first setting foot inside the ambulance. “But the ibuprofen Tom gave you should help with that – which, in turn, should help with the pain. And, to be honest, given you’re going to be heading back out here? Having it a little tight won’t do you any harm at all.”

Having referenced her colleague, Tom – a mountain of a man who’d been kind enough to offer Mustang some of the candy he’d been grazing on when they’d first arrived at the ambulance – Ash turned her head off to the side and called out for him. “Hey, Baldy?! You there?!”

With the jingling and jangling of his laden-down pockets heralding his arrival as he made the steps necessary to get from wherever he’d been to the ambulance, Tom eventually appeared outside its double doors.

“You rang?” he asked, now with the added addition of a takeaway coffee in his hand.

“Well, first of all, thanks for getting me one as well,” joked Ash, nodding at the piping-hot coffee in Tom’s hand.

“You’re welcome,” quipped Tom sarcastically, lifting the coffee up to his mouth and, gloatingly, taking a sip from it, causing the foam at the top of it to linger messily on his beard.

“And secondly …” continued Ash, with a rueful shake of her head. “Do you have that ibuprofen on you?”

“That I do …” confirmed Tom, pulling it from the chest pocket on his shirt before handing it in through the doors towards Ash’s outstretched hand. “There you go.”

Now with the tinfoil packet in hand, Ash turned back in her seat to face Mustang and held it out for him to take. “So, you’re going to take one of these every four hours, ok?” she explained, making sure to put extra emphasis on the dosage and timing before glancing quickly at the small, tidy watch she had strapped around her wrist. “Which means … it’s just gone six o’clock now, so you take the next one at …”

“Ten; I got it,” replied Mustang, eager to show that he’d been paying attention in order to get back to the action as quickly as possible.

“Good lad,” said Ash, hitting him with a relaxed wink as she watched him take the pills from her hand before then pushing her seat back from the edge of the gurney, its legs grating against the floor of the ambulance. “In that case then, you are officially free to go, young man.”

“Really?” asked Mustang, his legs feeling noticeably stiff as he got gingerly to his feet – the sitting down had, clearly, done him no favours.

“Yep …” confirmed Ash with that same reassuring smile of hers. “Unless, of course, you want Tom here to go out and … you know, ‘tidy up’ for ya?”

“You know what? That sounds like a really solid plan actually …” replied Tom dryly, instantly jumping on the setup Ash had laid on so kindly for him. “Though, just to be sure we’re all on the same page here … you want to lose, right?”

“Yeah, thanks for the offer,” joked Mustang, now smiling politely as he made his way down the steps of the ambulance and back out into the wind outside. “But if anyone’s gonna lose this for me? It should probably be me who does it.”

Having drawn the smiles from them that he’d been looking for, Mustang set off walking back in the direction of the grandstands, leaving Ash and Tom to begin the process of tidying up their equipment. After only taking but a few steps away from the ambulance, however, Mustang quickly turned around and looked back over at the pair of them.

“Thank you …” he said, sincerely. “Seriously.”

“Just doing our job,” said Ash, her reassuring smile, this time, letting Mustang know that no ‘thanks’ were necessary.

“Exactly …” said Tom, now chiming in with a similarly reassuring-looking smile. “It’s what we do. So, now? You go do what you do.”

Leaving them with an appreciative smile nonetheless, Mustang turned on his heels and set off running for the grandstands, the spikes on his shoes scrambling around for whatever grip they could find on the slickened tarmac covering the ground.

With it taking, at most, just a minute to get back to the built-up surrounds of the 18th at the steady jogging pace he was now travelling at, Mustang spent this small pocket of time wondering what exactly would be laying in store for him once he got there. Because for the ten or so minutes he’d been out at the ambulance getting his wrist seen to, he’d had no clue whatsoever what had been happening back at 18. There’d been no radio for him to listen to. No perfectly-placed television for him to sneak a peek at. Nothing. Instead, the only thing Mustang had to go on was whatever sounds he’d been able to hear carrying on the wind from back at the green; decoding each and every snippet of noise the crowd had been making to see if he could interpret what they had possibly meant.

As soon as he got back to within eyeshot of the grandstands, however, having been so desperate to know where he was now standing in the playoff and learn what the others had done in his absence, that yearning all but evaporated the very second he saw Ray walking slowly out through the end of the tunnel up ahead to meet him. Because the way he was staring blankly off into the distance at nothing in particular? The fact he looked noticeably white as a sheet? These were signs that didn’t bode well for Mustang to about to be on the receiving end of some good news.

“Ray?” said Mustang, already preemptively preparing himself for the worst as he came to a stop in front of him.

Having taken to leaning up against the wall of the grandstand in the remaining time it had taken him to reach him, Ray – who wasn’t looking any less dumbstruck than what he had been since first emerging out of the tunnel – slowly turned his head and looked at Mustang, letting his gaze fall idly over him as though he were sleepwalking.

“What is it? What happened?” asked Mustang, attempting, against his better judgement, to try and prompt some kind of response out of Ray. “Someone made birdie, didn’t they? Who was it?”

Though now just about looking as if he were ‘coming to’ from the daze he’d been in since Mustang had first come across him – though, ‘just about’ was probably a generous way of putting it – Ray finally rustled together enough working neurons to actually speak.

“Uh … none of ‘em …” he said, sounding as though he was still trying to convince himself that what he was saying was, indeed, true.

Whatever about his wrist, Mustang suddenly felt as though his heart had just dropped straight into his stomach.

This couldn’t mean what he was thinking it meant.

Not a chance.

No way.

“So … what exactly are you saying?” asked Mustang, needing nothing less than 100% confirmation that what his gut was telling him was actually happening.

“I’m sayin’ …” said Ray, a disbelieving smile now slowly lighting up his face as he finally made proper eye contact with Mustang. “You’ve got a putt to win it, kid.”

*

Whilst the tunnel that led back out to the 18th-green was, at most, maybe 20-feet long? As Mustang now walked back through it after Ray telling him that he had a putt to win the Open Championship waiting for him at the other end, it had suddenly felt a lot longer than just 20-feet. 20-miles long? 20-light years, maybe? That Mustang could’ve believed. But 20-feet? No. How could it be when he felt as though he and Ray had been walking for hours – days, even – just to reach that small rectangle of daylight sitting at the opposite end of it?

Yet, as much as the laws of time seemed to be warping around him, what was really bothering Mustang was that he couldn’t figure out for the life of him what was causing it. Was it down to an eagerness on his part to reach the green as quickly as possible in order to hit his putt? The nauseated feeling he had in his stomach seemed to be arguing the contrary.

Was it perhaps fear then? The crushing magnitude of this colossal moment already beginning to weigh heavily on his shoulders? Going on the twang he felt in his heavily churning stomach at thinking about those two “old favourites”, they seemed like potential winners – again, as always, their timing for when they reared their ugly heads just impeccable on their part.

“Hey, kid, hold up a second …” said Ray, suddenly reaching out his hand and gently pulling Mustang to a stop just as they finally got to within a few feet of the end of the tunnel.

“Yeah?” said Mustang, secretly appreciating this last-minute reprieve from stepping back out into the veritable cauldron that was the 18th-green.

“Look, I ain’t about to try and pretend that what you’re about to do ain’t a big deal ‘cause … well, let’s be honest, we both know that’s a load of crap,” smiled Ray, feeling as though a moment like this merited nothing but total honesty. “So, when you do step back out there? I’m sure you already know this but … well, things are gonna start movin’ – and movin’ damn quick at that. Cause that’s what moments like this do. They’re so big, and so huge, that they almost get their own gravity. And if you ain’t careful? It’ll grab you and drag you into its orbit. And once you’re in there? There ain’t no controllin’ what happens. So, whatever it is you feel you need to do in order to go out there and stay in control of this moment? Then you do it, kid. Cause that’s the only way to get through somethin’ like this: you stayin’ in control of the moment, not the other way around.”

“Ok. I will,” said an impressed-sounding Mustang, looking genuinely up at Ray as he felt the cold wind sneaking in through the entrance of the tunnel behind him and brushing at the sweat-slicked back of his shirt. “Did you just come up with that?”

“You kiddin’ me? Somethin’ that smart’?” replied Ray, a warm, nostalgic smile lighting up his face. “Naw … I heard it from Frank when we first met in the academy.”

Mustang smiled. He’d been right to think that Frank would show up in some way, shape, or form over the course of the week.

He’d cut it close, mind – but he’d shown up exactly when he was needed.

Sensing that Ray had no more advice to give, Mustang now turned back around and faced out towards the end of the tunnel once more, letting his eyes wander over the green outside and the pin that was after being dutifully stuck back into the hole, its flag continuing to be harassed by Caesar as he awaited him to make his final move.

And in that moment … Mustang knew this was it.

Because with the way his right hand was now physically throbbing on account of the swelling? The dull, persistent ache that was only growing in intensity the longer he kept his hand down by his side? Deep down, he knew that if the playoff were to go to extra holes … realistically, he wasn’t going to be a part of it. He would certainly try. But given the condition his hand was in? He was going to be lucky if he was even going to be able to get a solid grip on his putter, never mind trying to rip a driver or iron with it.

So, you put all that together, and it spelled out a rather stark reality.

If Mustang was going to do this? Like, actually pull it off?

It was quite literally now or never.

“Hey, Ray?” said Mustang, suddenly piping back up as he continued staring out at the 18th. 

“Yeah, kid?” said Ray, who’d been quietly wondering what this momentary holdup had been in aid of.

With that, Mustang turned at the waist so that he could look at Ray – himself now only standing just slightly behind his left shoulder – and held out his uninjured left fist towards him.

“No matter what, right?” he said, the concentrated look on his face telling Ray that it was taking everything he had to keep himself from breaking.

“No matter what, kid,” replied Ray, taking his fist and duly bumping it against Mustang’s. “Always.”

And then? 

Well, that was it.

With the one single step it took Mustang to exit the tunnel and reemerge back out onto the 18th? 

Just as Ray had warned … it began.

The deafening, triumphant roar the crowd greeted him with at seeing him bravely return to the fray? Hearing the loud, tribal cries of total strangers shouting words of encouragement at him with genuine, heartfelt hope in their voices? Seeing his grandfather and everybody else, including Bo Dano, huddled together at the side of the green, lending their own shouts and applause to such a spine-tingling welcome with just as much gusto as those spectators packed into the grandstands?

It would’ve been enough to throw anyone off-balance – and it did just that to Mustang. 

He’d tried to act quickly to counteract it, of course, urgently remembering the advice Ray had only just given him about making sure he didn’t get swallowed up by the domineering gravity of the moment, but that had been proving a lot easier said than done.

What was worse, however, was that with all of this effort he was putting into trying to regain control and stop himself from getting dragged along any further than what he already had been, every time Mustang blinked, that was exactly what was after happening. Getting his putter from Ray? Replacing his ball on the green? Picking up his coin? Mustang had obviously done all those things, yet he had no real recollection of actually doing any of them – it was like the beginning of the playoff all over again.

Once he suddenly found himself down on his haunches behind his ball, though, Mustang realized that enough was enough. He needed to figure out a way to pump the brakes and pump them now. Because with the way time was just disappearing on him in such large, important chunks, what he didn’t want to end up happening was to suddenly blink and find himself standing behind his ball with the head of his putter already swinging towards it like some runaway wrecking ball.

And that’s when it clicked.

Ray had told him to do whatever he needed to do in order to feel in control, and, luckily for Mustang, he’d just remembered what might help him do exactly that – or, perhaps a better way to phrase it would be, ‘where might help him do exactly that’.

Though he hadn’t tried this since his ill-fated singles match against Finn Hennessy at the Walker Cup – primarily, because he’d allowed Fletcher to ruin it for him – Mustang was going to attempt to return to ‘The Void’; that special zone which, thanks to Ray, he’d first accidentally discovered during the final hole of the Memorial the previous year.

Because if there was one place he might be able to think? To slow down time? It was there. 

So, with no other bright ideas springing to mind, Mustang hurriedly squeezed his eyes shut and got to breathing. 

In … and out.

In … and out.

In … and out.

Before he even opened his eyes, though, Mustang knew his plan had worked. Because all of the noise? All of the pressure? Everything that had seen his senses become so overwhelmed and so bombarded with information that he had ceased to be able to think straight? It had all just … disappeared. And now? Well, now, there was just the wind. The far-off sound of the waves crashing relentlessly onto the beach on the other side of the course. And the sound of his own breath moving steadily in and out of his lungs.

Yes, this was most definitely the Void he remembered.

Upon gently opening his eyes, however, Mustang was surprised by what he actually found himself faced with. For, while used to the Void doing a solid job of making stuff disappear, this time it had thoroughly outdone itself. Because whilst all of the people surrounding the 18th had, as expected, now disappeared into the ether … so, too, had pretty much everything else. The grandstands? Gone. The camera towers? Gone. The hospitality tents? Media centre? You name it, it wasn’t there anymore.

Instead, for all intents and purposes, it was as though Mustang had stumbled out onto the 18th on just a regular – albeit abnormally quiet – Sunday evening at Royal St. George’s.

No fancy window dressing on account of the Open.

Just him and the 18th-hole in its purest, rawest form.

Or, at least, Mustang thought it was just him anyway.

 

“You should probably hurry up, honey …”

 

Mustang instantly froze, his feet rooting firmly to the spot. He’d know that voice anywhere. He’d missed it from the second he thought he’d never hear it again in person.

But it couldn’t be who he thought it was … could it?

Though almost afraid to look for fear of being proven wrong, Mustang forced himself to slowly turn and look down towards the front of the green, to the spot from where he’d thought he’d heard her speak. 

And, sure enough … it was true. 

She was actually there. 

Mustang’s mother. 

Lori.

“It’s not polite to keep everyone waiting,” she smiled, her long, brown hair gently blowing in the wind, as was the flowery, floor-length dress she was wearing – the same one she used to always lament not having any place fancy enough to wear to. 

“Mom?” said Mustang, the act of saying that word to her as opposed to just using it to speak about her feeling vaguely peculiar after such a long time. “You’re here?”

“Of course I am,” said Lori, looking surprised that Mustang would even think otherwise. “Did you really think I’d miss this?”

“I dunno …” stammered Mustang, coherent sentences now, unsurprisingly, feeling difficult to come by. “I guess, I just thought … because you … you know …”

“I know,” said Lori, saving Mustang from needing to say the word they both knew he was trying his utmost to avoid uttering. “And I know it’s been hard for you too. But you’re doing so well, honey – you really are. You just need to keep trying your best, though, ok? You can’t do any more than that – and that goes for this too.”

Having seen her gesture loosely towards it, Mustang glanced over at the hole – the mere act of which suddenly reminding him why he was standing on the green in the first place.

“Can you at least stay to watch?” asked Mustang, hopefully, even if something told him he already knew what the answer was going to be.

“Oh, you know I’d love to, honey …” said Lori, before suddenly stealing a quick glance off behind herself, looking back down the length of the fairway as if someone had just called out to her. When she turned back to look at him, though, the sympathetic smile on her face already told Mustang everything he needed to know – his gut feeling was going to be right.

“But it looks like I have to go …” she said, a distinctly apologetic note now colouring her voice.

Before he could say anything else, Lori turned around and began to walk off the green – though, if it weren’t for her bare feet leaving footprints in the rain-speckled fringe, Mustang would’ve sworn she was almost floating.

“Mom!” cried Mustang, quickly summoning up what little strength he felt he had left to call out to her before she got too far away.

Stopping where she was, Lori turned around and looked back up the green at Mustang; that warm smile of hers, once again, lighting up her gently glowing face.

“I miss you …” said Mustang, a catch coming in his throat as tears stung the backs of his eyes.

“I miss you too, Oscar …” smiled Lori. “But look around … I’m never too far away.”

With that, Mustang’s eyes sprang open. He felt dizzy. Disorientated. So much so, in fact, that for a second he actually forgot where he was.

Once he felt his putter in his quietly aching hand, though, and saw the packed grandstands, once again, surrounding him, everything quickly came rushing back for Mustang – including, seeing his mom. 

Snapping his head to the right, Mustang looked expectantly down the length of the fairway, hoping against hope that he’d still be able to see her.

Even a glimpse would be enough.

But, unsurprisingly, she was gone … even her footprints. 

What wasn’t gone, however, was what she’d said to Mustang. 

And she was right.

It wasn’t polite to keep everyone waiting.

Springing back to his feet, a laser-focused Mustang marched briskly in behind his ball and settled instinctively into his stance, placing the blade of his putter confidently down onto the green as he did so. He could feel the pain beginning to radiate back out from his wrist as he manipulated his hands into the correct position on the grip of his putter. It was uncomfortable. Sore – distractingly so. But he was going to gut it out. After all, he didn’t plan on this taking too long.

Looking off at the hole, Mustang saw the line he needed, clear as day, laid out before his eyes; like it had almost been traced across the surface of the green for him by someone.

With the faintest hint of a smile now curling one corner of his mouth, Mustang dropped his eyes back down over his ball.

It was time to show everyone just how good his ‘best’ actually was.

And one smooth rock of his shoulders later? It was done. His putt had been hit; setting out on its journey to the hole, carrying with it the heavy burden that was the fate of Mustang’s future. Were it to miss? Any hopes he had of lifting the Claret Jug would go right along with it. But if it went in? Not only would he be the winner – he’d be immortal.

So, Mustang stood there and watched his ball roll; the explosion of sound that had greeted it popping off the blade of his putter so loud and so persistent that it became just like white noise – having this almost chaotic, peaceful quality to it. The crowd roaring? The rhythmic whirr of camera shutters opening and closing at breakneck speed as they attempted to catch every single roll his putt took across that 8-feet of camera flash-soaked green separating it from the hole?

Whilst it was a sound unlike anything Royal St. George’s or the people currently crammed into it had ever heard in their respective lifetimes, and a sound that was actually growing louder and louder the closer his ball got to the hole … for Mustang? There may as well have just been total silence for all he knew.

Because from the moment his ball had left the face of his putter, skidding across the green before settling down into its roll, he’d only been thinking about his mom.

So, when his ball hit 5-feet out from the hole?

He was thinking about her laugh.

At 4-feet out?

Her smile.

3-feet?

He was thinking about how, even in their last few days together, she had still found ways to make him laugh, even if he, himself, had felt as though he was dying right along with her.

2-feet?

He was thinking that there was never going to be a day go by where he didn’t miss her with every fibre of his being.

And at 1-foot out?

Well, at that stage, Mustang just hoped that, wherever she was, his mom could hear the roar he knew was about to rock Royal St. George’s to its very foundations …

 

BECAUSE HIS BALL WENT IN! 

 

Erupting in a cheer so loud it would make Zeus blush, the crowd surrounding the 18th transcended into a state of utter delirium at seeing Mustang’s ball drop deadweight into the hole, flinging half-full cups of beer and whatever else they could get their hands on straight into the air as they watched Ray, Travis, and the rest of his posse stream onto the green and engulf an ecstatically fist-pumping Mustang in a suitably rowdy show of celebration.

Because as they saw him get triumphantly hoisted up into the air atop Ray’s shoulders, camera flashes going off all around him, and television cameras beaming his deliriously happy face into millions of homes all around the world as the rain began to fall once again, they knew they’d just witnessed something truly special.

For, this hadn’t just been an exciting playoff.

It had been more than that.

Far more.

Because, yes, they’d just witnessed the history books being rewritten.

And, yes, they’d just witnessed the ‘impossible’ made possible.

But, most importantly, they knew that they had just witnessed the forging of a true ‘Open tale’ worthy of the label; a golfing legend that would be told from here to eternity.

A tale about a 16-year-old amateur called Mustang Peyton.

The Silver Medal Winner.

The Champion Golfer of the Year.

The Stormbreaker.

ANNOUNCEMENT ⬇️

And just like that? After 45+ weeks, we’re done.

Now, given the amount of reading you’ve already done this weekend, I don’t want to keep you too long more, so I’ll keep this short.

Whether you’ve been tuning in to read this story week-to-week since last year or only just recently joined the ranks of the Mustang Gang, for all of the incredible support you’ve continued to show me since this whole journey began with the very first Mustang book back in 2020? I want to thank you all from the very bottom of my heart.

Because none of this happens without all of you wanting to hear this story. And for that? I will be eternally grateful.

So, again, thank you for coming back every week.

Thank you for sharing the chapters with people.

Thank you for all of your lovely comments.

Thank you for hitting the ‘like button’ on the chapters.

Thank you for being so generous in the shop.

Thank you for your support this weekend.

And, most of all, thank you for reading ‘MUSTANG II: STORMBREAKER’.

I’ll never forget this.

Talk to you soon – Stephen F. Moloney

 

GET THE FULL DIGITAL COPY OF THIS BOOK BY FOLLOWING THE LINK BELOW – THANK YOU:

https://mustangpeyton.bigcartel.com/product/mustang-ii-stormbreaker

Photograph by Anna Groniecka.

Illustration by Kyle Petchock.