* As this is essentially two chapters together, keep an eye out for the asterisks (*) – they act as nice natural stopping points *
Once the R&A had seen their fill of the carnage Caesar had been wreaking on the final round – not to mention their need to take into consideration the safety of the near 35,000+ spectators crammed into Royal St. George’s – they’d promptly come to the decision to sound the airhorns and draw those players still out on the course back to the clubhouse; aiding this effort by sending a fleet of golf carts and club cars out to all four corners of the links in order to get the players and their caddies back through the storm and in out of the weather as quickly as possible.
To actually see this convoy of vehicles returning to the sheltered confines of the clubhouse, however, you’d have been forgiven for thinking you were watching a platoon of battle-weary soldiers returning from the frontline as opposed to a collection of professional golfers who’d been caught in a storm for just over an hour. Yet, that was the effect Caesar was after having.
Obviously, there was the fact that everyone was soaked to the skin, but that was nothing that couldn’t be easily fixed. But that faraway look in their eyes? The shell-shocked expressions on their faces as they tried to come to terms with not only what they’d just experienced but the potentially irreparable damage that had been done to their scorecards as a result? That was going to take a lot more than just a hot shower and a change of clothes to remedy.
To see Ray returning to the clubhouse, though … well, that was an entirely different kettle of fish. Because, yes, while he, too, was looking as though he’d decided to take a quick dip in the sea while still wearing all of his clothes, that was about the only thing he had in common with the rest of the returning players and caddies. For, there was no faraway look in Ray’s eyes nor shell-shocked expression on his face – how could there be when all he felt was an overwhelming sense of relief? He’d needed a miracle to keep their hopes at winning the Silver Medal alive, and the ‘Golfing Gods’ had seen it within themselves to grant him one with a perfectly timed weather delay that had saved Mustang from, surely, hitting his second consecutive tee-shot out of bounds at the 14th. So, as far as Ray was concerned, it was like the pair of them had been granted a last-minute stay of execution; a precious opportunity to go off mid-round, gather themselves, and – once the weather allowed – come back out with a clean slate to try and make one last run at beating Fletcher to the Silver Medal. How could you ask for anything better than that?
Yet, as they’d made their way back to the clubhouse after being picked up in an open-top club car by one of the tournament volunteers, from his position perched on the back of it – where he’d been striking a dangerous balance between hanging onto the car itself and keeping Mustang’s bag from tumbling off – Ray couldn’t help but notice how Mustang hadn’t seemed to be embracing the lucky break they’d just gotten with as much vigour and gusto as he had been.
Because whereas Ray had been feeling good enough to pass the time chatting with Bo and his caddie as their driver navigated the winding route back to the clubhouse – honking the horn at the odd spectator who’d accidentally dash in front of the car as they sought out some shelter of their own from the rain – Mustang, on the other hand, had been sat quietly in the front seat, not saying a word to anyone, and just looking out at nothing in particular as he blankly watched the course pass by him in a blur of green and grey.
Having put this rather subdued state down to nothing more than a possible hangover from what had happened at 14, though – not to mention the unfinished business they had waiting for them there once they came back out from the delay – Ray had decided that, from experience, the best course of action he could take with Mustang in this situation would be to just give him some time to breathe and go process everything on his own. It was what he’d tended to do whenever situations like these had arisen in the past, and whilst his timing hadn’t always been the best for when he chose to actually do it, there was no denying that it had always worked.
Upon arriving back to the clubhouse, however, Ray had quickly realized that this particular plan was going to face quite a significant problem as, given the place was positively crawling with people, finding the required space and solitude necessary for Mustang to go clear his head was, obviously, going to be nigh on impossible to come by. Players, caddies, agents, coaches, partners, wives, everyone had heard the same chorus of air horns as Ray had out on the other side of the course, and the clubhouse – with its promise of warmth and readily available cups of tea – had now clearly become the number one destination of choice in which to wait out Caesar’s wrath.
Of course, this hadn’t been to say that it was a nailed-on certainty Mustang couldn’t find the momentary reprieve Ray felt he needed by hunkering down in some relatively quiet corner of the locker room or from setting up shop in one of the bathroom stalls for a few minutes – far from it. But as he’d watched Mustang slip rather despondently through the crowd and disappear inside the clubhouse – after seeing him barely acknowledge his instructions that they’d regroup in half an hour once they’d both had a chance to go off and grab a shower – Ray hadn’t held out much hope for finding himself faced with a renewed and reinvigorated Mustang once he next laid eyes on him in thirty-minutes time. And even with Ray being reassured by Bo that he’d keep an eye on Mustang for him once he, himself, got back to the locker room, that was a serious worry.
Still, despite being so preoccupied with his concerns about Mustang, having gotten a hot shower under his belt, and getting himself into the spare change of clothes he’d brought to the course for just such an occasion, even Ray had to admit that as he finally reached the main clubhouse after making the short walk back from the special facilities the R&A had laid on for the caddies that week, he was feeling a whole lot better now than what he had been when they’d first gotten back out of the storm.
Though it had only been twenty minutes, at most, since he’d left Mustang to go off and get changed like he just had, Ray was surprised to see how much the crowd who’d been previously hanging around the exterior of the clubhouse had thinned out. Putting this down to the fact that they’d either all managed to squeeze into the various stately rooms that filled the clubhouse – rooms that, much like the Members’ Bar back at the Creek, smelled of rich mahogany and aged leather – or that the incessant, driving rain temporarily giving way to a light, more tolerable mist had seen the bulk of them cautiously venture back out towards the tented village and its surrounds, whichever one it was, Ray didn’t really care. Because all he was thinking about was Mustang and what state he was in. And if the fact he wasn’t seeing as many people floating around the exterior of the clubhouse was in any way indicative of how things were inside? Then, regardless of whether or not it was the best of ideas on his part, Ray began to allow himself the tiniest flicker of hope that perhaps Mustang had, indeed, managed to find some semblance of the peace and quiet he’d have needed to sort his head out, and that he’d now be raring to get back out on the course.
Just before he could reach the door that led into the clubhouse, however, the sound of Desmond calling his name from somewhere off behind him stopped Ray dead in his tracks.
Mustang would have to wait – at least, for a minute or two.
“There you are …” said Desmond, bringing the golf cart he was driving to a stop alongside Ray. “I was just coming to look for you – here, sit in out of the rain.”
Having not seen him since before Mustang had teed-off earlier that morning, Ray was totally unaware as to how Desmond had fared with Caesar’s arrival and the ensuing weather delay he’d so brazenly caused. If his appearance was anything to go by, however, Ray quickly surmised that Desmond, as expected, had avoided the worst – if not all – of the storm. He was still wearing the same clothes he had been from that morning – his usual uniform of a linen blazer, shirt, and chinos over a pair of loafers – and they were all still looking their absolute immaculate best, not a speck of dirt or muddy rainwater anywhere in sight; clearly, he hadn’t been so foolish as to venture too far from shelter on a day when there’d been a storm threatening.
“Everythin’ ok?” asked Ray, taking up Desmond’s offer to occupy the empty passenger side of the golf cart, the leather covering the seats cold against his bare legs as he sat down.
“No, no, everything’s fine,” answered Desmond, looking to allay the slight hint of concern in Ray’s voice. “I just wanted to let you know that I was talking to a few pals of mine in the R&A, and they said they’ll be announcing in the next few minutes or so that they plan to resume play within the hour – once they’ve given the remaining players left to finish a chance to do a quick warm-up, that is. Given the stakes involved, they thought that the only fair thing to do.”
“Oh, ok, cool …” said Ray, already mentally drawing up a plan for how he and Mustang could make best use of the time they were going to have before heading back out to the 14th. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“Please, that’s what I’m here for,” replied Desmond, quickly dismissing the need for any show of appreciation on Ray’s part. “More importantly, though, how is young Mustang doing? I heard from Beau that things got a little hairy out at 14?”
“Yeah, that’s one way of puttin’ it …” Ray answered with a sigh. “Though, thanks to those same pals of yours suspendin’ play when they did? It saved us from things gettin’ a whole lot hairier. So, given the situation could be far worse? I’ll take the one we are in any day.”
“Hmm …” mumbled Desmond, now taking his turn to sound a touch concerned given Ray’s evaluation of proceedings was far blunter than that of what Beau’s had been. “It is salvageable, though, yes? I mean, Mustang can still win from where he is?”
“No, no, it’s definitely salvageable,” replied Ray, not doing all that good a job of sounding particularly convincing.
“But …?” prompted Desmond, sensing from his tone that there was a caveat to Ray’s appraisal of their chances.
“Well, the thing is …” began Ray, deciding that there wasn’t any sense in sugar-coating things – and especially not with someone as sharp as Desmond. “It just depends on whether or not Mustang is actually gonna be in the right frame of mind to salvage it. Cause what we got waitin’ for us back out at 14? That’s the Silver Medal. Right there. So, if Mustang isn’t fully dialled-in once he steps back on that tee-box? Like he wasn’t just before the weather delay? Then … well, let’s just say I doubt we’ll need to hang around for the trophy presentation and leave it at that.”
Desmond turned and looked out through the perspex windshield of the golf cart. The fine layer of mist that had been covering it when Ray had first sat into the cart was now after getting far heavier, with rivulets of rainwater now streaming down it in every direction, racing each other to the bottom.
“I see …” mused Desmond, one particular race between two of the larger rivulets proving to be a welcome distraction as he, once again, mulled over the weight of Ray’s rather frank assessment on how Mustang’s hopes of winning the Silver Medal really were now resting on something of a knife-edge. “And what do you reckon the chances of him not being dialled-in actually are?”
“Well, before you came along, that’s what I was just about to go find out,” replied Ray, his response coupled with a rather tired-sounding sigh. Whether it was down to the hot shower he’d just had or acknowledging the sheer scale of the challenge that lay in store for himself and Mustang over the next few hours, Ray suddenly felt as though the trials and tribulations of what had been a hectic week were finally catching up to him.
“But goin’ on what my gut is tellin’ me?” he continued.
Before he could get another word out, the door of the clubhouse suddenly swinging open and the sight of Bo rushing out through it immediately took precedence over what Ray had been planning on saying next. Looking minorly relieved to spot him sitting right outside the clubhouse, a worried-looking Bo moved quickly towards the golf cart where Ray was sitting alongside Desmond.
“Good, you’re here,” said Bo, popping his hand up on top of the rain-soaked roof of the cart and bending down so that he could peer in at Ray, utterly disregarding the fact that he was speaking completely across Desmond – after all, now wasn’t the time to be worrying about etiquette. “Please tell me the kid’s with you?!”
Not taking a genius-level IQ to recognize that Mustang had obviously done a runner given what he’d just told him, a stone-faced Desmond turned and looked sharply at Ray, who, honestly, didn’t even look all that taken aback by the news.
“No, he’s not …” sighed Ray, flatly answering Bo’s question. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Uh … I dunno …” said Bo, trying his hardest to come up with a remotely accurate timeline for which Ray could work off. “He was just goin’ grabbin’ a shower when I came into the locker room after leavin’ you out here. I then went out for like five minutes to get some cigarettes from the bar upstairs, but when I came back he was gone – so, maybe twenty/twenty-five minutes ago? And he ain’t nowhere inside that clubhouse neither, cause I checked.”
“Any chance this is what your gut was telling you?” asked Desmond, ruefully interjecting.
“Unfortunately so, yeah …” sighed Ray, unable to hide the frustration he was now feeling as he set about putting a plan in motion. “Alright, you said you were talkin’ to Beau earlier, right? Were the others with him? Travis? Jeanie? The kids?”
“Yes, they were all after bunkering down in the tented village to wait out the storm,” answered Desmond, now looking completely serious as he focused in on what Ray was saying.
“Ok, good,” said Ray, feeling as though he’d finally gotten some bit of a break. “Will you go find ‘em then, please? Tell ‘em what’s after happenin’ and get ‘em to start lookin’ for Mustang. Tell ‘em spread the net far and wide.”
“Consider it done,” said Desmond, sounding more than happy to carry out Ray’s instructions. “Do you want me to get word out to the volunteers to start searching as well? It could be easily done, never mind the fact the extra manpower might help us find him faster?”
Having slipped out of the golf cart as he’d been speaking, Ray turned back around and, like Bo, peered in under the edge of the roof at Desmond.
“No, we need to keep this under the radar for as long as possible,” replied Ray, quickly extinguishing that particular idea. “The last thing we need is the networks getting a hold of this and turnin’ it into a spectacle they can fill time with until play starts up again.”
“No, of course; you’re absolutely right,” agreed Desmond, seeing the sense in Ray’s point as he, once again, stared contemplatively out through the windshield. “If they even so much as get a whiff of this, they’ll be all over it like flies on manure.” He turned back to look out at Ray, the expression on his face all business. “Alright, well, do you have your phone on you?”
“I’m just gonna go get it now from my bag,” said Ray, gesturing loosely off behind him in the direction of the caddie facilities. “So, if you find him … ?”
“You’ll be the first person I call, don’t worry,” replied Desmond, reassuringly preempting Ray’s request.
“Thanks, Desmond,” said Ray appreciatively. The more he got to know him and the more he saw what kind of person he really was, Ray was quickly beginning to realize just how far removed Desmond actually was from the rather closed-off, austere impression he’d had of him at the Walker Cup. In fact, having seen how generous and caring he was – even if it always came across in his own quintessentially British way – it made Ray think that it was little wonder his Great Britain & Ireland teams had been so unbeatable at the last two Walker Cups. With a captain like him? You’d be willing to give every last scrap of effort you had to ensure he got the win.
With nothing more to be said between them that couldn’t be done with a simple nod of his head, Desmond dropped his foot down onto the accelerator pedal, causing the two back tyres to grind lightly against the tarmac before finding the sufficient grip they needed to set the golf cart back into motion.
Having watched Desmond zip around the corner of another building and out of sight – taking the gentle whine of the cart’s electric motor with it as he made a beeline for the tented village – Ray and Bo were now left standing on their own outside the clubhouse.
“So, where do ya want me to search?” Bo asked, moving a step closer to Ray as the mist that had been falling all along now began to grow noticeably heavier. “I could maybe try the clubhouse again? See if there was anywhere I missed?”
“Oh, look, that’s really kind of you to offer, Bo,” replied Ray, genuinely appreciating the gesture on Bo’s part. “But, seriously, you’ve already done more than enough – really. You just go get ready to head back out. I mean, you’ve got a round to finish as well.”
Knowing that he really could do with grabbing a shower and a dry change of clothes before heading back out onto the course, Bo begrudgingly nodded his head in agreement – he knew Ray was right.
“Alright, but if I don’t see y’all out on the tee by the time I get out there?” said Bo adamantly. “I’ll cover for y’all, ok? See if I can’t buy y’all some time.”
“Thank you,” said Ray, managing to force himself into flashing an appreciative smile at Bo. “But I’m sure we’ll have found him by then.”
“Well, here’s hopin’, huh?” said Bo, trying his best to sound positive and upbeat as he clapped Ray encouragingly on the shoulder and hit him with one of his signature winks.
At that, Bo turned around, pulled open the door of the clubhouse, and disappeared back inside to begin making his way back to the locker room. With the noise from inside that had been filtering out through the clubhouse door now becoming muffled once again as it slipped slowly back into place, Ray turned sharply on his heels and set off marching in the direction of the caddie facilities to go retrieve his phone from his bag.
As his mind raced with thoughts of where he could even possibly begin to start searching for Mustang, however, Ray pulled back the sleeve on his jacket and glanced down at his watch. It had just gone 2:30. Therefore, going on what Desmond had told him, the R&A were probably already after announcing – or just on the cusp of doing it, at any rate – that play would be resuming within the hour. Meaning, Ray and everybody else now had, at best, sixty minutes to try and do what he’d just so confidently told Bo that they would: find Mustang.
With the rain now getting even heavier again, though, Ray could only hope that he wouldn’t be proved to be the liar his gut was telling him that he just might be.
*
The air was already filled with the sound of people busily warming up as Ray came striding out onto the windswept range at Royal St. George’s. It was always something of a mixed bag to see players warming up ahead of going back out onto the course following a weather delay. For those with several holes still left to play, it may as well have just been a straight repeat of the warm-up they would have done before their rounds had started. Wedges? Iron shots? Drives? However long they actually had to get loosened out, they’d be working their way right down through their bags and through their full repertoire of shots to make sure they were as prepared as possible for any eventuality that may arise come the resumption of play.
On the other side of the spectrum, though, you then had those players who’d either been playing 18 when the air horns had sounded or, failing that, just on the very verge of playing it. And for those pros? Well, they were always easy to spot because they were the ones hitting the exact same kind of shots with the same limited number of clubs over and over again; getting their feel as dialled-in as possible for the mere handful of strokes that stood between them and handing in their cards.
And as he cast his gaze right down the length of the range, looking to see if Mustang was anywhere in sight (which, unfortunately, he wasn’t) Ray couldn’t help but spot one of those same aforementioned players who were quite close to bringing the curtain down on their week at the Open in the shape of Fletcher Rhodes.
Having caught a glimpse of a leaderboard in passing during the course of his, as of yet fruitless, search for Mustang, Ray had seen that Fletcher was still showing as only having played 17 holes; meaning, he’d clearly not been able to get into the clubhouse before the R&A had suspended play. After now seeing the way in which he was warming up, however, Ray was guessing that Fletcher had managed to get his tee-shot away on 18 just before the air horns blew as he appeared to only be hitting the same knocked-down 9-iron on repeat, with no sign of his driver either making an appearance or having made one.
And whilst there was no way to know for certain what kind of position he was actually in on 18, going on the fact he seemed to only have a pretty standard-looking 9-iron left for his approach shot into the green, it led Ray to believe that not only had Fletcher a pretty short shot waiting for him back out at the final hole, but it was probably from the fairway too. Because given how relaxed he appeared in-between the shots he was taking? Whilst he could’ve been wrong, Ray just got the feeling that Fletcher was getting ready to take dead aim at the flag in order to round out his week with an all-important birdie right at the death to jump from -7 to -8.
Deciding it best to stop himself from going any further down that particular rabbit hole wherein he’d only end up contemplating the very real possibility that Fletcher could be sitting in the clubhouse on -8 by the time he and Mustang would be walking onto the 14th-green – in goodness knows what kind of shape themselves – Ray refocused on the task at hand of actually finding Mustang first; though, at this stage, even he was seriously beginning to wonder whether or not that was actually going to be on the cards.
Because Ray had searched everywhere that he could think of, even going so far as to actually go outside the gates of Royal St. George’s and take a look around – much to the confusion of the burly-looking security guards who’d been manning the main gate all week. And, yet, it had all been to no avail. There hadn’t been sight nor sound of Mustang, not even by Desmond and the rest of the search party. He’d gone completely off the grid, and now they were rapidly running out of time to get him back on it.
“There you are!”
Having been so preoccupied with thinking about Mustang, Ray hadn’t even noticed Dallas walking down the range towards him – which, given Dallas was comfortably the largest person currently on the range, was a testament to just how distracted Ray was actually feeling.
“Uh, hey …” said Ray, eventually remembering how to speak as he turned and acknowledged Dallas’ arrival, an expectant look now creeping across his face as if he hoped Dallas, by some miracle, was bringing him some much-needed good news about Mustang. “Did you find him?!”
“Find who?” asked Dallas, looking completely lost as to what Ray was talking about as he readjusted the grip he had on the rather large, cumbersome-looking box he had tucked under his arm. “Cause I was just looking for you and Mustang.”
“Oh …” said Ray, quickly realizing that Dallas, clearly, hadn’t been brought up to speed on the latest developments. “I take it you weren’t talkin’ to Desmond or any of the others, then?”
“No, I’ve been down at the tour trucks since just after play was suspended …” Dallas answered, a look of worry now carving its way rapidly into his face as he could tell from the tone of Ray’s voice that something was seriously wrong. “I was picking up something for the kid. Why? What’s after happening?”
Ray sighed as he glanced, momentarily, back out towards the range, wishing that he’d see Mustang, suddenly, walking up the length of it towards him and Dallas.
But, alas, there was still no sign of him.
“We can’t find Mustang,” said Ray, too tired to opt for anything else but the blunt approach. “I have Desmond and everyone else out lookin’ for him … but so far? We’ve come up with nothin’. And if we don’t change that within the next thirty minutes? We’re gonna get disqualified ‘cause the round’s gonna be restartin’, but Mustang ain’t gonna be on the goddamned tee!”
Having seen his explanation accidentally turn into something of a rant, Ray took a second to take a breath and try to calm himself down. As frustrated as he was feeling with Mustang, he couldn’t let that get the better of him. It wasn’t going to help anything. It wasn’t going to help him suddenly find Mustang any sooner. So, as difficult as it was, Ray just had to try and keep it together – even if everything felt as though it was quite literally crumbling in his hands.
“Sorry …” said Ray, quietly apologizing to Dallas for losing his cool. “I’m just, uh … just a little stressed out is all. I mean … well, I guess I just thought me and the kid were past him pullin’ this kinda stuff, you know?”
“No, absolutely; I completely understand,” replied Dallas, looking to reassure Ray that he got where he was coming from. “It’s bound to be frustrating. Can I tell you something that might make you feel better, though?”
“Yeah, sure …” said Ray, even if he wasn’t really feeling as though he was in the best frame of mind to hear whatever piece of advice, he was guessing, Dallas was about to give him.
“Well …” smiled Dallas. “I think I might know where the kid is.”
*
Having commandeered a club car from one of the volunteers and then floored it through the rain right across Royal St. George’s to one of the more secluded corners of the property – far from the attention of any television cameras or spectators – Ray pulled up outside the gravel-strewn exterior of a very simply built, covered-over driving range.
When Dallas had told him that this is where he’d seen Mustang walking towards when he, himself, had been making his way down to the paddock where all the tour trucks were gathered together, as much as Ray had been relieved to get such a promising lead, once he’d actually set out to make it to the driving range, however – the very same one Rodney had pointed out to him as being used by the members of Royal St. George’s when the pair of them, themselves, had been going down to the tour trucks earlier that morning – he’d definitely felt that same sense of relief begin to transform back into nauseating worry as rapidly as he was covering the ground between the two different driving ranges. Because what if Mustang wasn’t there when he arrived? What would he do then? Not only would he be right back to square one in trying to hunt Mustang down, but he’d be after losing ten whole minutes of precious time in which he could’ve been searching – ten minutes he could ill afford given the pressing deadline he had looming over him like a guillotine.
As soon as Ray walked in through the door of the driving range, however – his cautious footsteps muffled by the rough, hardwearing green carpet covering the floor – all of that worry and all of that slow-burning panic that had been corroding his insides like acid on metal just instantly evaporated. Because sitting down on one of the wooden benches built into the rearmost wall of the range, leaning his back right up against the exposed, wooden cladding covering the walls, was Mustang.
His hair was looking quite damp – more than likely from getting caught in the rain when he’d walked to the range – and he was wearing the t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers that he usually saved for after his rounds were over; something which didn’t overly instill a great deal of confidence in Ray for as to how Mustang was feeling about heading back out to finish his round.
Without saying a word, Ray moved quietly towards the same bench where Mustang was sitting and gently lowered himself down alongside him. Between the direction the wind was blowing outside and the fact one side of the range was, as expected, completely open to the elements, the shelter they were getting from the wooden construction itself made it just about more tolerable than being fully outside; though, that being said, the stiff, rain-speckled breeze blowing directly into Ray’s face was trying its best to change that.
“I just needed to clear my head …” said Mustang, finally breaking the silence that had been present between them since Ray had found him. From the tone of his voice, Ray could tell that Mustang knew he was in the wrong for running off as he had done. And it was a good job he did too because, despite being relieved to have actually found him, that same sense of frustration Ray had been feeling since discovering Mustang had gone missing? That was building back up. And Ray was only just about managing to control it.
“I know ya did, kid,” replied Ray, making a concerted effort to keep his frustration in check. “But would it have killed ya to tell me? Tell someone?”
“I know. I’m sorry,” said Mustang, sounding genuinely apologetic.
Though Ray knew he could go further with the scolding he felt as though he should give him, between the overwhelming time pressure and the fact he could tell Mustang was feeling just as frustrated with himself as he was, he decided to cut him some slack.
“Did it at least work?” asked Ray, softening his approach a touch. “Clearin’ your head?”
Mustang bent forward at the waist and rested his elbows on his knees. “Well, I dunno, that depends …” he replied, clasping his hands together as he now took to staring straight down at the carpet, his eyes drawn to the small pieces of dried-out grass embedded into the fabric. “Does realizing you’re a total fraud count as ‘clearing your head’?”
“Fraud?” repeated Ray, his head immediately snapping in Mustang’s direction. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“Me …” said Mustang, matter-of-factly, as he kept his focus locked on the same patch of carpet in-between his two sneakers. “I’m a fraud. I came all the way over here thinking I could stop Fletcher from winning his Grand Slam; had you, Desmond, and everyone else thinking the same … and, yet, how many times have I freaked out this week and almost blown it? Thursday? Saturday? Today? I mean, Bo told me before the round that he thought I was a fighter, and you’ve said similar to me in the past too. But the truth is … I’m not. I’m a coward.”
“What?! ” scoffed Ray, hating hearing Mustang speaking about himself like this. “The hell you are!”
“No, I am,” replied Mustang, now feeling the need to stand up and begin pacing out into the hitting bay they were sitting directly opposite. “Every time the pressure comes on and the stakes are at their highest, what do I do? I break. It happened in the final of the Memorial against Byron. Happened again at the U.S. Amateur. The same with the Walker Cup. And now again today? I mean, does that sound like a fighter to you?”
“Ok, sure, you’ve had some wobbles on some big stages, there’s no denyin’ that,” said Ray, he, too, now taking to his feet. “But everybody gets those, kid – even the pros. Plus, you mentioned the Matchplay there? Are you forgettin’ that you actually won that?”
“Yeah, but that was more luck than anything else,” said Mustang, dismissing Ray’s point out of hand as he idly tapped the rubber tee stuck into the mat he was now standing on with the scuffed-up toe of his sneaker. “You could drop me back in that exact same spot under Old Abe with a hundred balls and I wouldn’t make that shot again.”
“Maybe not,” said Ray, jumping in quickly as he moved further out into the hitting bay. “But the point is, kid, that when you had to do it? You did. And if that’s not a fighter? Well, I dunno what is then.”
Mustang stopped poking at the tee and turned so that he was looking fully out at the range. Through the swirling, misty rain now filling in over it, he could see one of the larger tents that served as a focal point in the tented village off to the right-hand side of the range, and then further off in the distance again, one of the smaller grandstands that, if his internal GPS was correctly calibrated, was the one sitting off to the left of the 9th-green; itself, amazingly, still filled with people who’d decided they’d rather wait out the storm than risk losing their highly sought-after vantage point. Meanwhile, Mustang was the one lucky enough to actually get to play in the Open, but instead of being out on the range warming up like he knew he should have been ahead of going back out on the course, he was hiding – a thought which didn’t make him feel all that better about Ray’s claims to the contrary that he wasn’t, in fact, a coward.
“So, yeah, things might not have gone your way at the U.S. Amateur or the Walker Cup,” continued Ray, his voice now firming noticeably as he leant on one of the partitions dividing their hitting bay from the one alongside it. “But that’s golf – hell, even more importantly, that’s life, kid. Things don’t always work out. You don’t always come out on top. You fail. But you know what makes a fighter a ‘fighter’? They get back up, they dust themselves down, and they go again …”
With that, Ray stepped in towards Mustang and planted his index finger firmly on the dog tag he’d given him the previous night. “No matter what,” said Ray, quoting the inscription on the back of the dog tag before pulling his hand back from Mustang’s chest. “So, right now, the way I look at it? This is like the 18th at the Matchplay all over again, ‘cause you’ve got two choices: you can either stay here and get disqualified ‘cause you’re afraid to lose again – which would make you the coward you suddenly seem to think that you are. Or you can get your butt back out on that course and try to make the most of the opportunity you still have to make something special happen like the fighter I know that you are. It just depends on which one of those two guys you wanna be.”
Though not used to hearing Ray speak to him so bluntly, Mustang couldn’t help but get the feeling that it was exactly what the doctor had ordered. He’d needed to be provoked. He’d needed to be challenged. But there was still just one problem.
“You think that I don’t want to be that second one?!” snapped Mustang, looking sharply at Ray. “You think that I want to be hiding in here?! Cause I don’t! Ok, I would love nothing more than to go back out onto that course, step up to my ball, and just feel the way I usually do – to be Mustang! But the fact of the matter is, I can’t see a way right now where I don’t go back out to that same tee-box, tee up my ball, and don’t feel like I’m just goddamn Oscar again! The same scared little kid who ran away from home the second life got too damn hard!”
Looking as though that had been something he’d been harbouring and battling with for quite some time, Mustang wheeled away and walked out to the very edge of the hitting bay, placing his hands exasperatedly up on top of his head as he took to staring, once again, out at the range.
Realizing he now needed to tread incredibly lightly, Ray walked gently out to the edge of the hitting bay as well and came to a stop alongside Mustang. “Kid … you are Oscar, just as much as you are Mustang,” he said, the firmness in his voice now completely gone. “They’re one in the same. I mean, you do realize that, right?”
“I know …” said a conflicted-sounding Mustang, refusing to tear his gaze away from the range. “It’s just … I guess I just prefer to think of myself as just Mustang, you know? Cause since I’ve been him? Life’s just … life’s just been better than what it was when I was just Oscar. And I know that probably makes me sound like a jerk because that’s who I was when my mom was still … well, you know. But, I dunno … I guess I’ve just always felt like I needed to keep Oscar and Mustang separate. Because if I let too much of Oscar back in? As dumb as it sounds … I’m worried that things will only go wrong again like they did when I was still just him. And, look, I know that probably makes me sound crazy-…”
“Not at all, ok? Not even slightly,” said Ray, quickly interjecting to nip that particular thought in the bud. “Bein’ Mustang has helped you to cope with everythin’ that’s happened – I get it. But, kid, what you need to realize is that all of the things you’ve accomplished since last year? It’s always been you who’s done them. It wasn’t down to callin’ yourself a particular name or not callin’ yourself another. It was you. And as much as you feel like you might need to keep your past separate from what your life is now, all of that has made you who you are. And from where I’m standin’? That’s all added up to one hell of a kid.”
Bringing his hands wearily back down to his sides, Mustang finally looked up at Ray, the quietly emotional expression on his face a sure-fire sign he’d succeeded in getting through to him.
“So, look, if pretendin’ to be Mustang is what’s gonna get you back out on that course? Then, by all means, go for it …” said Ray, before reaching out his hand and placing it on Mustang’s shoulder, his t-shirt cold and slightly damp to the touch. “But if you’re gonna do that, just do me one favour, alright? Give Oscar a break for me, yeah? I kinda like the kid.”
Mustang smiled. It always amazed him that no matter the situation or how serious a conversation they’d just had, Ray always knew just what to say to make him laugh.
“Alright …” said Mustang with an almost relieved-sounding sigh. “I’ll do it.”
“Seriously?!” asked Ray, trying to not have his face light up too much for fear of putting any pressure on Mustang. “You’ll play?! You’ll go back out?!”
“Yeah, I’ll go back out,” confirmed Mustang, now smiling widely at seeing how excited Ray clearly was. “I mean, I can’t promise how I’ll play once I actually get there, but I’ll try … or should I say the both of us will.”
Having taken his turn to laugh, Ray quickly set into overdrive. “Ok, well, c’mon then!” he said, now grabbing Mustang and setting him walking off out ahead of him as he tried to usher him towards the door of the range as quickly as possible. “We got a lot to do and no time to do it in! So, move, move, move!”
As soon as Ray and Mustang came barrelling out through the door of the range and back outside, however, they were immediately greeted by the sight of Dallas and Desmond just pulling up inside the golf cart Desmond had been driving earlier.
“Does this mean what I think it does?” asked Desmond, getting straight to tentatively asking the question that had been on his and Dallas’ minds ever since he’d picked him up at the other driving range and they’d set about racing across the property. “We’re back on?”
“Yep, we’re back on,” confirmed Ray, still not sounding in any less of a manic rush. “So, now we just have to try and actually make it to the tee in time.”
“Well, in that case …” said a clearly relieved Desmond as he dashed to the rear of the golf cart and produced Mustang’s golf bag from down off the back of it. “I guess it’s a good job we brought these then, isn’t it?!”
“Oh, man, you are a lifesaver!” cried Ray, his eyes widening in relieved disbelief as he watched Desmond pop Mustang’s bag down onto the ground. “Now we just need to get the kid some cl-…”
“Clothes?” said Dallas, his visible excitement seeing him jump in and finish Ray’s sentence for him. “Yeah, we got that covered too.”
Quickly reaching into the rear seat of the golf cart, Dallas pulled out the same large box he’d been holding when he’d met Ray out on the range earlier.
“And trust me, kid …” said Dallas, flashing that brilliant white smile of his at Mustang. “You’re gonna like these ones.”
*
“How we lookin’ kid?!” shouted Ray as he paced impatiently back and forth in front of the driving range, the soles of his shoes grinding against the gravel as he stared anxiously at his watch. They now had just ten minutes to get back out to the 14th-tee, and they were going to need every single last one of them if they were going to make it in time – hence why Ray was stressing over what was taking Mustang so long to get changed into the new clothes Dallas had gotten for him.
“Relax, Ray,” said Dallas, sounding oddly calm as he lifted a lit match up to the cigar he had clenched in-between his teeth. “We got plenty of time; so, just let the kid enjoy looking at his new gear.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” replied Ray, forcing himself to stop looking at his watch. “And, hey, thanks for gettin’ them again; you’re really bailin’ us out here.”
“Aw, don’t mention it,” said Dallas, now shaking the flame from his match and tossing it off into the hedgerow behind him. “I was actually hoping to be able to give them to him at his party but they hadn’t arrived yet – but, hey, I guess it all worked out in the end, right?”
“Yes, well, as kind a gesture as this is, Dallas,” said Desmond, bluntly interjecting himself into the conversation. “I do hope you realize the pickle it’s putting me in with regards to the negotiations I’ve been working on all week.”
“Some things are more important than ‘business’, Desmond,” replied Dallas, blowing out the first puff of smoke he’d pulled from his cigar.
“And you’re saying this counts as one of those things?” asked Desmond, his tone sounding ever-so-slightly snippy.
“If by ‘this’ you mean ‘looking cool as hell’?” smiled Dallas. “Then you betcha.”
“Hey, guys, shush …” said Ray, hurriedly cutting across Desmond before he could fire off the retort he’d all lined up for Dallas. “I think he’s comin’ …”
After listening to his footsteps cross the floor inside, Mustang finally appeared in the doorway of the driving range, dressed head-to-toe in the clothes and shoes Dallas had gotten for him.
And true to Dallas’ word, they really were cool as hell.
He’d a pair of blacked-out Nike shoes on his feet, the very latest model that hadn’t even gone on sale to the public yet. Over those, he had a pair of black Nike trousers, the legs of which had been expertly tailored to ensure they’d fall perfectly over his shoes. And then to cap it all off? Dallas was after getting him a custom Nike shirt that was yellow all over and had a thick black stripe running right down the centre of the chest on the front and right down the spine on the back so that it would look just like the paint job on his grandfather’s Mustang.
In short, he looked incredible – there was no other word for it.
“So …” said Mustang, looking expectantly over at Ray as he stepped fully out through the door and onto the gravel outside. “How do I look?”
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Photo by Anna Groniecka.