There are some moments in your life that are so utterly surreal when they’re happening that you can’t help but feel as though you should be pinching yourself every five minutes just to make sure that it’s all actually real and not just some terrific dream you’re hoping against hope you don’t wake up from. Admittedly, much like bagging yourself an albatross on a par 5, these kinds of moments come around very rarely in life and there’s no guarantee that everyone will get to experience one – that’s just the way things go, unfortunately. But when you do happen to find yourself lucky enough to be stood grasping one of those golden tickets in your hand? Or, even, writing down a ‘2’ on your card next to that little box that says ‘Par 5’? You need to make sure that you make the most of it. And come the Sunday after defeating the Sharks, that’s exactly what Mustang tried to do – because it was a day, unlike anything, he or Ray had ever experienced before.
From the moment Layla had reminded him of it after their match with Cody and Tamera, Mustang couldn’t get the Walker Cup out of his head. With everything that had been happening with playing the Sharks, and the amount of mental energy he’d devoted to helping send them packing back to Vermilion Bay with just a solitary point to their name, Mustang – for the first time since he’d secured his place as Dallas’ alternate a few weeks previously – had been too preoccupied to think about anything even remotely related to the upcoming week in Florida. How he’d get on with the rest of the U.S. team? What the course at Seminole would be like? Did the U.S. really have a chance of stopping Desmond Finch and The Six from making it three wins in a row?
None of it.
As soon as the Walker Cup found itself back on the main stage in Mustang’s mind, however, there wasn’t a chance it was going to allow itself to lose the limelight again. As a result, from the moment he and Ray left the Jungle and made their way back home from Copperhead Springs – armed with nothing more than vaguely sunburnt legs and a bag full of takeout they picked up on the way from ‘Renée’s’ – those same questions, along with dozens more just like them, flooded Mustang’s brain and had him wishing the evening away just so he could finally go to bed and attempt to switch off his brain for a few hours; not that he had any realistic expectations of actually sleeping once he got there, of course.
Once Saturday night, eventually, gave way to Sunday morning, though, and he proceeded to pull himself out of bed just before sun-up, Mustang – even with just the few unsettled patches of sleep he’d managed to get under his belt in the preceding hours – woke up with an excited smile on his face. Though, normally, he’d be averse to allowing himself to openly feel such a way, what with the inherent risk of falling flat on his face should the rug be pulled out unexpectedly from under his feet, after having Ray tell him to make sure and try to enjoy the week ahead over dinner the previous evening, Mustang couldn’t help but think about that sentiment long after their respective burgers and slices of cake had been devoured, and they’d taken to watching a movie. In fact, so taken was he by what Ray had said, that as he’d laid in bed a few hours later watching the clock on his nightstand tick over from 11:59 to midnight – for, as expected, sleep had been eluding him – he’d made a conscious decision to take a chance and quieten that buzzkill of a voice inside his head who espoused overcautiousness above anything else, and to listen to Ray; meaning, in practice, whatever the day ahead had in store for him, he was just going to go with it; he was going to enjoy it; and, most importantly, he wasn’t going to overthink it.
So, with that in mind, after loading up Maisie with their luggage and making the hour and a half-long journey to Louis Armstrong airport on the outskirts of New Orleans, only to then find themselves sitting in a first-class lounge eating the nicest complimentary breakfast he’d ever eaten? Mustang just went with it. When it came time for him and Ray to then actually board the plane for their flight and they found themselves holed up in a first-class cabin that looked better than their living room back home? Mustang just enjoyed it. And when, after finally landing in Florida four hours later, they found their luggage being loaded into a chauffeur-driven, brand new black Mercedes, before they themselves were then driven to the ultra-swanky surrounds of The Breakers hotel in West Palm Beach? Mustang didn’t overthink it – even if every second of being so carefree made him feel as though, at any minute, he’d be waking up back in his bed in Marais des Voleurs, listening to Ray yanking open the curtains and telling him it was time to get up for school.
“Can you believe this place?!” Mustang whispered, staring wide-eyed up at the awe-inspiring vaulted ceiling that ran the entire length of the remarkably long lobby, the exquisitely detailed frescoes that had been painstakingly hand-painted onto it making it look more akin to something you’d see in the Vatican as opposed to a hotel.
“Yeah, it is pretty amazin’,” Ray answered, as the splendour and cathedral-like ambiance of the richly decorated hotel made him feel severely underdressed in his shorts and boots. “Though, what I will say is that I’m just glad it ain’t me pickin’ up the bill for stayin’ in a place like this for the week! Can you imagine?! Man …”
“I know, right?” agreed Mustang. “I feel as if any minute now someone’s gonna jump out and charge us ten dollars for just standing on the carpet.” As Ray chuckled and turned his attention back towards waiting on his turn to be seen by one of the smartly dressed receptionists busily checking in those guests who’d arrived before them, Mustang let his gaze wander across the lobby. Among the crowd, he saw the bellhop who’d promptly removed their luggage from the car that had driven them from the airport as soon as it had pulled up outside the grandiose entrance of the hotel. He was deftly wheeling the brass plated trolley he’d loaded their luggage onto in the direction of the elevators, carefully weaving it in and around the people taking pictures for their Instagram accounts and the various pieces of furniture dotted around the lobby that looked far too expensive to ever actually use.
As he finally navigated his way through the other side of the throng and left himself with a clear, uninterrupted run at the elevators, however, the bellhop had to quickly put the brakes on the trolley as the polished doors of the elevator opened back, revealing yet another crowd of people crammed inside its mirror and wood-panelled interior. And at the very heart of this crowd? The person who everyone else inside the elevator was aiming their phones and dictaphones at in order to record every word he might happen to utter? None other than Fletcher Rhodes.
“That’s a very good question, Randy,” said Fletcher, sounding, as ever, the consummate professional as he swept out through the doors of the elevator, his South Carolina drawl luring the crowd of journalists into dutifully following him as though they were a band of rats and he the Pied Piper. “I mean, look, I haven’t exactly been a ‘shrinking’ violet’ when it comes to talking about my goals for the season, I know that. But as far as I’m concerned? From the moment my feet touched the ground here in Florida this morning, ‘Fletcher Rhodes the Individual’ no longer existed. His goals? His plans? His ambitions? They all stayed back in Charleston. So, the only thing I’m thinking about this week is doing everything I can to be a good teammate and help bring the Walker Cup back home to the United States.”
“So, just to be clear, then …” said Randy, raising his voice to be heard over the other journalists, all of whom had attempted to jump the gun to have their questions heard as soon as Fletcher had stopped speaking. “Should the United States team fail to win the Walker Cup this week, you won’t see that as spoiling, what many are calling, your attempt at completing an unprecedented ‘clean sweep’ of the most prestigious amateur titles in the game?”
Having made quite significant progress across the lobby – ‘progress’ which had seen many of those already milling around stop whatever they were doing and take in the sight of the small media scrum surrounding him – Fletcher brought the travelling circus to an abrupt stop.
“Listen, Randy …” he grinned, turning and looking at the aforementioned Randy, himself far shorter than Fletcher and carrying slightly too much weight around his midsection, as proven by the way the fabric of his quarter-zip sweater was being pulled taut by his protruding stomach. “Like I said, my goals for the season? They’re not relevant this week. This is a team competition. It’s not about me, nor any other one individual for that matter. It’s about all ten guys on the team pulling together under Captain Rugger, and going out there doing whatever’s needed to make sure we’re the ones left holding the Walker Cup come Sunday afternoon. And that’s how I’m approaching it. Ok?”
Despite the smile on his face, there was enough bite in his voice to let Randy know that not only would Fletcher not be expanding any further on that particular question but neither would he be entertaining any other question Randy might be foolish enough to try and ask from this point on.
“Uh, yeah …” mumbled Randy, a touch sheepishly, as he brought his dictaphone back down from in front of Fletcher. “Thank you …”
“You’re welcome, Randy!” replied Fletcher warmly, his entire demeanour completely changing as he readjusted the baseball cap on his head and flashed his usual ‘picture perfect’ smile.
Just as he turned to go about getting his rolling ‘Q&A’ session back on the road, Fletcher glanced over in the direction of the reception desk and spied Mustang standing there. “And speaking of team U.S.A.!” he announced, not seeming to care in the slightest that his voice was rattling loudly around the lofty interior of the lobby. “It looks like our ace in the hole has finally arrived! How ya doing, Mustang?! Nice to see ya again, buddy!”
After taking a second to square away the fact that not only had Fletcher spoken to him in the first place, but done so as if they were old friends seeing each other at a high-school reunion, Mustang managed to get his brain focused long enough to string together a response. “Uh … yeah, I’m good, Fletcher, thanks …” he replied, suddenly feeling quite self-conscious that every single journalist surrounding Fletcher – along with every other person inside the lobby, it seemed – was now looking directly at him. “How are you?”
“Aw, you know …” Fletcher answered, grinning confidently as he gestured loosely at the journalists gathered around him. “The usual! Speaking of which, I don’t suppose you feel like fielding a few questions from these fine folks so I can go work out in peace, do ya?!”
“Maybe later …” Mustang replied, smiling at Fletcher’s dry tone. “Might try to get checked-in first, though, I think.”
“Well, it was worth a shot!” Fletcher laughed. “Anyway, I’ll see ya later, man, alright?!”
“Yeah …” Mustang replied, still not feeling overly comfortable with speaking too loudly inside the lobby. “See ya later.”
After shooting a small wave in Mustang’s direction, Fletcher turned his attention back onto the swirling mass of journalists still eagerly searching for a soundbite to send back to their respective bosses. “Alright, so, who’s next?” he asked as he set off walking in, what Mustang could only assume, was the direction of the hotel gym.
With the journalists all taking to squawking and chirping over each other like some feral seagulls fighting over a dropped bag of fries as they and Fletcher walked off down the length of the lobby, their hurried steps muffled by the plush carpet underfoot, Ray turned and spoke to Mustang. “And here was you worryin’ about how you’d get on with the rest of the team …” he said, nudging Mustang with his elbow just as one of the receptionists summoned him to her counter with an uber-polite, “Next, please”.
As Ray went about getting them checked in, Mustang couldn’t help but think about what he’d said. Because Ray was right, he had been worried about how the rest of the team would view him, as, being an alternate, he felt as though he was straddling that awkward line between, technically, being a part of the team, but as chances were he wasn’t going to be out in the trenches with them come Saturday morning – bar someone getting injured, of course – then, no matter what he did or what anyone said, he felt as though he was always going to be on the outside looking in. But after seeing the way Fletcher had reacted to seeing him, someone who would, undoubtedly, carry more than his fair share of clout and influence amongst the rest of the U.S. team given he was the best amateur player in the world, Mustang felt that, just maybe, that line he’d imagined himself as straddling was really just that – imaginary.
“Uh … excuse me?”
Feeling a tap on his shoulder, all thoughts of Fletcher and the rest of team U.S.A quickly evaporated from Mustang’s mind as he turned around to see who exactly it was that had spoken to him – and with an English accent, of all things. Dressed in a wooly jumper and jeans, both of which seemed to fly directly in the face of the clear blue skies and balmy conditions outside the hotel, Mustang found himself face-to-face with a kid just like himself. He wasn’t that much older than Mustang, if at all, yet, possessed a similarly wiry build as he did, even though much of it was masked by his jumper, which seemed a good size too big for him.
“Uh, yeah?” Mustang replied, feeling, as he had with Fletcher, a little caught off-guard.
“Hi, yeah – sorry …” said the kid, his English accent making him sound even more nervous than he, clearly, already was. “I just couldn’t help but overhear there, but … you are Mustang Peyton, yeah?”
Mustang shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Though he’d grown accustomed to the odd person here and there asking him if he was “the Mustang Peyton” back home, this was the first time he’d experienced it with someone his own age – never mind one from an entirely different continent. “Yeah, that’s me …” he answered, trying to sound cooler than what he had done up until this point. “And you are?”
“Oh, yeah, of course! Where are my manners?!” said the kid, quickly wiping his hand off his jeans before holding it out for a handshake. “I’m Rodney, Rodney Burrage – it’s nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, likewise,” said Mustang, smiling politely as he shook Rodney’s ever-so-slightly-clammy hand. “So … you here on vacation with your family or something?”
“Vacation?! Here?!” snorted Rodney, his green eyes lighting up as a smile stretched across his heavily freckled face at the mere notion. “God, no! The only way my family could afford to stay here is if we remortgaged our house – and even then we’d still probably all have to share one room! No, I’m here on the R&A’s ticket: see, I’m the alternate for Great Britain & Ireland this week.”
Having let it temporarily down, Mustang’s guard shot back up. He’d no idea that Great Britain & Ireland were bringing an alternate to Seminole – after all, there’d been no mention of one when the teams were announced, let alone one named ‘Rodney Burrage’.
“Oh, so, you’re an alternate as well,” said Mustang, carefully monitoring everything he was saying now that he knew he was speaking with the enemy. “I didn’t know you guys were bringing one this week.”
Rodney pulled uncomfortably at the collar of his jumper as the thick wool it was made from transitioned from just making him hot, to now making him itch. “Neither did I,” he answered, honestly. “It was something of a last-minute call by Desmond, apparently, so … here I am. To be honest, to go from, this time yesterday, planning on spending today playing in the weekend comp at my club back home to, instead, wind up sitting on a plane bound for the Walker Cup and staying in a hotel like this? I think it’s going to take until, at least, Wednesday to actually wrap my head around it all!”
“Alright, kid, we are good to go,” said Ray, walking back over towards where he’d left Mustang as he distractedly examined the room keys in his hands. “Can you believe we each get our own room?!” Finally looking up at Mustang, only to see Rodney now standing in front of him with a faintly stunned-looking expression on his face, Ray caught himself and readjusted how he was speaking. “Oh. Hey there …” he said, measuring up Rodney and doing a quick run-through of his memory bank of faces to see if he should know him. “How are you?”
“Oh my God, Ray Thackett!” said Rodney excitedly, sounding as though he’d just come across a celebrity.
“Well, that’s what my driver’s license says, anyway …” Ray replied, glancing at Mustang for some indication as to what exactly was happening.
“Ray, this is Rodney Burrage,” said Mustang, picking up on the look Ray had given him. “He’s the alternate for Great Britain & Ireland this week.”
Getting the exact same surprised expression on his face that had graced Mustang’s when he, too, learned of the late addition to Desmond’s team, Ray turned and smiled, accordingly, at Rodney. “Aw, I see …” he said, sticking out his hand for a handshake. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Rodney – you lookin’ forward to the week?”
“Yes, sir, very much,” Rodney answered, still appearing somewhat starstruck as he gazed up at Ray. “And, look, I’m sorry that I’m a little excited, it’s just that I was glued to the telly watching the two of you during the U.S. Amateur …” He lowered his voice as if letting them in on a state secret. “To be honest, I was really hoping you’d beat Fletcher in the final …” After taking a moment to look around as if to make sure Fletcher, himself, hadn’t snuck back and overheard what he’d said, Rodney returned to speaking at a normal volume. “So, to see the both of you here now? In-person? Well, it’s just really cool.”
Mustang and Ray both looked at one another, the pair of them attempting to stifle bewildered smiles. Though they’d become used to how their life was and the different things they’d done from a golf perspective, they sometimes forgot to appreciate just how big a stage they’d been lucky enough to perform on with the likes of the U.S. Amateur.
“Next, please,” said the receptionist, her tone still faultlessly polite as she looked for her next client.
“Well, that’s me,” said Rodney, gesturing politely to the receptionist that he’d heard her, before looking back at Ray and Mustang. “But, uh … again, it was really nice to meet you both. And, hey, if you’re around during the week and find yourself at a loose end for whatever reason … maybe we could hang out? Or whatever?”
“Yeah, no, definitely,” Mustang smiled, not sounding overly committed with his answer. “That sounds like it could be cool – if I’m not busy, obviously.”
“Oh, yeah, for sure …” said Rodney, looking delighted at the mere prospect of them possibly hanging out. “I mean, if you’re busy, don’t worry about it. But, uh … yeah, ok. Well, I’ll see you around then, maybe.”
“Yeah, see ya around, Rodney,” Mustang replied warmly.
Flashing another wide smile at the pair of them, Rodney finally turned and moved off towards the desk where the receptionist was still patiently waiting, leaving Mustang and Ray free to start walking across the lobby in the direction of the elevators.
“He seemed like a nice kid,” Ray said quietly, stealing another glance back over his shoulder at Rodney, who had just begun talking to the receptionist.
“Yeah …” said Mustang, not sounding overly enthused. “I guess.”
“You think you will try to hang out with him?” Ray asked, pulling a crumpled five-dollar bill out of his pocket and handing it off to the bellhop who’d been dutifully guarding their luggage. “I mean, it is gonna be a long week after all.”
They reached the doors of the elevator and Mustang pressed the button to call it down from where it was currently residing up on the top-most floor of the hotel, with even the button itself feeling as though it were more premium compared to the elevator buttons he’d pressed in the past.
“I dunno,” Mustang answered, his eyes floating up to the little screen above the elevator and counting down the floors it was whirring past en route to the ground floor. “Probably not.”
“How come?” said Ray, his attempt at figuring out Mustang’s reasoning coupled with carefully watching someone pointing their phone at them and sneaking a picture from across the lobby.
“Cause …” Mustang replied, sounding as though he felt the answer should be obvious. “I’m tryna’ fit in, remember?”
“So?” Ray replied, still not seeing what that had to do with Rodney.
“So …” Mustang continued, taking his eyes off the screen and looking back up at Ray. “How do ya think that’s gonna go if Fletcher and the rest of the guys see me off hanging around with one of the enemy?”
“‘Enemy’?!” Ray scoffed. “That’s a bit of a strong word, kid, don’t ya think?!”
“Well, you know what I mean …” replied Mustang, feeling as if Ray was focusing on the wrong part of what he’d said. “It just wouldn’t look good is what I’m saying.”
Having finished its journey, the elevator finally arrived at the ground floor. As the doors slid back, Mustang and Ray stood aside to let the three elderly people inside comfortably disembark, before walking into the elevator themselves.
“Plus, you know how English people are,” Mustang continued, his nose screwing up slightly as the pungent smell of heavily applied perfume and menthol cigarettes lingering inside the elevator stung his nostrils. “He was just being polite.”
“Whatever you say, kid,” replied Ray, not looking to pressure or second guess Mustang as he reached out and pressed the number ‘5’ on the row of neatly illuminated buttons just inside the doors of the elevator. “I just don’t want you missin’ out on somethin’ that could be good for ya, that’s all.”
“Yeah, I know; but I really do think he was just being polite,” said Mustang, repeating his previous point as if doing so would help convince himself of its validity. “And, anyway, given how busy we’ll both be, even if we are just alternates, I’d be surprised if I even see Rodney again before Saturday.”
The doors of the elevator slid shut.
Mustang’s and Ray’s week at the Walker Cup had officially begun.
And what a week it was going to be.
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