Rodney could still remember the first time he ever saw Mustang play. It was the previous year, on the very last day of May; a fact he remembered because he was still basking in the glow of knowing the summer half-term had only just begun, which meant he was staring gleefully down the barrel of six whole days off from school. He’d been looking forward to this since the end of Easter break back in April, and now that it had arrived, he’d intended to make the most of the glorious – albeit temporary – freedom he was going to have from warm packed lunches and endless hours of homework.
Whilst a lot of families tended to use the half-term as an excuse to go off on holidays somewhere in the UK – or, for those particularly flush with cash, off overseas – that wasn’t exactly how things worked in the Burrage household. Instead of package holidays to the Lake District or some sun-soaked beach in Spain, Rodney and his two older, twin siblings, Harry and Vicky, would be spending the week working in order to help give a welcome boost to the family coffers ahead of their annual summer trip to see their grandparents up in Scotland.
And whilst this might not necessarily have been Harry and Vicky’s ideal way to wile away the holidays – given they had part-time jobs in the local pub and chippie, respectively – as it had meant Rodney was going to be spending the week caddying at Royal St. George’s, he couldn’t have been happier. Because as far as he was concerned, if the alternative was sitting through a day’s-worth of school? He’d much prefer to be getting paid to lug golf bags around Royal St. George’s for 10+ hours a day, whilst watching complete strangers come quickly to the sobering realization that they were going to be lucky to break 100, let alone the 80 he’d heard them so brazenly earmark on the 1st-tee.
What had made this particular night all the sweeter, however, was that with Harry heading to a party in Deal – a small town about a 15-minute drive down the coast from Sandwich – that had meant Rodney was going to be having the tiny box bedroom they shared all to himself because Harry was going to be crashing at his mate’s house. And the thought of having an entire night where he wouldn’t have to fight for time on their beat-up Playstation 4 or hope to God he’d fall asleep before Harry did so he wouldn’t have to endure listening to his snoring that would make a tranquilized bear blush? At the time, though he wasn’t really sure if there was such a thing as a ‘perfect night in’, Rodney had figured this one was going to come pretty darn close.
So, after getting himself a fish supper from the chippie where Vicky worked – the owner, as per usual, not only charging him less because he was Vicky’s brother but giving him an extra helping of chips too – Rodney had snuck his precious cargo past his mother’ bloodhound-like nose and quietly upstairs so that he could kick off his night in style by eating his takeaway in bed while watching YouTube videos on Harry’s laptop.
And it was whilst scrolling through YouTube that Rodney – who, thankfully, by this point had still been nowhere near finishing the mountain of chips he had sitting in front of him – came across a suggested video on the homepage that caught his eye. Though normally averse to the “suggestions” YouTube thought he might be interested in watching, as they were generally either some random hit song from 2007 or something completely out of left-field like a 35-minute-long video on the history of McDonald’s, this particular recommendation was different. It was a video that had been taken on a cellphone – as was apparent from the aspect ratio – with a title that read ‘CRAZIEST SHOT I’VE EVER SEEN!!!’ and a thumbnail showing a kid around Rodney’s age, one named Mustang, standing in amongst a crowd of people with an old-looking golf club in his hand.
Of course, much like YouTube’s taste in making suggestions, when it came to golf videos like these, Rodney had suffered through more than his fair share of disappointing clips that had failed to live up to their exclamation point-riddled billings to know that, more often than not, they weren’t worth the micro-calories needed to actually click on them. Yet, between the fact that this video had a more than respectable million+ views, and the kid in the thumbnail appeared to be wearing jeans and a t-shirt in the middle of what appeared to be quite a serious-looking tournament, Rodney had decided, in this particular instance, to give it a shot.
And, boy, did he not regret it.
Because true to its title, after watching Mustang pull off his miraculous escape shot from underneath the nose of ‘Old Abe’ in the final of the Memorial Matchplay, Rodney had, indeed, initially struggled to think of another shot he’d seen that came close to matching it. The daring nature of it. The imagination. The sheer guts to even attempt it. Put simply, it was a one in a million-type shot, and, therefore, lacked the peers the odds prevented it from having.
After an extensive trawl through his own internal archives, however – combing through those dusty files he’d tucked away of all the obscure shots he’d ever seen that might fit the criteria he was looking for – Rodney did, finally, think of a shot as similarly insane as that to which Mustang had pulled off. And, unsurprisingly, it was a legendary recovery shot pulled off by the ‘The Grand Master of Great Escapes’ himself, Seve Ballesteros, during the final round of the ‘93 European Masters at Crans-Sur-Sierre in Switzerland.
It had the same odd surroundings as that of Mustang’s effort, that being behind an 8-foot high wall and in amongst some trees near a swimming pool neighbouring the par-4 18th. It had similarly high stakes, with Seve tied for the lead after mounting an incredible comeback on the back-9. It had Seve playing for a similarly tiny gap that no one in their right mind would try to throw a golf ball through, never mind actually trying to thread one through with an iron. And it even had the same successful outcome as Mustang’s had, with Seve pulling off the shot just as he’d called it to his caddie, Billy Foster, who’d been begging him to cut his losses and just chip out – exactly as Ray had done with Mustang as well.
Where Mustang’s duel with ‘Old Abe’ pipped Seve’s ‘Wizardry in the Alps’, however, was that Rodney could actually see his shot. Because as much as Seve’s shot had assumed an almost ‘mythical’ quality over the years with Billy Foster recounting what had happened that balmy afternoon in the shadow of Mont Blanc, the only record of the actual shot itself was a still photograph snapped by the one photographer who, unlike any of the television directors that day, was smart enough to realize that as long as Severiano Ballesteros was involved, there was always the chance he was going to pull of the impossible.
Now, obviously, there was footage of Seve’s ball finishing just short of the green, and him then proceeding to chip in for birdie because … well, he was Seve. But that exact moment of magic when, through a mixture of sheer willpower and otherworldly skill, he found that gap? To hear the sound of his club making contact with the ball? To see him staring intensely through the cloud of dust he’d swept up in the process slowly dissipating before his eyes? That didn’t exist. Because from the second Seve hit that shot, it was forever lost to history. Gone – save for the memories of those few lucky people who’d been fortunate enough to witness it in person.
But that wasn’t an issue with Mustang’s shot. How close his ball had been lying to the roots of that colossal, almost prehistoric-looking tree? The way he’d found that tiny window in-between the branches? The fact he’d managed to temporarily defy the laws of physics in order to put 40 or 50-yards-worth of bend on his ball, and get it to land within just a few feet of the pin come the end of it? Every second of it had been captured by this person who’d had the wherewithal to take out his phone, hit record, and then upload it to YouTube – guaranteeing its existence until the end of days for anyone deliberately seeking it out or, like had happened with Rodney, stumbling across it because of YouTube’s algorithm.
And once his scrutinous examination of every single frame of that same video had left him 100% sure that it hadn’t been faked or somehow staged? Rodney had needed to see more of this mysterious kid. Because sometimes you can get lucky with shots like that. Those attempts where you’ve backed yourself into a corner and the only real option you’re left with is to hit and hope? And then, against all odds, you actually pull it off? Though undoubtedly rare, those moments did still happen. So, as good as his fish and chip-filled stomach was telling him that this kid was, Rodney had just felt he needed to be sure. And though the videos he actually found of him were few far and between – a fact that only further added to his mystique – the ones Rodney did find were enough to confirm that his initial suspicions were right: whoever this Mustang guy was? Not only was he good … he was special.
Fast forward but a few short months from that first night holed up in his room, and for Rodney to not only find himself being a part of the same Walker Cup as Mustang, but to actually end up befriending him was, of course, an unbelievably cool development – and, especially so, given he’d only just watched him miss out on winning the U.S. Amateur in the weeks prior.
But putting aside that aspect of the week, what had really stood out for Rodney from those seven days spent baking in the Florida sunshine was the fact that he’d finally gotten to see Mustang actually playing in the flesh – and it had been worth the wait. Because it’s one thing to see someone hit shots through the screen of a television or, in Rodney’s case, through the heavily scratched screen of Harry’s laptop. But to truly get a measure of just how good someone is with a golf club in hand, nothing compares to seeing them do it live in front of you. And after having had the opportunity to see Mustang do exactly that, not only in the more relaxed atmospheres of range sessions and practice rounds, but actually under the gun during the match itself? It had just reaffirmed for him how special Mustang was.
What had really amazed Rodney about Mustang, though, was that every time he thought he’d gone beyond the point of being surprised by just how good he was, Mustang would, without fail, find a way to out-do himself. The way he’d dragged himself and Byron back into their foursomes match against the Riggs Brothers at the Walker Cup? The 5-iron he’d stiffed to a foot on 18 right in front of Fletcher just a few days previously? There was just seemingly no limit to how high Mustang could push the bar of his own abilities.
Yet, after seeing the round he’d produced on Friday at the Open, Rodney was sure that he’d finally seen Mustang at the very pinnacle of his powers. To not only shoot -4 around Royal St. George’s, but to do it without dropping a single shot? Sure, the favourable weather had taken away some of the notorious bite the course is capable of having when the wind really starts blowing, but that by no way meant it had been defenceless. It was still a Major-calibre course and had been set up as such. The greens? The rough? They weren’t for the fainthearted – as evidenced by the fact so many big names had fallen victim to them and wound up missing the cut as a result.
And, yet, Mustang had made it through to the weekend. Not by scraping his way through right on the cut line. No. He’d been confronted with the exact same challenge as that which the likes of Patrick Reed, Martin Kaymer, and Jason Day had faced – to name but a few of those unfortunate enough to miss the cut – and not just survived … but thrived.
And all whilst making it look deceptively straightforward in the process.
In fact, it was a performance that was so impressive and so complete, that as Rodney was drifting off to sleep on Friday night – the aching sensation in his legs slowly seeping away after what had been a long day of walking – he couldn’t help himself from feeling the slightest bit concerned about the weekend ahead. Because he’d watched enough golf – and, specifically, enough ‘Major golf’ – to know how difficult it was for people to maintain and repeat the level of play like that which Mustang had produced in the second round. He couldn’t remember the number of times he’d seen some lesser-known golfer from way down the world rankings come out of the blocks on the first day of a tournament, shoot the lights out because they were playing without the burden of expectation, and wind up finishing near the very top of the leaderboard. But as soon as they came back the next day? After spending the previous night tossing and turning because they’d foolishly allowed themselves to dream of how their life could forever change should they actually manage to win whatever tournament it was they were playing in? They would, inevitably, shoot somewhere in the high 70s, and, if they were lucky, end up finishing the week in a tie for 60th.
And after seeing how Mustang had played over the first dozen holes of Saturday’s round, Rodney had been devastated to find that he’d been right to be worried. Loose drive after loose drive. Iron-play severely lacking its usual deadly accuracy. Scrambling for par on pretty much every hole – and failing to do so way more often than he would have liked. Right from the off, Mustang had been looking a far cry from the kid Rodney had seen in that shaky video he’d watched on that very first night in his bedroom the previous May.
Or, at least, that was, of course, until Mustang got to the 13th.
Because just as things were looking at their very worst, his hopes of capturing the Silver Medal all but gone as if they’d been pulled out to sea by some merciless rip, Mustang – in front of the entire world – proceeded to, once again, take Rodney’s expectations for how good he thought he actually was, and not only throw them out the window, but smash his fist through the glass as he was at it.
For, as soon as he emerged from the dunes separating the 12th-green and 13th tee-box, Rodney had just been able to tell that there was something different about Mustang. The laser-focused expression on his face. The slumped, defeated manner in which he’d been carrying himself all throughout the front-9 now nowhere to be seen as he’d stood tall off to the side of the tee-box with his chest puffed out. Frankly, he looked like a tiger lurking in the long grass, just waiting to pounce on his prey – and from the noticeably nervous look that had suddenly appeared on Fletcher’s face since he, too, had walked onto the tee, Rodney had gotten the distinct feeling the reigning U.S. Amateur champ seemed to have known full well that he was that prey.
And once Mustang had pumped his drive right down the middle of the 13th-fairway?
The hunt began.
Shot by shot, hole after hole, Mustang started dialing up the pressure on Fletcher.
And, in a complete turn up for the books, shot by shot, hole after hole … Fletcher began to wilt.
At the par-4 13th? Mustang made birdie; Fletcher made par.
The lead was down to seven.
At the par-5 14th? The infamous hole that had scuppered the chances of so many would-be champions over the years? Mustang made eagle after hitting a spectacular driver off-the-deck for his second shot to find the green in two; while Fletcher, for the first time that week, could only stutter to another par.
The lead was down to five.
Mustang was gaining on him.
At the par-4 15th? Despite playing straight into the teeth of the prevailing wind, Mustang had conjured up a beautiful sawn-off stinger with his 3-iron that saw his ball seek out the pin tucked all the way in the back-right corner of the green and almost go in for another eagle. Having then seen a frustrated Fletcher tap in for bogey just before him, once it came time for him to finish off the tricky 5-footer he’d been left with for his three, Mustang finally let out his first real roar of the back-9 in the shape of a throaty, “COME ON!!!”, that he partnered with a venomous fist-pump as soon he saw his ball dive into the hole for birdie. Because the ‘two-shot swing’ he’d felt had been coming since the 14th – the one he knew he desperately needed – had finally arrived. And not a second too soon either.
For, Fletcher’s lead was now down to just three. And he was struggling. Big time.
There was blood in the water. Mustang could smell it.
So, he moved in for the kill.
Naturally, with Mustang now playing the way that he was, though, a -4 run through three of the toughest holes on the course was never going to go unnoticed for very long – either by the crowd or, more importantly, by the television networks. So, having been pretty much the only person left following their group when he was +6 for his round, as soon as Mustang had gotten back to within just three shots of Fletcher, Rodney, all of a sudden, had begun to find himself needing to battle with the swarm of people and TV cameras descending on their match, once again, in order to get the very best vantage points of Mustang’s continued fightback.
Having been initially concerned that this renewed attention might serve to distract Mustang, however, or perhaps knock him out of his rhythm with the increased need for crowd control – especially this late in the day when some pockets of spectators were starting to feel particularly boisterous – Rodney had been pleasantly relieved to see that the exact opposite was, in fact, true. Because as opposed to becoming fazed or distracted by the grand, theatrical spectacle that was seeing holes 16 and 17 framed with hundreds upon hundreds of people, all of whom were clambering to catch a glimpse of their match, Mustang, instead, appeared to be in his element. It was like watching a master craftsman go to work. The ease with which he did everything. The finesse. The flair. The skill. It was all there. Rodney had even been amazed to see that such was the level of comfort Mustang had been feeling on this biggest of stages, that he’d actually begun pulling out exhibition-style shots … just for the hell of it.
And, amazingly, whether it was the sweeping draw he slung into the perilously dangerous, left-hand pin-position at the par-3 16th or the moonball he sent zipping back down the green from the rear-most edge of the 17th with zero concern for the treacherous false front that lay just beyond the pin, the result was still the same on both occasions: birdies; and the crowd going absolutely insane at seeing him, inexplicably, get back to -6.
The one person Rodney had been able to tell who had not been enjoying Mustang’s miraculous recovery, however, was Fletcher. Because in all the hysteria that had surrounded Mustang’s comeback, Fletcher had gotten a taste, for the first time ever, of what it was like to be ‘the forgotten man’ in a pairing. The afterthought. The compulsory warm-up act you have to sit through before the real star of the show can take the stage.
In a nutshell, the ringmaster had lost control of the circus – and Fletcher just couldn’t handle it.
Those cracks that had begun to appear in his game as Mustang had come charging back into contention? By the time Fletcher stormed off the 17th-green, the sting still fresh of carding his second bogey in-a-row to sit on -5 and actually find himself trailing Mustang by one heading down the last, those very same cracks had turned into irreparable fissures. And from the furious expression on his face – not to mention the way he’d been quietly cursing himself out under his breath – as he’d stood waiting on the 18th tee-box, watching Mustang pure another drive right down the centre of the fairway? That had told Rodney everything he’d needed to know about how deep those fissures ran. There was going to be no ‘final hole redemption’ for Fletcher nor no mounting a comeback of his own – at least, not today. Because, mentally, he just wasn’t at the races anymore. He was done. The best he could hope for now was to get into the clubhouse without doing any further damage to his card in order to just stay within striking distance of Mustang heading into Sunday – a bizarre change of circumstances that would have seemed impossible just five short holes ago.
And, credit to him, having just two-putted for par, as Fletcher walked back over towards the side of the 18th green – the packed grandstands saluting his efforts for the day with a round of applause that, though undoubtedly polite, was tinged with an unmistakable hint of pity – he’d succeeded in doing just that. He’d stopped the bogey run he was on. He was still -5. And still just one back of Mustang … for now, at any rate. Because whilst his second shot into 18 hadn’t been the best – an attempted fade into the front-right pin position that, instead, had just flown dead straight and wound up finishing a good 24-feet beyond the flag – that didn’t mean a fifth birdie was off the cards for Mustang. He knew it. The crowd knew it. And given the sour look on his face, Rodney could tell that Fletcher most certainly knew it as well.
“Ok, kid, watch the pace on this one,” said Ray, handing Mustang’s ball back to him after giving it the usual habitual clean with his towel. “Just cozy it on up there, alright? Nothin’ wrong with two putts from here.”
With the way he’d been playing since the 13th – and especially so since seeing that spectacular ‘driver-off-the-deck’ he’d attempted to talk him out of hitting back at 14 – Ray had tried his hardest to just stay out of Mustang’s way and let him do his own thing. Yet, as tempting as it was to just let him continue to ride the wave of momentum that had seen him get to this point in the first place, the caddie in Ray couldn’t help but already begin to cast one eye towards Sunday. And right now? Given the position they’d been in back at 12? The thought of heading into the final round a whole shot to the good over Fletcher was incredibly appealing – even if it meant Mustang going against his instincts by erring on the side of caution and not going all out to give the crowd the blockbuster ending to his round they were so clearly craving.
“Yeah, that’s true, I guess …” said Mustang, seeing the sense in what Ray was saying, even if he didn’t sound particularly excited by the idea.
“100% it is,” replied Ray, looking to hammer home his point. “I’m tellin’ ya, kid: two putts, take the par, and come back tomorrow. I know it’s temptin’ to try and get one more birdie, especially with a crowd this size. But you’ve already given ‘em a show – and a heck of a one at that. You don’t owe ‘em anythin’ more.”
Though nodding his head to show he understood what Ray was saying, Mustang, nonetheless, couldn’t help letting his gaze wander up to the leaderboard sitting high up over the back of the grandstands; the evening sun it was now bathed in making its rich yellow colour appear all the more vibrant. He could see that his and Fletcher’s names were still neck-in-neck in the top-10 and that the people running the leaderboard had already locked in Fletcher’s round of 71, sealing his score at -5. And whilst it, undoubtedly, felt good to see his own name sitting above Fletcher’s for the first time that week, Mustang just couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he wasn’t satisfied with his day’s work – not yet.
“Maybe I don’t owe them anything else …” said Mustang, now looking back at Ray with a devilish glint in his eye. “But I sure as hell owe Fletcher.”
Knowing his mind was made up, Ray yielded. “Well, in that case …” he said, clearing the path between Mustang and where his coin was still lying on the green. “Go get ‘im, kid.”
Quietly pleased to have gotten his blessing, Mustang walked past Ray and began moving back towards his coin. Even though he was, clearly, still only in the early stages of the process that would lead to him eventually hitting his putt, as soon as the crowd saw Mustang set about beginning to replace his ball on the green, the excitement levels, immediately, began to build back up. Rodney could practically feel it fizzing and crackling in the air. The anticipation. The expectation. Yes, Mustang had already given them more than their fair share of magic that afternoon, but they were now lost in the throes of ‘birdie fever’. They wanted more – needed more. And if anyone was going to give them what they wanted, it was going to be Mustang.
Finally stepping in behind his ball after going carefully through his routine, Rodney watched as Mustang settled quickly into his address before looking back down the line of his putt. A lone cry of, “LET’S GO, MUSTANG!”, from an overexcited gentleman in the crowd echoed loudly around the green before being met with a combined, disapproving shush from those other spectators packing the grandstands who were obviously not as ‘well lubricated’ as he was.
Luckily for Mustang, however, he was already far too dialed-in on his putt to take much notice of this very public scolding.
Though quite a lengthy putt – comfortably the longest he’d faced since the 6th – from Mustang’s examination of the line, it didn’t really appear as if it was going to do all that much. In fact, by his estimation, if he just started it ever-so-slightly off to the left of the hole, it would break gently to the right over the shallowest of ridges that lay in wait about three-quarters of the way there, before then drifting back to the left on a perfect line that should, theoretically, see it find the bottom of the cup.
As with all theories, though, the only way to see how valid they are is to test them out … so that’s what Mustang did.
With the sight of his ball popping off the face of his putter releasing them from the binds of etiquette that had seen them spend the last few moments locked in a state of feverish hush, the crowd surrounding the 18th quickly erupted in a swell of noise that crashed down over the railings of the grandstands and washed across the green like a storm surge as Mustang’s ball set off rolling across the putting surface.
“GET IN!!” they shouted, the various roars all fusing together as if the entire crowd were suddenly speaking through one voice.
As much as their encouragement was appreciated, however, after seeing the way it had covered the first half of its journey, Mustang knew that it wasn’t necessary. Because the line his ball was travelling on? The speed at which it was doing it? It was all playing out exactly as he’d pictured it in his mind. Frame by frame. Foot by foot. Everything was perfect; it was as though there was an invisible rope pulling his ball towards the bottom of the cup – and all there was left to do now was just watch it happen.
His ball hit the ridge about 6-feet out from the hole, breaking to the right, just as planned, down off the top of it.
“GO ON!!” roared Rodney, now physically incapable of standing still as he willed Mustang’s ball towards the hole. “GO ON!!”
After rolling for another 2-feet, right on cue, his ball began to drift steadily back to the left, leaving it on a direct line for the hole.
It was almost there.
Raising his putter expectantly up into the air above his head, Mustang came up out of his stance and began to walk backwards across the green, keeping his eyes locked on his ball the entire time.
He knew what was coming next.
His ball got to within 3-feet of the hole …
It was now running out of steam at an alarming rate.
It hit 2-feet out from the hole …
The crowd’s cheers began to turn into a vaguely concerned-sounding, “OOOOOHHHHH …”, that was only building in intensity and volume with each tired revolution Mustang’s ball continued to eke out.
Now chugging on pure fumes as it entered the final foot, Mustang’s ball crept up to the very edge of the hole … paused for a moment as it looked in over the lip … AND DROPPED!!
“YEEEEAAHHHHHHH!!!” roared Mustang, barely able to hear himself over the sound of the crowd cheering, as the hardest fist-pump he’d produced all week saw him do a complete 180 and end up facing the large grandstand directly behind him, fists clenched tightly in triumph. “LET’S GOOOOOOO!!!”
“GET IN THERE!!!” bellowed Rodney, leaping so wildly into the air that one of his arms almost knocked the pint of beer the guy standing next to him was holding – something which, understandably, he didn’t appear best pleased with.
Rodney, however, was too caught up in what he’d just witnessed to really give a damn about the mouthful of beer he’d sent spilling to the parched ground beneath their feet. Because regardless of how confident he’d been feeling about Mustang’s chances of making the putt before he’d hit it, to actually see him do it was something else entirely. To hear that roar from the crowd? To see Mustang’s animated reaction before ending up facing the packed grandstand? Eyes closed and soaking in the adulation of the masses like a bloodied gladiator standing victorious in the middle of the Colosseum?
It was a moment that, yes, with everything else he’d seen that afternoon, saw Rodney needing to reevaluate, yet again, just how good he thought Mustang was – that was a given.
Moreover, however, after experiencing what he just had, Rodney couldn’t help but get the feeling that it had forever changed how he saw Mustang.
Because to look at him now? No longer was he just his friend, Mustang – this kid who happened to be really good at golf that he’d first seen in a YouTube video whilst eating his weight in fish and chips.
No.
He was something different now; something … more.
He was now Mustang … the legend in the making.
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Photo by Anna Groniecka.