Having released the head of his putter smoothly through the end of his stroke, Fletcher quickly turned his head to see his ball gliding across the rain-slickened surface of the 18th-green – after all, this wasn’t just a “normal” birdie putt.
Because after doing all the hard work of actually nestling his approach shot inside 10-feet, doing so courtesy of the perfectly executed knocked-down 9-iron he’d been practicing out on the range – a rather beautiful effort wherein he’d flighted his ball down under the wind and, making the most of the ever-so-slightly softer conditions, stunned it in towards the pin – this birdie putt was going to signify far more than just another step under par for Fletcher. Yes, obviously, it was going to see him get to -8. And, yes, the -3 (67) it was going to see him post would probably end up ranking right up there as one of the best rounds he’d ever stitched together given the horrific conditions.
But, most importantly, this birdie putt? This was going to be Fletcher’s crowning moment. The culmination of an entire year’s worth of effort that had seen him set out at the beginning of it with one, solitary goal in mind: to rewrite the history books of amateur golf.
Sure, he could’ve decided to set himself a goal that wasn’t quite as lofty, maybe just settle for winning the U.S. Amateur and treat the ensuing trips to the Masters and U.S. Open as mere glorified tourist opportunities wherein he could help build his already burgeoning social media imprint ahead of turning pro, but that just wasn’t Fletcher. That wasn’t the ‘Rhodes Way’. He’d needed more. He didn’t want to just quietly turn pro like every other schmuck out there who’d been lumped with the same ‘promising amateur’ tag as he had been, only to then disappear immediately into obscurity. No. That wouldn’t suffice for someone as talented as Fletcher. He was better than that. Better than them. And he needed everyone to acknowledge that.
Because he wasn’t just another ‘promising amateur’, he was the only amateur worth talking about. He was an all-around athlete for crying out loud. He was someone who’d had baseball scouts from all of the major organizations in the MLB desperately trying to sign him straight out of high school. The Red Sox? The Dodgers? The Yankees? You name them, they’d all wanted Fletcher’s signature on a contract.
So, as far as he was concerned, because he’d made the decision that, in the grand scheme of things, there was just more ‘easy money’ to be made from swinging golf clubs as opposed to baseball bats – and that therefore he was going to make golf his primary sport – Fletcher had felt as though the likes of the PGA Tour should’ve been considering themselves lucky to have an athlete of his calibre looking to join their ranks.
And whilst he’d, admittedly, received a decent amount of coverage in the starts he’d received at the Pebble Beach Pro-Am and Genesis Invitational at the beginning of 2020 courtesy of his father’s extensive business connections, for Fletcher it hadn’t quite met his exacting standards; not been as extensive or as ‘hyped’ as he felt it should’ve been. As a result, on the flight back to Charleston from LA in the darkness following the final round of the Genesis, that’s when Fletcher had realized that if he was going to get the recognition and attention he felt he deserved, he was going to have to demand it; make it impossible for his generational talent to be ignored for even a second longer – and so the quest to win his self-coined ‘Amateur Grand Slam’ was born.
The U.S. Junior Amateur? The U.S. Amateur? Low Amateur at both the Masters and U.S. Open? The British Amateur Championship? Low Amateur at the British Open? If Fletcher could win all of those titles in not only a single season, but the season before turning professional? Then his arrival into the professional game would be just as anticipated as those of Tiger and Rory when they finally traded in their amateur status’ – arguably, perhaps even bigger. Because he’d have done something that not only neither of them had ever done, but something that no one else in the history of the game of golf had ever done.
He’d be an outlier.
A pioneer.
A trailblazer … and all before turning 20.
It had been the perfect plan.
Now, obviously, there’d been some minor problems along the way, namely the unforeseeable emergence of that nuisance Oscar, but Fletcher had refused to allow that impostor to derail his journey into the history books – even if it had meant taking one for the cause by baiting a punch out of him at the Texas Open.
But when attempting to achieve something as ambitious as he was, those were the sacrifices you have to make, the lengths you have to go to – as his father always said, “Ruthlessness begets greatness”. And as he now watched his ball trundle across the green, the hole set firmly in its sights, those words were about to be proven to never be more true for Fletcher. For, his season of unrelenting dominance? It had all led up to this moment. Sure, he’d have preferred the circumstances to be slightly different – primarily, to not have had that would-be thief, Oscar, be such a thorn in his side with his incessant attempts to unjustly steal his thunder. But having seen during the delay that, as expected, he was in the process of playing himself out of contention back at the 14th? Well, Fletcher was hellbent on enjoying the next few seconds. He’d earned them.
With his ball now clearly destined to find nowhere else but the bottom of the cup as it rolled to within 3-feet of the hole, Fletcher decided it was time to give the horde of photographers gathered off to the side of the green – never mind his own personal photographer and videographer – the money shots they were all undoubtedly looking for.
So, with a wave of excitement now beginning to just surge through the crowd packed into the enormous horseshoe-shaped grandstand wrapped around the green, Fletcher kicked things off by raising his putter expectantly up over his head – that was always a solid move to preemptively prime the crowd for what was coming next.
Now just a foot out from the hole, Fletcher’s ball slipped gently back to the left and lined up perfectly with the very heart of the hole.
It was almost showtime.
Seeing his ball dive over the edge of the hole and disappear into the cup below – and with the crowd duly playing their part by erupting in a sufficiently loud cheer that would echo nicely around the course – Fletcher promptly pulled out the pose he’d settled on in the weeks prior after workshopping it over with his team to see which one would look the best for this very moment. So, as opposed to going with an over-the-top fist pump – one that could easily see his face become distorted, thus making it more difficult to get a good press photograph – Fletcher, instead, merely kept his putter raised up over his head and clenched his free right hand just in front of himself in the quietly triumphant manner he’d practiced in front of the mirror. Then, to cap it all off, he paired it with a facial expression that saw him close his eyes and gently smile to himself in a manner that would evoke a sense of ‘quiet relief’ and ‘gratefulness’ to have potentially completed his Grand Slam – his publicist had thought that would play best with their target demographic.
With the crowd still applauding, Fletcher now reopened his eyes and stole a glance in the direction of his team gathered off to the side of the green. Whilst they, like the crowd, were all still applauding – looking that all-important mix of ‘happy’, yet not the ‘too happy’ his publicist had all warned them about the previous evening – what Fletcher was primarily looking for was the thumbs up from his videographer and photographer that they’d gotten everything they’d needed. Upon seeing that they had – which, for their sake, he hoped was, indeed, true – Fletcher brought his putter back down to his side before walking across the green to go retrieve his ball from the hole; coupling it with a ‘disbelieving head shake’ as he moved to really hammer home the idea of him being ‘the humble hero’ that had served as the anchor theme of his publicist’s mood board when she’d been planning out their media strategy for the year.
Despite pitching the idea of possibly throwing it into the crowd once he’d finished his round – an idea his publicist, again, had nixed as being “too presumptuous” on his part given he’d be finishing before Oscar – Fletcher, instead, pocketed his ball, took off his cap, and graciously saluted the crowd as he walked back across the green towards his caddie, absolutely nailing the ‘slightly overwhelmed’ facial expression that had caused him so much difficulty in trying to master at the beginning of this whole process.
“Nice work, boss,” said BT, taking Fletcher’s putter from him and immediately wiping it down with the damp, dirt-stained towel he had slung over his shoulder. Whilst everyone had thought him insane for taking up Fletcher’s bag at the beginning of 2020 as opposed to the multiple offers he had from actual touring players – both on the PGA and European circuits – BT had garnered enough experience in his 25-years of caddying to spot a thoroughbred of a golfer when he spotted one, and Fletcher was most certainly that. So, whilst the pay he’d been getting from Fletcher’s millionaire of a father had probably been slightly below what he’d have been making out on Tour week-to-week, after having his suspicions confirmed that Fletcher was a straight-up baller going on the performances he’d seen him put up over the course of the last year and a half, as far as BT was concerned he’d be making all of that “lost” income back, and then some, as soon as Fletcher turned pro – for, as he’d said to his wife when explaining why he was thinking of taking the offer that had been put on the table by Fletcher’s old man, “The kid’s a walking lottery ticket.”
“Well, I dunno about you,” said Fletcher smugly, now lowering his voice considerably and covering his mouth to ensure no one could make out what he was saying in the silence that had, once again, descended on the green as his playing partner for the day set about finishing off the 4-footer he’d left himself for par. “But I reckon that should just about kill off that rat, Oscar – what d’ya think?”
If there was one thing BT had learned since taking over Fletcher’s bag, in situations like this? Though it may have seemed like the opposite was true, his soon-to-be full-time employer was not, in fact, seeking his genuine opinion – he merely just wanted to hear his own parrotted back to him. And whilst he’d also learned pretty quickly to pick his battles when it came to not telling Fletcher what he wanted to hear – which, admittedly, was hardly ever – given this particular query fell under the auspices of his specific area of expertise, however, BT felt compelled to grab his horse and ride to the frontline.
“Yeah, I think -8 gives ya a pretty good chance,” he replied, his usual gruff voice sounding all the more gravelly as he attempted to speak quietly. “Though, that being said … there is still a lotta golf to be played between 14 and here.”
Having not gotten the response he was looking for, Fletcher immediately fixed BT with one of those withering glares of his. “You kiddin’ me?!” he hissed, as he caught a glimpse of his playing partner just plucking his coin up from behind his ball. Fletcher wasn’t sure what was taking him so long to finish out his putt; given he was already +7 for his round he didn’t really see what difference one more bogey would make, but how was he to know how losers thought. “You still think that lowlife’s got a chance?!”
“Well, mathematically … yes,” replied BT, already regretting not just blankly agreeing with Fletcher. “I mean, yeah, four holes ain’t a lot … but you saw what he did yesterday.”
Not appreciating having BT bring up Oscar’s third-round comeback, a clearly irritated-looking Fletcher turned his gaze back out towards the green, focusing hard on not scowling for fear of it being picked up by the cameras – he was meant to be happy, after all.
“Look, I ain’t saying it’s a guarantee – far from it,” whispered BT, looking to try and rescue the situation before Fletcher delved into too deep of a sulk. “But I think it would be remiss of me as your caddie if I didn’t prepare for you all possibilities … like, maybe, the fact you and him might end up having to share the Silver Medal.”
From the half expression on his face that he was trying so desperately to stop from fully forming – one that made him look as though someone had just force-fed him a glass of sour milk – it was clear that even the thought of walking out onto the 18th-green and sharing the low amateur honour with Oscar, to have him be seen in the eyes of the world as somehow his equal, was just not a reality worth contemplating for Fletcher.
So, he wasn’t going to.
“Naw, he’s done …” grumbled Fletcher adamantly as he, once again, shielded his mouth with his hand in order to mask any would-be lip-readers from decoding what he was saying. “The way he was at 14? The best he’s comin’ outta there with is a double. That drops him to 6. And I don’t give a damn what he did yesterday, in conditions like this? With the way the wind’s still blowin’? There ain’t no way in hell he’s findin’ enough birdies to ti-…”
YEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!
Out of nowhere, a loud, celebratory roar reached the ears of Fletcher and everyone else gathered around the 18th; a message carrying on the howling wind from the other side of the course. This, however, wasn’t just your run-of-the-mill cheer to signify a birdie. No. It was more than that. Far more. It had enough energy fuelling it to possibly be from someone holing out for eagle or perhaps even some lucky individual making a hole-in-one at 16; but, even then, if that were really the case the roar would be coming through far louder than what it was – and this one was just faint enough to signify that it had originated from somewhere further away than the par-3 just two holes back from the 18th.
Whilst everyone else crammed in around the closing hole quickly scrambled to their phones in order to see if they could find out what had happened – thinking that it surely must’ve been Oosthuizen or Spieth making a dent in Morikawa’s lead, or perhaps even Rahm making one final run given the enthusiasm behind the roar – Fletcher, on the other hand, for whatever reason, immediately got this sinking feeling that he knew exactly what was after happening.
He just hoped, however, that he was wrong.
With his playing partner now moving back in behind his ball after retreating a step on account of being distracted by the roar, Fletcher whipped around and looked off towards his team, desperate to see if they’d gotten any concrete leads as to what had happened. Unfortunately for him, however, the majority of them, much like the crowd, were still busily scrolling through their phones, desperately seeking an update; while those who weren’t – mainly, his mother and father – were peering nervously in over the others’ shoulders, looking so worried over what had potentially happened that the colour had visibly drained from their faces.
Realizing his team were going to be a dead-end until the internet had time to catch them up to what had happened, Fletcher’s eyes quickly sought out his backup plan in the shape of the large, digital leaderboard embedded into the wall of one of the grandstands – that would tell him what he needed to know. Because that roar? It had come from the 14th. He could feel it in his bones. The way it had sounded? It stank of the kind of excitement and delirium the uneducated masses outside the ropes would, of course, react with if they saw Oscar making a play – all of them greedily seeking out as much drama and tension as possible on the final run-in to 18. Idiots.
So, Fletcher stood there and he watched that screen, waiting impatiently for it to tick over. He didn’t care what his playing partner was doing. He didn’t care how this was making him look. Nothing else mattered now except what was about to be put up on that leaderboard. And after waiting what had felt like an eternity … the screen finally went blank.
It was happening.
The update was coming.
Because of the weather, however, and the fact the wind was interfering with the signal between the main communications tent and the leaderboards dotted around the course, as the one Fletcher was looking at finally did begin to update, it wasn’t doing so all in one go. Instead, it began to fill back in with staggered bursts of information popping up on the screen; the all-important scores buffering back in like it was being uploaded using some dodgy dial-up connection from the early 00s.
And all Fletcher could do was watch. And wait.
11 MORIKAWA -14
13 SPIETH -13
The leaders, but this was of little concern to Fletcher.
11 OOSTHUIZEN -12
16 RAHM -11
“C’mon …” whispered Fletcher, his already wafer-thin patience growing ever thinner with each torturous second that passed. “C’mon …”
F KOEPKA -8
17 FRITELLI -8
Finally, they were getting somewhere.
F RHODES -8
Right on cue, Fletcher’s name popped up on the screen. The fact it had appeared on its own, however – when all the others had updated in pairs – tentatively bolstered his fragile confidence that perhaps his original thinking had, indeed, been right about Oscar after all. Maybe everything had gone as badly for him back at the 14th as he’d hoped they would; his chances of catching him on -8 well and truly torpedoed with a delicious double or, fingers crossed, triple-bogey.
Right as he expected the leaderboard to update with the next row, however, the screen, out of nowhere, began to twitch erratically as though it were glitching – its already tenuous connection being tested, yet again, by the irrepressible Caesar. Just as he was feeling thoroughly compelled to grab the ball from his pocket and fling it as hard as he could at the screen, though, a now highly frustrated Fletcher was saved from his more base instincts by the screen flickering back into life – except, this time, the information was coming in even more painfully slowly than what it had been previously.
14 …
This wasn’t what Fletcher wanted to see. Given he’d noticed during the delay that Bo Dano – that borderline drunk Oscar had been paired with for the final round – had fallen way down the leaderboard, Fletcher knew that even if he’d just made an eagle at 14 he was still going to be nowhere near the top-10.
Which meant this could only be one person.
PEYTON …
Fletcher could feel his insides clenching uncomfortably as he saw Oscar’s surname pop in underneath his own. He tried to convince himself that this still didn’t necessarily mean anything; that just because their names were still inextricably locked together that it meant Mustang wasn’t after having the disaster he’d envisioned for him back at the par-5. He might’ve just made a bogey as opposed to the double or worse he’d been hoping for. It wouldn’t be the most ideal outcome, no, but it would still be something. A hit to his card. A modicum of breathing room between the pair of them.
But then Oscar’s score actually popped in.
And fairly quickly those tales Fletcher had been telling himself to try and make himself feel better were proven to be nothing more than pretty little lies.
Because, infuriatingly … Oscar was still -8!
Meaning, he’d done it. He’d actually made par at the 14th. Somehow, someway, Oscar had managed to scramble together the unlikeliest of 5s to, against the odds, keep himself and Fletcher tied on -8 apiece; except now, he was the one firmly in the driving seat because he still had four holes left to play, whilst the only road Fletcher had left to travel was that of the short walk to the Scorer’s Tent to hand in his card.
“You gotta be freakin’ kiddin’ me …” snarled Fletcher, completely oblivious to the fact that the crowd surrounding the 18th was now applauding because his playing partner had just successfully buried his par putt.
“Boss …” hissed BT, hitting Fletcher lightly on the shoulder to try and get his attention. “Look alive.”
Realizing he’d no alternative but to slap a smile back across his face – as per the animated instruction his publicist was giving him from the side of the green – and go shake hands with his playing partner, Fletcher stole one last scornful look at the leaderboard, hoping against hope that it had somehow changed in the few seconds that he hadn’t been glowering angrily at it.
But he was going to have no such luck.
Because glaring back out at him, almost tauntingly, the leaderboard was still reading the exact same as it had done previously.
F RHODES -8
14 PEYTON -8
Finally feeling as though he’d tortured himself sufficiently, Fletcher tore his gaze away from the leaderboard and began to walk back across the green to meet his player partner, who, annoyingly, was now holding up proceedings as he was currently engrossed in quite the friendly-looking chat with BT and his own caddie – the three of them no doubt pointlessly reminiscing about some boring shared anecdote from the last time they’d all been in each other’s company.
As he stood waiting for his turn to get these infernal niceties out of the way, however, Fletcher couldn’t help himself from looking back off down the 18th-fairway and out towards the rest of the course. Because somewhere out there, out through the bitterly cold wind and just beyond the grandstands surrounding the 16th, he knew that with each passing second, Oscar was getting ever closer to reaching the 18th. The fate of his Grand Slam? His place in the history books? His destiny? It now all lay, sickeningly, in Oscar’s grubby little hands and what he did over the next four holes … and Fletcher was utterly powerless to do anything about it.
From the moment he’d seen what he was capable of at the U.S. Amateur, Fletcher had known how much of a potential threat Oscar could be to his Grand Slam ambitions, and that, therefore, he needed to be destroyed accordingly – something which, after everything that had happened, one couldn’t really blame Fletcher for thinking he’d succeeded in achieving.
Yet, standing now on that 18th-green, the salt-licked wind continuing to swirl unrelentingly around the hole, testing the fortitude of those national flags placed all around the tops of the grandstands, Fletcher couldn’t help but feel as though he’d dropped the ball. He’d been too merciful with Oscar. He’d had him right where he’d wanted him, his foot, metaphorically, on his neck … and, to his error, he hadn’t made sure that he finished the job.
He’d failed to ‘cut the head off the serpent’, as it were, and now? Well, now, it was too late.
Because that serpent was still alive.
Still slithering its way undeservedly to 18.
And all Fletcher could do now was hope Caesar would save him from getting bit.
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Photo by Anna Groniecka.