FWWWEEEEESSSSHHHH!!! 

Despite the approving roars and enthusiastic hollers from those spectators crammed in around the 18th tee-box, Mustang kept his eyes firmly locked on his ball as it flew through the air – given the position he was in, his nerves were demanding that he be nothing other than doubly sure that it was, indeed, heading exactly where it was supposed to.

Once he saw that the buffeting wind was now, as planned, blowing his ball safely back towards the fairway, however – this effort being aided by the gentle draw he’d put on it – Mustang finally felt comfortable enough to reach down, grab the remains of his broken tee, and begin clearing the stage for Bo.

“Nice shot, kid,” said Ray encouragingly as Mustang landed back alongside where he was standing at the side of the tee-box, towel already in hand to wipe down his driver.

“Thanks,” replied Mustang, handing his driver off to Ray as he returned the wink he’d just seen Bo give him whilst en route to the tee himself with a nod and a closed-mouth smile. 

Ever since they’d come back out from the weather delay, Mustang couldn’t help but notice that there’d been a definite change in Bo’s demeanour from that of how he’d been behaving during the first 13 holes of their round. Because before the air horns had first sounded to signify the R&A were yielding to Caesar, whether it was just down to his natural playing style or not, Mustang had felt as though Bo had begun to somewhat ‘go through the motions’ once his round had begun to unravel – something which, as a result, had seen him wind up playing more like someone who was just out for a casual knock around with some buddies as opposed to a seasoned veteran playing in the final round of a Major. 

But the Bo that Mustang had seen since just about managing to make it back out to the 14th-tee in time? He’d been a completely different animal. Sure, he’d continued to compliment Mustang on the good shots he’d been hitting, be it either through openly vocalizing his praise or with a simple wink as he’d just done. But apart from that? Bo had been all business. There’d been no attempted small-talk on his part, not even a hint of it. He’d just left Mustang to get to work, whilst he did likewise. Truthfully, with the way he was acting, Mustang had felt as though this is what it must’ve been like to see Bo playing in his prime. The shotmaking? The ball-striking? The short game? It had all been there. And, most importantly, it had all begun to show on his card as well, for Bo was only +1 for the four holes they’d played – which, considering the only real improvement in the weather was that it had stopped raining, was no mean feat.

Of course, whilst this change of heart … renewed sense of focus … whatever you want to call it, may well have just been down to his ‘competitive pride’ kicking back in once he’d seen how far he’d actually slipped down the leaderboard, Mustang had a sneaking suspicion it was something more than that. Because after Ray had told him that Bo had searched the clubhouse from top to bottom when he’d first gone awol, Mustang just felt as though the serious, business-like attitude with which he’d been approaching the remainder of their round was simply Bo’s way of helping him stay fully focused on what he was doing. Because we all know how easy it is to slip into some bad habits when your partner isn’t exactly setting the course on fire with how they’re playing, and, clearly, Bo had made the decision that he wasn’t going to be at fault for Mustang not performing to the best of his ability. So, he’d come out and helped set the standard. Been a mirror for the focus and concentration that Mustang knew he was going to need in order to survive the challenge the last five holes were going to present.

And so far? It had worked. Because as Mustang pulled out his beaten-up, leather-bound yardage book and took a glance at his scorecard whilst waiting for Bo to hit his tee-shot, he could see that he was still clinging on to his -8 total after parring the last four holes. Obviously, the 5 he’d made back at 14 stood out amongst that quartet of pars as being particularly special, given how unlikely it had looked and the insane reaction from the crowd once he actually buried the 15-foot putt he’d left himself following, quite possibly, the best 3-wood-off-the-deck he’d ever hit for his fourth. But the other three? Those on holes 15 thru 17? Whilst not containing the drama or showmanship one might think necessary to wind up staying long in the memory, the way he’d played those holes would most certainly be staying with Mustang long after he swapped Sandwich for the far more familiar, far more humid surroundings of Marais des Voleurs.

Because as good as he’d been feeling about getting back out on the course – and, especially so, given the cool new gear he was rocking courtesy of Dallas hooking him up – Mustang’s confidence in his game had still been quite shaky, even after the incredible high of pulling the ultimate rabbit out of the hat with that par at 14. So, those pars he’d conjured up from 15 to 17? With the wind being as unforgiving as it was? They’d probably been the most hard-fought pars he’d ever made, for, every swing he’d taken in the course of prising them from the grasp of Royal St. George’s had felt as though they could go disastrously wrong at a second’s notice.

He’d been at the eye of his very own personal storm.

Riding that razor’s edge between success and failure.

And, yet, he’d made it through.

It had taken its toll on him, undoubtedly – given the very definite headache he now had. But he was still here, and still in the fight for the Silver Medal. And to know he’d done that? On a stage as big as the Open, when his game had been feeling as though it could crash and burn at any moment? Then, regardless of what happened in the next ten minutes, Mustang was going to consider that a win.

FWWWEEEEESSSSHHHH!!! 

Again, with the spectators around the tee-box already signalling their approval with the line Bo’s tee-shot was travelling on with a loud, masculine-sounding groan of “SHHHHOOOOOOTTT!”, Mustang quickly lifted his head out of his yardage book and took in the sight of Bo’s effort for himself.

Opting once more for the lower, more piercing ball flight he’d been using to good effect since coming back out after the delay – one that flew in direct contrast to the higher, riskier trajectory Mustang had chosen for his tee-shot down the last – Bo’s ball, exactly as foretold by those mildly inebriated spectators at the rear of the tee-box, did, indeed, eventually find the fairway, crashing back down to earth and skidding off the wet grass like a plane coming in for an emergency landing.

“Nice shot,” said Mustang, leaving Bo’s ball to slowly roll out over the undulating topography of the 18th-fairway as he, himself, began making a move towards walking off the tee-box.

“It’ll do, I guess,” replied Bo with a smile as he fell quickly into step with Mustang, seamlessly handing his driver back to his caddie as he did so.

“For an ‘old timer’, you mean?” quipped Mustang cheekily, allowing himself a moment – however brief – to break the intense concentration with which he’d been operating within for the last two hours.

“Just count yourself lucky that there are so many cameras around, kid …” joked Bo, mockingly raising the back of his right hand at Mustang, one equipped with quite a substantial-looking gold ring clamped around the little finger. “Otherwise, you’d be gettin’ a taste of that there ring!”

With the joking back and forth from that seeing them make it all the way past the remaining tee-boxes for the 18th – those that had been used during the week already neatly repaired and looking ready for the eager return of the club members the following day – Bo and Mustang reached the narrow path that cut through the large swathe of rough that separated the area of tee-boxes from the fairway; a final stretch of relative calm away from the spectators and direct glare of the television cameras before properly entering the awe-inspiring arena that now was the ‘home hole’ at Royal St. George’s.

“Hey, listen, kid …” said Bo, suddenly sounding quite serious as, lingering off in the fairway, he spied one of the many roving cameramen whose job it was to float around and get those ‘in your face’ close-up shots of the players; each of them doomed to try and satisfy the artistic vision of the television director barking instructions into their ears from some cozy TV truck parked on the other side of the course. “I got somethin’ I wanna say, and if I don’t do it now, I won’t get the chance.”

“Ok …” replied Mustang, looking a little taken aback at what this could possibly be about as he glanced briefly up at Bo before returning his gaze back down to the path in front of him, noticing, in the process, how the trampled-down grass they were walking on now looked noticeably reinvigorated after all of the rain. “Should I be worried?”

“Naw, naw, it ain’t nothin’ like that,” said Bo, moving quickly to dispel any concerns. “It’s just … well, look, I know you’re probably focused on what you need to do here in order to beat Fletcher – and rightly so. But if I could just tell you one thing? While it might be temptin’ to go full ‘tunnel-vision’ here and only be thinkin’ about the shot you got waitin’ for ya into that green … if you want my advice, though? From the second your feet hit this fairway, and for however long it takes you to reach your ball, just do yourself a favour, ok? Try to take a look around and drink this moment in. Cause what you’re about to do? Walkin’ down the 72nd-hole of a Major Championship with a shot at winnin’ some silverware at the end of it? That don’t happen all that often – case in point, I’ve been doin’ this for forty years and I’ve never gotten to do it! Probably never will neither!”

Letting the smile that was now on Bo’s face dictate how he should react, Mustang responded in kind with one of his own.

“So, look, ultimately, do whatever ya want,” continued Bo, looking to quickly wrap up his point as he could see the end of the path was growing ever closer. “If you wanna just zero in on what you gotta do? Then just do that. But trust me, kid, take it from someone who knows: life’s filled with enough hard times to fill an ocean, so when you get a drop of the good? You gotta treasure it.”

With that, Bo and Mustang reached the end of the path. As they swapped its trampled-down grass for the tightly-mown variety covering the fairway, however – the turf, even after all the rain, still feeling noticeably firm underfoot – Bo leaned quickly down towards Mustang as he saw the cameraman, right on cue, begin to swoop towards them.

“See ya on the other side, kid …” he said, hitting Mustang with an encouraging nudge of the elbow before striding off towards the left-hand side of the fairway where his ball had ended up some 100-yards away.

Seeing that the cameraman was now getting closer to being in the perfect position to start beaming his face into the homes of all those watching at home, Mustang allowed himself one more thoughtful look after Bo – and, incidentally, his caddie, who was now hurriedly trying to catch up with his employer’s long, loping strides – before pulling his yardage book out of his pocket and setting his tired, aching legs back into motion. Because if there was going to be a camera in his face for the next little while, he was just going to do what he’d seen the pros do when in the exact same position – try to pretend like it wasn’t there.

Yet, as he walked – all the while looking as though he was being thoroughly engrossed by the contents of his yardage book – Mustang couldn’t help himself from thinking about what Bo had said … because he was right. To be walking where he was right this second? Striding up the 18th-hole on the Sunday of a Major? This was exactly where he’d wanted to be from the moment he’d first properly begun to learn about golf the previous year. Everything he’d read about the Majors in the book Beau had given him for his 15th birthday? This was where, for the most part, they’d all been decided. All those dramatic moments he’d pored through on the internet? Watching the YouTube video of Tiger snatching a Monday Playoff with Rocco Mediate at the ‘08 U.S. Open? They’d all happened on the 72nd-hole.

And now, bizarrely, Mustang was on the cusp of having his very own version of one of those moments as well – so, of course, he should make the most of it.

Briskly closing down its cover, Mustang took his yardage book, tucked it into the back pocket of his trousers once again, and lifted his gaze up ahead of him. Because, yes, the cameraman may have still been tracking backwards in front of him, but Mustang was gone beyond caring. He wanted to really see where he was – to ‘drink it in’, as Bo had suggested. Now, was it the same 18th-hole he’d already walked down several times that week? From a purely superficial standpoint, yes. The fairway bunkers were still in the same place. The green was still the same shape. But now that he was willfully allowing himself to tune into the atmosphere of the hole? Mustang quickly realized just how different it really was.

Because he’d been in moments before where it had felt as though there’d been electricity in the air – the final of the Memorial, the U.S. Amateur, the Walker Cup. But what he was feeling now? It was like all of those same moments rolled into one and then hooked up to a thunderstorm; sparking and spitting angrily as it got closer and closer to burning out of control. And whether it was just down to a shared sense of everyone knowing that the end was nigh or the fact the huge grandstands surrounding the green up ahead were now completely jam-packed with people – the first such time he’d seen them like that since the tournament had begun – Mustang wasn’t sure.

The only thing he did know, however, was that it was an atmosphere he was completely addicted to. That sense of energy filling the air? That excitement? Seeming so palpable and so tangible that he almost felt as though he could physically reach out his hand, grab some of it, and bring it back to Louisiana with him in his duffel bag? It was just something else entirely.

Without even noticing that the cameraman had now long since left him alone – and having almost walked straight past it with the height of looking around he was doing – Mustang finally came to a stop next to his ball.

It was sitting quite nicely where it was, with no old divots anywhere around it – which was something of a surprise given how close it was to the centre of the fairway – and the lie itself was nice and flat. Plus, given the pin on 18 was sitting in quite a ‘gettable’ location near the very heart of the green – an attempt, undoubtedly, by the R&A to create the potential for some ‘final hole fireworks’ – Mustang was more than happy with the line his ball had been left on to try and give himself a decent look at making that most valuable of birdies he needed to beat Fletcher.

“Sorry, kid …” said Ray, sounding ever-so-slightly flustered as he finally arrived alongside Mustang and popped his bag noisily down onto the fairway. “I got held up back on the tee, and then they started lettin’ the crowd across the fairway before I’d gone through the crossin’; so then I had to try and get through them and the stewards, and the ropes … and then it just turned into a whole goddamned ‘thing’. How we lookin’, though?”

“Yeah, pretty good, I reckon,” replied Mustang, who’d since buried his head back into his yardage book to try and get a jump on decoding what exactly his next play was going to be. “I got 164-pin?”

“Well, that sounds about right …” mused Ray, pulling his own far thicker yardage book from the pocket on his bib and quickly getting to the relevant page. “Let’s just take a little look-see, though …”

THWWWIIIPPPPP!!!!

Just as Ray had begun to examine his yardage book, with Mustang glancing in at it as well to see if his more detailed notes confirmed the yardage he’d come up with himself, the unmistakably crisp sound of Bo hitting his second shot from off across the other side of the fairway quickly garnered their attention, with both of them instinctively turning their heads to see what had happened.

Whilst Ray then promptly turned his gaze skyward to try and track the flight of Bo’s ball – primarily, to try and get a read on how it was going to be affected by the wind – Mustang, on the other hand, remained staring off in Bo’s direction. Not because he was looking at him, however, but because of what he’d spotted in the gallery off behind him – or, more accurately, who he’d spotted. For, there, standing just outside the ropes, the baseball cap and jacket he was wearing making him almost indistinguishable from the spectators surrounding him … was Fletcher.

“You can’t be serious …” said Mustang, barely able to comprehend that he was actually seeing what his eyes were telling him he was as the crowd up around the green now just began to applaud the fact that Bo’s shot had safely found the putting surface.

“What’s that, kid?” asked Ray, looking to get back up to speed having been focused purely on collecting as much data as he could from how Bo’s ball had flown through the air.

“Over there,” replied Mustang, pointing loosely in the direction of where Fletcher was standing, still wholly oblivious to the fact he’d been spotted. “In the gallery behind Bo. Next to the dude in the red coat.”

After struggling for a second to figure out who exactly he was supposed to be seeing in this real-life version of “Where’s Waldo?”, Ray finally spotted Fletcher in amongst the crowd.

“No way …” he hissed, his voice now soaked in the same mixture of disbelief and annoyance as that of Mustang’s. “What is this kid’s deal?!”

Though now glancing over in their direction, as opposed to being spooked at discovering his cover had been blown, Fletcher, instead, appeared merely emboldened at finding the spotlight already on him, taking to staring straight back at Mustang with a defiant scowl on his face – daring him to react. 

Having seen him reach the 18th needing just a birdie to deprive him of his precious Grand Slam – after he’d watched him somehow navigate holes 15 thru 17 in level-par when everybody else out on the course was dropping shots left, right, and centre on account of the wind – Fletcher had decided he just couldn’t sit back anymore and do nothing. 

And whilst his options had been limited for what he could actually do given the circumstances, he’d decided that his best bet would be to go out to the final hole and have Mustang know he was watching him try to finish the job; a final roll of the dice at intimidating him into making a mistake. It was a long shot. Fletcher knew that. But it was a shot he couldn’t afford not to take – not with everything he’d worked for on the line.

“Don’t. Blow. It …” Fletcher mouthed silently, carefully enunciating each and every syllable to make sure Mustang understood exactly what he was trying to say.

Feeling as though they’d given Fletcher enough of the valuable attention he was so desperately craving, Ray clapped Mustang on the shoulder to try and get his attention. “C’mon, kid,” he said, aiming to get Mustang refocused on the matter at hand given he was still glaring over at Fletcher, refusing to be the first to break their eye contact. “Just ignore him. Cause this is what he wants: you focusin’ on him, and not what you’re doin’. One last pathetic attempt at playin’ his little mind games.”

“But that’s what he thinks of me … isn’t it?” said Mustang, the words falling gently from his mouth as though he were having a quiet moment of epiphany.

“What are you talkin’ about?” replied Ray, not liking how ‘in his head’ Mustang was suddenly sounding.

“Fletcher …” said Mustang, still sounding just as contemplative as he continued to stare, unblinkingly, over at him. “This is how easy he thinks it is to break me; that him just being out here watching me will be enough to see me crack. I guess you can’t really blame him, though, right?”

Now Ray was really starting to worry. “Hey, c’mon, kid, I thought we settled all this stuff back at the drivin’ range?” he said, moving quickly to try and keep Mustang’s mind from slipping back into the negative place that had seen him bolt from the clubhouse during the weather delay. “You can’t be thinkin’ like that – especially not now.”

But there was no answer from Mustang.

Instead, he just continued to stare back at Fletcher … until that was he reached around to his back pocket and pulled out his glove.

“Am I right with 164?” he asked, a determined note now colouring his voice as he pulled on his glove – still all the while looking over at Fletcher.

Realizing that he’d only a few seconds to answer, Ray glanced quickly down at his yardage book and checked their surroundings for any distance markers that might help him come up with the correct number on the spot.

“Uh … yeah, give or take a yard,” Ray answered, having hurriedly done the calculations in his head. “So, a hard 8 would probably be your best bet – maybe a sawn-off 7 if you wanted to stun it into the pin?”

“Naw, we’ll go with the 8 …” replied Mustang, now sounding eerily calm as he finally broke his eye contact with Fletcher in order to turn around and face Ray.

“Alright, so … what are ya thinkin’?” asked Ray, eagerly trying to get a read on where Mustang’s head was at as he quickly pulled his 8-iron, as requested, from his bag and handed it off to him.

“I’m thinking if Fletcher wants to play games?” replied Mustang, confidently, as he tucked the shaft of his 8-iron in under his arm and pulled the tab of his glove tightly into place. “Then let’s play.”

With that, Mustang pulled his 8-iron back down into his hands before turning to face his ball and staring straight off at the green up ahead. Seeing that his services were, clearly, no longer required, Ray grabbed Mustang’s bag and hurriedly stepped back out of the way. Though still none-the-wiser as to what exactly he was after cooking up in that unpredictable brain of his, from the ice-cold expression he could now see on his face, Ray was willing to trust that Mustang knew what he was doing, and that was good enough for him. After all, this was the only shot he had left.

Having taken a breath in to steady himself, Mustang stepped determinedly in behind his ball and got himself promptly settled into his address. As opposed to lining himself up with the green, however, Ray was shocked to see Mustang, instead, aligning himself with the grandstand off to the right-hand side of the green. Though desperate to say something, Ray held his tongue. He had to trust that Mustang knew what he was doing, even if it seemed as though he’d officially lost his mind.

Contrary to what Ray was thinking, though, Mustang had never felt more in control … because he was just done. He was done with Fletcher. He was done with letting him think that he could control him like some hapless puppet on a string. And he was done being afraid. It was time to show Fletcher that he’d been damn right to be worried about what he was capable of after they’d played each other at the U.S. Amateur.

And not just what Mustang Peyton was capable of either.

No.

What Oscar Peyton was capable of.

And right now? Both of them felt like shutting Fletcher up – once and for all.

THWWWIIIPPPPP!!!!

Having put together one of the smoothest swings he’d produced since coming back out after the delay, Mustang’s ball set off like a bullet into the wind, heading on a piercing trajectory straight for the grandstand he’d been aiming at.

As opposed to actually watching where his ball was going, however, Mustang, instead, immediately turned and stared back over at where Fletcher was still standing in the gallery, fixing him with a defiant stare of his own as everyone else around the 18th – including Ray – carefully tracked the flight of his ball, nervously wondering where it was going to end up.

But Mustang didn’t need to watch it. For, he already knew how this story was going to end.

Because he’d hit his shot perfectly.

So, he didn’t need to see the draw he’d put on his ball quickly begin to take effect. He didn’t need to see the raking line it then began to travel on as the wind blew it towards the green. Nor did he need to see it pitch perfectly on the right-hand side of the green, take one skid forward, and then grab as it began to roll out towards the hole.

He didn’t need to see any of that.

Because all Mustang cared about was seeing the look on Fletcher’s face when he saw it happen.

And that? After everything that had happened between them? Well, that was totally worth it.

With the packed grandstands now going wild at seeing Mustang’s ball finally come to a stop mere inches from the hole, a demoralized-looking Fletcher – now painfully aware that his Grand Slam ambitions had, officially, been emphatically snuffed out – turned his head and glared over at Mustang, scowling at him with everything he had.

With a large, satisfied grin now stretching across his own face, however, Mustang just lifted up his gloved hand and gently waved at Fletcher from across the fairway.

He didn’t need to do anything more, nor did he need to say anything.

Because he knew what this meant, just as much as he knew Fletcher did.

And that was that Fletcher may have won all the battles … but Mustang had just won the war.

*

With a loud, congratulatory *POP*, the cork of the sparkling cider bottle crashed into the ceiling of the locker room before tumbling back down to the carpet and disappearing in underneath one of the nearby benches.

“Alright! Alright!” announced Ray, trying his best to wrangle the raucous celebrations into a brief moment of silence whilst also fighting to avoid the plume of suds that had just come erupting out of the cider bottle from landing on his shoes. “Before we get too carried away! I think it’s only right and proper that we hear from the man of the hour himself! The only reason we’re all standin’ in this room right now at all!” At that, Ray turned very deliberately to where Mustang was standing alongside Rodney and the Pirates, already looking as though he was shrinking into his shoes at the thought of having to speak in front of everyone. “The soon-to-be-crowned 2021 Silver Medal Winner …” Ray continued, now dropping the volume of his voice considerably as his face sank into a noticeably sincere expression. “And the best damn kid I know … Mister Oscar Peyton.”

Having seen him get his introduction, Rodney and the rest of the Pirates gleefully shoved a happily embarrassed-looking Mustang out in front of the group, all the while lightheartedly goading him with cries of, “SPEEEECH! SPEEEECH!”. After clapping hands with Ray to show his appreciation for his kind words – this one a far gentler version than the testosterone-fuelled one that had left his hand stinging for a good ten minutes following him actually sealing the win out on 18 by tapping in his birdie putt – Mustang turned to face the sea of smiling faces gathered before him.

“Uh … well, I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to say here …” said Mustang, feeling himself beginning to blush ever-so-slightly as he suddenly became highly aware of how his own voice sounded. “But, uh … I guess the main thing that comes to mind is … ‘thank you’. I mean, I look at everyone here and I can honestly say that, without each and every one of you, I wouldn’t be here right now about to walk out onto that green to get that Silver Medal – I just wouldn’t. So, I dunno whether or not my name’s gonna be engraved on this thing or not, but if it is? I just want you to know that … as far as I’m concerned? It’s gonna be every bit as much yours as it is mine – ‘cause I don’t win it without you.”

With the warm smiles he was seeing on everyone’s faces telling him that his speech obviously hadn’t been as terrible as he’d envisioned it being, and with Ray having subtly dotted around the room while he was speaking to splosh a drop of cider into the porcelain cups everybody was holding – the same ones Bo had liberated from a criminally unguarded tray in one of the dining rooms – Mustang decided to try and wrap things up while the going was still good.

“So, uh, with that being said …” he continued, now sheepishly raising his own cup given Ray had just dropped a glug of cider into it. “I just want to make a toast … or whatever.”

Seeing that they’d just gotten their own cue, Dallas, Desmond, Travis, the Pirates – heck, everybody crammed into the private club that now was their own little corner of the locker room – promptly raised their cups into the air, waiting for Mustang to just tell them what exactly it was they were going to be toasting.

Mustang took a second to take a breath.

He wanted to remember this moment.

“To u-…”

*BANG!*

Sounding like someone had just fired off a shotgun inside a trashcan, the door of the locker room swung violently open, interrupting Mustang mid-sentence as it smashed into the wall behind it with a bone-shuddering thud.

“What the hell is goin’ on here?!” barked Ray, fixing the volunteer who’d just burst in through the door with an angry, withering glare.

“I’m sorry, sir …” said the volunteer, breathlessly squeezing out his apology in between the ragged inhalations he was taking to try and refill his searing lungs. “But everyone’s been … looking for you!”

“Me?!” snapped Ray, taking a momentary break from looking seriously ticked off to let his face screw up in confusion. “What the hell for?!”

Now back in sufficient control of his breathing, the volunteer swallowed hard before speaking again. “No, sir, not you … well, no, I guess you too, actually …” he said, his failure to continue to not come up with a coherent answer not winning him any favours among the group.

“Son, if I might make a recommendation?” growled Bo, feeling it necessary to interject in, what so far, had been a most bizarre interruption. “Start makin’ some sense, and start makin’ it real quick: what is goin’ on?”

“You mean you haven’t seen?!” asked the volunteer, now risking life and limb by not giving Bo the straight answer he’d clearly been looking for.

“Does it look like we’ve seen what you’re talking about?!” replied an annoyed-sounding Layla, suitably vocalizing what everyone else was thinking.

“Yes, of course; sorry …” said the volunteer, now making a concerted effort to concentrate on what he said next having realized his mistake. “Well, it’s just that Morikawa just doubled the last.”

“And?” said Ray, still not seeing how that was of any concern to anyone standing inside the locker room with cupfuls of sparkling cider that wasn’t growing any fizzier. “What’s that got to do with us?”

“Well, it means he finished on -9 …” said the volunteer, still not quite believing that not one of the disgruntled people he was currently looking at had any idea as to how Collin Morikawa’s untimely double-bogey had so seismically changed the landscape of the tournament. “So, Mr. Peyton? He’s in the playoff, sir.”

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Photo by Anna Groniecka.