Having lived in Florida before making the move to Marais des Voleurs, Mustang wasn’t exactly a stranger to ‘bad weather’. Whether it be the mid-summer rainy season where any given afternoon carries the threat of seeing the sky being ripped apart at a second’s notice by some torrential thundershower or the hurricane-dominated fall where the Atlantic and Gulf of Mexico take it in turns to torment the state with the nastiest storms they can possibly churn up, Mustang had been soaked through to the skin enough times in his life where, even as he’d been watching Caesar barrel towards the coastline with nothing but ill-intent in mind, he’d felt as though he was ready for anything this storm could throw at him. 

The violent wind? The driving rain? The fact it was probably going to get even colder than what it already had been throughout the course of the morning? Sure, it was going to be a challenge, Mustang hadn’t been trying to convince himself otherwise. But as he’d found himself walking down the hill towards the 11th-green – after he and Bo had raced to take their tee-shots in order to beat out the worst of the wind – it was a challenge he’d nonetheless felt prepared for. The fight that was awaiting him once Caesar properly hit? This ‘no-holds-barred’, bare-knuckle brawl that was going to play out over the links of Royal St. George’s? On that walk to the green, with his eyes never leaving Caesar as he’d cut his destructive path across the waves separating him from the course, it was like Mustang had no longer just been a golfer trying to win the Silver Medal at the Open Championship. Truthfully, he’d felt more like a prizefighter making his way to the ring, staring down his opponent as he moved and eager to hear that opening bell.

As can happen in actual prize fights, however, you can feel as though you’ve had the best camp ever ahead of it, done all the work and preparation you felt needed to be done in order to be in the best shape possible, but when it comes down to the brass tax of the matter, all of that can be made to feel as though it were for naught the instant you get caught with that first stiff punch into the jaw that rattles your brain and sends your legs to jelly. And for Mustang? After surviving Caesar’s initial onslaught by just about scraping through holes 11 and 12 with a pair of scrambled pars? Ironically, the first telling shot Caesar actually managed to land on him came at the very hole where, the day before, Mustang had launched his incredible comeback from: the par-4 13th. 

And when he finally did break through Mustang’s stout defences? Even if it had just seen him drop a single shot to fall back to -8, to Mustang’s dismay, the impact had felt far greater than that of just a lone bogey. When he’d been grinding his way through holes 11 and 12, though the weather had been utterly diabolical – what with the incessant barrage of icy-cold, sleet-like rain that had seen the galleries disappear beneath tightly-packed walls of umbrellas – Mustang had still felt reasonably in control of the situation. It was like he’d just bit down on his metaphorical gum shield and walked straight through Caesar’s opening flurry of combinations, brushing them off one by one as he went about his business – wholly committing to that ‘fighter mentality’ Bo had stoked the flames of so successfully back in the locker room and, then again, on the 11th tee-box.

As soon as he made that bogey at 13, however, after seeing both his tee-shot and approach shot get tossed around mercilessly in the near gale-force wind battering the course, it was like that very same control Mustang had been feeling – both over his game and himself – just straight-up disappeared; whipped away in the wind, never to be seen again. Because as far as he was concerned, Mustang had done everything right on the 13th. His tee-shot? His approach shot? He’d continued to follow the advice Bo had given him whilst walking to the 11th-tee and, just as he had done to good effect on the 12th, really gone after his two shots – nothing but 100% commitment on his part.

And, yet, it hadn’t made a blind bit of difference.

Caesar had seen that effort and just instantly dismissed it.

It hadn’t mattered that Mustang had aggressively committed to his shots. It hadn’t mattered that he’d factored in the direction the wind was blowing. Nor had it even mattered that he couldn’t have struck either of those two shots more perfectly than what he had done. It just hadn’t mattered. And it was that realization that really rattled Mustang. Because whilst it had all been well and good to think that, in theory, he could stand toe-to-toe with Caesar and still come out the other side relatively unscathed before he’d arrived, now that Mustang had not only seen the full extent of just how challenging that was going to be, but that it might actually be impossible? Well, that had just knocked the wind completely from his sails.

As a result, once he’d plucked his ball out of the hole and set about walking to the 14th tee-box, all of a sudden, it was like the ‘mental blinkers’ Mustang had been wearing since first seeing that Caesar was, indeed, going to arrive early, were now no longer working. The rain? The wind? The cold? The very things he’d been doing so well to ignore since Caesar had hit? Mustang was now back to feeling every single one of them … and they were starting to beat down his resolve at an alarming rate. 

Of course, Ray had tried to offset his discomfort by getting Mustang to shelter underneath the umbrella he’d picked up at the tour truck once they’d reached the 14th tee-box, but such was Caesar’s strength, the mere act of holding onto the wildly bucking umbrella in order to prevent it from being blown away or turned inside out by the wind had felt as though it was more hassle than the scant amount of shelter he was actually getting from it was worth. So, after feeling the umbrella almost get ripped clean from his hand for the umpteenth time since opening it, Mustang had just promptly given it back to Ray for him to use instead if he so wished – preferring, himself, to just try and endure the elements as best he could whilst waiting on the fairway up ahead to clear.

Still, though, despite feeling severely knocked off-balance by what had happened at 13 and trying to deal with the ‘shock & awe-like’ effect of finding himself caught outside in such brutal conditions – which, at this point, had now deteriorated so badly that even Bo had pulled out a set of old raingear from the depths of his bag that looked as though it hadn’t seen the light of day in the last twenty years – Mustang wasn’t about to go throw in the towel just yet. Because, yes, the storm was proving to be even more vicious than what he’d imagined it would be. And, yes, he was now visibly shivering on account of his clothes being wringing wet. But he was still leading. Sure, a passing glance at a leaderboard behind the 13th-green had told him that the lead he actually had was now even more delicate given Fletcher was -7 thru 17, but it was still a lead nonetheless.

Something to hold onto.

Something to defend. 

So, once the 14th-fairway eventually cleared – what with the pace of play having ground pretty much to a standstill because of the weather – Mustang stepped up and, with the full force of the wind blowing straight at his back, went about hitting his tee-shot. And in his mind, despite the sheer volume of thoughts swirling through his head with as much ferocity as that of the wind that was seeing his ball wobble precariously atop its tee, Mustang figured that if he could just find the fairway with his tee-shot, then that would go a long way towards righting the ship; settle him back down to the task at hand of getting to 18 with his lead still intact.

And halfway through the swing he made, even with his sodden jacket clinging uncomfortably to his body as he turned his shoulders, Mustang wasn’t feeling as though there was anything out of place in what he was doing that would prevent him from doing just that, even with Caesar continuing to try his damndest to put him off as best he could with the endless stream of rain-laden gusts he was pulverizing the coastline with.

As soon as he began the near impossible-to-stop process of his downswing, however, and reached that most critical of stages where he was just about to whip his driver into the back of his ball … Mustang felt his right hand slip. He desperately tried to fix his grip in the milliseconds he had before making contact with his ball, instinctively tightening his fingers around his driver, but realistically there was nothing he could do. It was too late. To have such a thing happen in that narrowest of windows when he was already gone beyond the point of no return in his swing? It was always going to be a fatal blow. And never was that more apparent than in the seconds immediately following Mustang making contact with his ball.

FWWWEEEEESSSSHHHH!!! 

“FORE RIGHT!!!” “FORE RIGHT!!!” “FORE RIGHT!!!”

The desperate shouts from everyone gathered on the tee-box? The frantic gestures off to the right-hand side of the course? As soon as Mustang’s ball got airborne, it was clear the writing was already on the wall for it – and, unfortunately, that ‘writing’ was an epitaph. Because once it started going right? Between the direction of the wind and the way he’d actually felt it come off the face of his driver, Mustang – not to mention everybody else gathered on the tee – immediately knew that there was going to be no coming back from this for his ball. There was going to be no lucky kick it might get nor freak gust that might magically appear out of nowhere and blow it back in the right direction. None of that.

Because from the second Mustang’s ball had raced out of that tee-box, its fate had already been sealed.

It was heading for one place and one place only … and that was out of bounds.

Sure enough, but a few seconds later, that exact fate came to fruition as Mustang forced himself into watching as his ball sailed hopelessly not just out over the fence that marked the boundary for the out of bounds area, but actually kept going all the way out beyond the gravel road that ran parallel to the 14th-fairway, and off into a mass of unkempt rough so wild and densely-packed with foliage that it immediately quashed any hopes of ever finding it again – it belonged to Royal St. George’s now.

Having seen his ball disappear into the undergrowth, Mustang could only let his head drop dejectedly down into his chest. Because in his mind? Realistically, that was it now for his chances of winning the Silver Medal. They were gone. He’d had his opportunity but after that tee-shot? It was like he may as well have gotten the Silver Medal itself and just flung it into the same tangled mess of briars and nettles where his ball was now calling home for all the hopes he had of ever getting his hands on it now.

Caesar had won. Simple as that.

“Alright, kid, just take a second, get a breath …” said Ray, quickly jumping in, as expected, to try and keep Mustang’s spirits from plummeting any further than what he could already tell they had. “We got all the time in the world.”

Having taken the club out of his hand, Ray grabbed the driest towel he still had left at his disposal, wrapped it around the grip of Mustang’s driver, and began vigorously drying it off as he ran him through how their best bet would be to now simply reload from the tee; talking about how they could still technically get out of there with a bogey given the wind was making the green easily reachable in two.

And while he may have been nodding his head as if he was actually listening to him, in reality, Mustang wasn’t really hearing a word that Ray was saying – for, he was too busy drowning in disappointment. To know that he’d essentially just handed the Silver Medal to Fletcher? After everything that had happened that week? All of the hard work he’d put in over the first three rounds to get himself into a position to win it at all? The idea that all of that was, more than likely, going to end here and now on the 14th … it was just too much for Mustang to bear. It was consuming him; devouring every ounce of will he had left to try and pick himself up from the canvas, dust himself off, and keep going. 

And yet … that’s what he was going to do. Because what other choice did he have? If there was an option for him to just down tools, walk off the course, and step straight onto a plane back to Louisiana, then, given how he was currently feeling, he would probably take that deal. But as he was pretty sure there wasn’t a private jet waiting for him over on the 15th fairway, Mustang, instead, prepared himself for the fact that, like it or not, he was going to have to hit another tee-shot.

“So, sound like a plan?” asked Ray, completely unaware that Mustang hadn’t been listening to a word he’d been saying for the past minute or so.

Getting the sense that Ray was merely looking for confirmation that he agreed with his plan to just play his third shot from the tee, Mustang felt comfortable with just blindly agreeing with him. “Uh, yeah …” he replied, distractedly, as he took his now wiped-down driver back from Ray. “You got a ball?”

Quickly pulling a spare ball from the large pocket on the front of his sopping wet bib, Ray handed it off to Mustang, eyeing him up as he did so to try and get a read on how he was doing mentally.

“You sure you’re ok, kid?” Ray asked, unable to mask the worry he was feeling at the distinctly distracted energy he was getting from Mustang.

“Yeah, I’m fine …” Mustang mumbled, his response coupled with an irritated edge so sharp in tone it’s little wonder it didn’t cut his tongue as he said it.

Before he could even attempt to say anything back to him, however, Ray just had to stand back and watch as Mustang, once again, moved bullishly across the tee-box, angling his head away from the wind and rain that was now appearing to be actually growing in strength … and it was giving Ray a bad feeling. Because with the way Mustang was looking now? His body language? He was looking the exact same as he had done almost precisely 24-hours previously when he was about to hit the opening tee-shot of his third round. The discomfort? The tension? The way he looked as though he’d rather be doing absolutely anything else as opposed to playing golf? All the tell-tale signs that Mustang shouldn’t have a golf club anywhere near his hand were back – and, if it was possible, they all appeared even worse than what they had been on Saturday.

And, yet, as he watched Mustang finish teeing up his ball, seeing the veins on his ungloved hand standing out like rivers of blue on account of how cold he was, Ray – just like he had been the previous afternoon whilst stood on the 1st-tee – felt utterly powerless to stop what was about to happen. It wasn’t like he could just run out onto the tee-box, snatch the driver from Mustang’s hand, and refuse to let him hit his ball until he proved he was in a better frame of mind to do so – despite desperately wishing that he could do exactly that.

But when he considered the alternative of not doing anything, and just letting Mustang slash wildly at another tee-shot? After seeing how that had worked out yesterday at the 1st, what with him slicing his ball so far off to the right that they were lucky they hadn’t wound up playing their second shot from the front garden of one of the houses across the street from the course, Ray knew that if Mustang was to make a repeat of that effort for his second attempt at trying to find the 14th-fairway? Then that really would be the final nail in the coffin for their chances at winning the Silver Medal. Because he’d meant what he’d said to Mustang: whilst it hadn’t been the most ideal outcome for him to blow his tee-shot out of bounds, on a par-5 where the wind was making the green easily reachable in two, it hadn’t been a death sentence. They could still get out of there with a bogey. Even a double-bogey wouldn’t be the worst result in the world – it wouldn’t be the best, obviously, but it would still be workable.

But if Mustang were to hit his second tee-shot out of bounds? Then even for someone as optimistic as him, even Ray knew deep down that would just be too high a mountain to climb in the number of holes they’d have left. To card something like a 9 or a 10? Possibly even higher? No one could survive a hit like that to their scorecard. Not in the final round.

As he watched Mustang now step in behind his ball for the second time, though, seeing his hands and feet fidgeting nervously – as tended to happen when he wasn’t feeling quite right in himself and what he was doing – Ray just had that all-too-familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he was about to see exactly that. It was like watching a car crash happen in slow-motion. He knew what was coming … yet he couldn’t turn away. Whatever was about to happen in the next few seconds, the outcome wasn’t going to be a good one. Ray knew it, and from the loaded glance he exchanged with Bo, he did too. Mustang needed a miracle. But given the ‘Golfing Gods’ had seen it fitting to send a storm in the middle of his back-9? Ray wasn’t holding out much hope for them suddenly showing mercy.

Though clearly still not feeling fully comfortable with what he was doing, Mustang was now at the point where his frustration with himself and the situation he found himself in was so intense and so overwhelming that, in that moment, he just didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care whether or not his stance was exactly right. He didn’t care if he was lined up properly. He didn’t even care where his ball was going to end up. He’d just had enough. He wanted to just get off that tee-box as quickly as he could … so, he swung.

Ray couldn’t help but wince as he watched Mustang snatch his driver somewhat impatiently up to the top of his backswing.

Because this was it.

Even though they were five holes away from the 18th, he knew Mustang’s hopes of winning the Silver Medal, realistically, rested on whatever happened in the next half a second.

And all Ray could do was watch … and hope.

With nothing more left to do, Mustang began to make his downswing, rapidly uncoiling his shoulders and spine in one fluid motion.

Just as he began to whip his driver back down towards the ground, however, an unexpected blast of multiple airhorns carrying on the wind sounded suddenly around the tee-box! 

BLLLLLLLARRRRRRPPPPP! BLLLLLLLAARRRPPPP! BLLLLAAAAARRRRRPPPPP! BLLLLLAARRRRPPPPP!

Just like had happened when he’d felt his hand slip during his first tee-shot, as soon as his brain made the connection between the sounds he was hearing and the fact they meant play was being suspended, Mustang’s instincts immediately kicked in and he slammed on the brakes as hard as he could, bringing his driver to a screeching halt just before reaching that same ‘point of no return’ in his swing that would’ve seen him make contact with his ball.

That was close. Far too close.

With a shaken expression on his face of someone who realized just how narrowly they’d avoided a sure-fire disaster, a wide-eyed Mustang looked back across the tee-box at Ray, puffing out his cheeks as he did so. 

“What do we do now?” he asked, looking a little lost as to what exactly he should do with himself now that the R&A had, obviously, pressed pause on the final round.

“I’ll tell ya what we do, kid …” replied Ray, walking over towards Mustang and quickly taking the driver out of his hand. “We go buy ourselves some lottery tickets … ‘cause we just got lucky as hell.”

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Photo by Anna Groniecka.