After his clutch finish in the third round had seen him get to -7 for the tournament, Mustang had known that going on the leaderboard at the time, Fletcher would be heading out, at least, one group ahead of him come the final round. By the time play had finally finished for the day, though, and everyone else’s scores had come in, Mustang was amazed to see that the gap between him and Fletcher had actually grown even larger as they were driving back to the house after his round.
And the reason for this increased distance between the pair of them? Well, that was down to Bo Dano.
Because after the hat-trick of birdies he’d rattled off on the final three holes of his third round had seen him leap back up the leaderboard to where he’d started the day on -7, Bo, in one fell swoop, had not only booked himself a pairing with Mustang in the final round, but actually pushed Fletcher clean out of the top-10, and guaranteed he’d be heading out three whole groups ahead of himself and Mustang come Sunday – something which, given the great deal of annoyance it would have undoubtedly caused Fletcher, had made Mustang smile almost as wide as he had done after birdieing the 18th.
With everything that had then gone on to happen Saturday evening, however – what with the not-so-insignificant detail of finding himself suddenly faced with a surprise 16th birthday party – Mustang hadn’t really been able to dedicate any time at all to actually processing the fact he was going to be playing with the Bo Dano in his final round. Because Bo? As Mustang had come to learn since really getting into golf the previous year … he was definitely what you’d call a ‘character’.
A touring pro since the tender age of 19, Bo Dano – who was originally from rural Tennessee – had spent the last 39-years plying his trade on every professional golf circuit known to man, starting out with the PGA Tour all the way back in the early 80s. After notching up his first win in ‘84, however – at the now-defunct Gorse Hills Classic in Massachusetts – Bo then proceeded to spend the next six years spreading his ‘golfing wings’ with stints on both the European and Canadian Tours; wherein he added three more victories to his growing résumé.
Yet, even after travelling everywhere from the Yukon to the Mediterranean, and everywhere in-between, Bo’s feet still weren’t feeling any less itchy, and so, as a result, he spent the next two decades playing – and winning – his way around the world. Australia. South Africa. South America. China. India. Korea. You name the place, chances were Bo had teed it up there at some point.
When he cracked 50 in the early 2010s, however, as opposed to making the return Stateside like most people suspected he might in order to take up a lucrative position on the Champions Tour, Bo – as he had done his entire career – promptly defied everyone’s expectations by not only opting to play on the Japan Tour instead, but after decades of living out of a suitcase and calling whatever hotel he landed in ‘home’, he put down actual permanent roots in the Land of the Rising Sun as well; reappearing back West only when he’d manage to secure a place in one of the Majors.
So, to find himself looking at Bo now? Stood underneath one of the small, narrow windows running along the top of the wall inside the bathroom as he stole another drag from the cigarette in his hand? Mustang felt as though he was catching a glimpse of some rare, almost mythical creature dressed in a polo shirt, slacks, and expensive-looking, full-leather golf shoes.
“So, you just gonna stand there gawpin’ at me?” said Bo, suddenly, without looking in Mustang’s direction. “Or are you actually gonna say somethin’?”
Feeling slightly embarrassed at realizing that he hadn’t been as stealthy as he thought he was being, Mustang moved out from behind the corner of the wall and took a step into the bathroom. “Sorry …” he said, his apology made to sound all the more sheepish as it echoed nervously around the tiled walls of the bathroom. “I didn’t mean to be, uh … well, uh …”
“Creepin’ around?” said Bo, offering up a potential option for how Mustang could finish the sentence he’d left hanging in mid-air.
“Well, that’s not exactly how I’d put it …” replied Mustang, choosing to see the light-hearted side. “But given that I can’t think of anything better right now? Yeah, let’s go with that.”
“Aw, well, don’t worry ‘bout it,” said Bo, sounding relaxed as he lifted up his tree trunk of an arm and flicked the ash that had gathered at the end of his cigarette into the spent paper coffee cup he had resting on the windowsill above him. “So, uh … you want an autograph or somethin’? Picture, maybe?”
If their interaction hadn’t gotten off to a bad enough start with him looking as though he had been spying on him, Mustang was now mortified to learn that Bo thought he was nothing more than some daring ‘autograph hunter’; a fan who’d snuck past security and into the inner sanctum of the clubhouse in search of nothing more than signatures and Instagram clout.
“Oh, no … uh, Mr Dano, I’m your playing partner today,” said Mustang, attempting to explain who he was without bursting into literal flames at the sheer height of embarrassment he was now feeling. “Uh, Mustang Peyton?”
Hearing this, Bo immediately turned and, for the first time since they’d begun speaking, really looked at Mustang, peering across the bathroom at him through squinted eyes as if he were trying to make out the bottom-most row on an eye chart. When he finally recognized that it was, indeed, Mustang he found himself looking at, however, Bo’s demeanour instantly changed from that of being somewhat disinterested – bordering on downright sleepy – to fully awake and engaged.
“Oh, crap! It is you!” he said, quickly popping his cigarette into his mouth before crossing the bathroom towards Mustang with his hand extended for a handshake, the spikes on his shoes clacking noisily against the tiles with each hurried step that he took. “Sorry ‘bout that, kid – the ole’ eyesight ain’t what she used to be, I’m afraid!”
Having dutifully stretched out his own to reciprocate the handshake he was looking for, Mustang watched as his hand was promptly swallowed up by the five-fingered shovel Bo called his right hand. “Pleasure to meet ya, Mustang …” Bo smiled, revealing a row of slightly yellowed teeth as he gave Mustang’s hand a firm, vigorous shake. “And, please, ‘Mr Dano’ was my ole’ man – and that sour, old drunk hated me as much as I did him, so, call me ‘Bo’, huh?”
“Uh, yeah, sure …” said Mustang, feeling a tad caught off guard by the combination of Bo’s blunt admission about his father and the rather heavy aroma of cigarette smoke and whatever cologne he was wearing hitting him full force in the face. “I’ve, uh … I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“All good, I trust?” said Bo, his voice now booming around the bathroom as he made his way back towards the window he’d previously opened a crack in order to abet his secret cigarette. After taking a moment to quickly expel the smoke that had built up in his lungs out through the window – the long, spectre-like plume disappearing in an instant as it got whipped away in the wind – Bo turned back around and looked at Mustang, a wide grin now stretching across his heavily tanned face that, when paired with his ‘salt & pepper’ Van Dyke and slicked-back hair, made him look like some dashing movie-star from the 40s. “Or, failing that, at least interestin’?!” he joked.
“Yeah, you could say that,” replied Mustang, moving a little further into the bathroom now that he could see Bo appeared more in the mood for company than he had been previously. “All the different countries you’ve played in. The different tours you’ve been on. The stories …”
Bo smiled ruefully. He was used to people bringing up the topic of those ‘stories’ in the manner Mustang just had. The intonation in the voice. The loaded manner in which they’d broach the topic as if hoping to tempt him into speaking about them. The obvious underlying curiosity as to whether or not the things they’d heard were actually true.
Of course, through the years, Bo had developed something of a ‘sixth sense’ for spotting – and, as a result, avoiding – those people who, once they’d downed enough liquid courage, would be straight over to ask him about some blatantly untrue or massively exaggerated tale they’d heard from ‘a buddy of theirs’ or some other spurious source. Like the guy who, having clearly drunk his body weight in beer, came up to him in a bar in Arizona the night before the Phoenix Open one year saying he’d heard from this greenkeeper he knew that Bo had once been struck by lightning while on a course in Tampa, but stayed playing and wound up shooting a new course record – when the actual truth was the lightning had only hit the ground next to Bo before he then went on to break the course record.
Still, given Mustang was going to be his playing partner for the day, however – never mind the fact he obviously wasn’t fifteen beers deep and visibly swaying on his feet – Bo decided to play along. “Any story in particular that stands out?” he said, giving the floor to Mustang to ask the question he could tell he so clearly had sitting on the tip of his tongue.
“Well, if I had to pick one …” said Mustang, trying to make out like he hadn’t already decided in advance the exact story he would ask Bo about should the opportunity arise. “I guess I’ve always kinda wondered about the one with you in Suriname? You know … the one with the boat?”
“Aw, yeah – the Suriname Shootout, 2001,” answered Bo, smiling at the memory of that particular tale as he took one of the few remaining drags left in his cigarette. “Man, I haven’t thought about that in a long time.”
“Woah, wait … so, it is true, then?!” said Mustang, smiling in disbelief.
“That it is,” answered Bo, casually banishing another cloud of smoke out through the window. “Though I should add, that really does depend on what version of that story you’ve actually heard.”
“The one where you were running late for the final round …” began Mustang, rattling off the abridged account of Bo’s infamous visit to Suriname as he’d heard it recounted on the documentary he’d come across while channel surfing late one night. “Stole a fishing boat to make it across a river because the bridge you needed to cross was closed; made it to the 1st-tee with 2-minutes to spare; then won the tournament by five shots before being arrested in the Scorer’s Tent for grand larceny. That version?”
Bo paused for a moment as he compared the running order of Mustang’s version with the somewhat hazy recollection he had of that balmy September afternoon in Paramaribo two decades previously. “Oh, so you did hear the correct version, then,” he quipped, before flashing another one of his patented grins. “Although, for the record? One, I didn’t steal that boat, I borrowed it. And, two, those fine police officers who were so kind as to give me a private tour of the Paramaribo Police Station? They actually wanted to arrest me on the 12th. But when I told them in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t gonna be leavin’ that course without that winner’s cheque tucked nice and snug into my wallet, they just ended up walkin’ the rest of the back-9 with me – which is why if you look back at any footage from that round, it looks as though I’m gettin’ a police escort when there’s next to no people in the galleries!”
“And they just agreed to wait until you’d finished your round to arrest you?!” asked Mustang, struggling to believe that this already crazy story was even more unbelievable than what he’d previously thought after his first time hearing it.
“Yep …” replied Bo, his answer coming out in a shroud of smoke courtesy of the drag he’d taken from his cigarette in the interim. “See, as it turned out, of all the police officers in Paramaribo that could’ve been sent to pick me up? I was lucky enough to get the two who just so happened to be members at the course where the dang tournament was bein’ played!”
“No way!” said Mustang, now smiling widely as any and all thoughts of his own final round, temporarily, disappeared from his mind.
“I kid you not,” assured Bo, lifting his cigarette back up towards his mouth in anticipation of stealing another pull from it. “Hell, one of ‘em even gave me a read for birdie on the 15th!”
“And were they as accommodating once they actually arrested you?” asked Mustang, half-expecting the next part of the story to contain Bo orchestrating a jailbreak with nothing more than a golf tee he’d managed to smuggle into his cell.
“Pretty much, yeah,” Bo answered, his words, again, accompanied by a cloud of smoke. “I mean, they brought me down to the station, as you’d expect, but they never actually put me in a cell. Instead, they just told me that if I were to give the guy whose boat I took some cash, he’d be willing to drop the charges. So, obviously, when I heard that, I promptly slipped that same winner’s cheque outta my wallet; one of the officers went off and cashed it for me; and when he came back I paid off the fisherman, gave the two cops a little somethin’ for their trouble as well, and then they gave me a ride to the airport – after I posed for a few pictures, of course.”
Mustang could only shake his head and laugh. He’d known that Bo had led an interesting life, that had been obvious before he ever found him smoking in the bathroom. But after spending less than 5-minutes in his company, Mustang had quickly realized that you’d need the guts of an entire day to even scratch the surface of all the escapades he’d gotten up to during his years spent circumnavigating the globe. And, in truth, as he stood there digesting the insanity of what he’d just heard, Mustang couldn’t help but feel drawn to living that kind of life himself. Travelling the world? Using nothing but your golf clubs to pay your way? The sheer adventure of it all? It was tempting. Really tempting. So much so, that as far as Mustang was concerned, his trip to Q-School in the fall couldn’t come soon enough.
“That’s unbelievable …” sighed Mustang, not really knowing what else he could say. “I mean, winning tournaments is hard enough, but having to do it as you’re being watched by two cops who you know are gonna be arresting you as soon as you hand in your card? That’s just on another level. I mean, seriously, in comparison to that, playing in the final round of a Major must feel like a walk in the park for you, huh?”
Bo took another drag from his cigarette, leaving just about one more left in the chamber before it would be officially spent. “Well, actually, if there’s one thing left in this world that makes an ole’ goat like me feel anythin’ close to being nervous on a golf course? It’s a Major – no doubt about it,” he replied with a hearty chuckle that then quickly transformed into a phlegmy-sounding, smoking-induced cough. “But I guess to your point … after the life I’ve had and the age I’ve, somehow, managed to get to? I think, if anythin’, I’m just more comfortable dealin’ with the unexpected and things goin’ wrong, you know? And in the final round of a Major? If there’s one thing you can hang your hat on, it’s that, at some stage, somethin’ unexpected is gonna crop up, and things are gonna go wrong as a result.”
“Like a storm possibly rolling through?” asked Mustang, smiling ruefully as Caesar, once again, elbowed his way crankily to the forefront of his thinking after being successfully ignored for so long.
Bo smiled as he examined the thin wisp of smoke snaking its way out of the end of his cigarette. “Yeah, that would fit the bill, I reckon,” he answered, unsurprisingly not sounding as though he was all that troubled by the looming shadow of Caesar potentially interrupting their round. “Assumin’ it actually arrives, of course.”
“Yeah, well … you got any advice for me if it does?” asked Mustang, rolling the dice on Bo actually giving him an answer.
Bo thought for a moment as he pulled the last slither of smoke from his cigarette; letting it sit briefly inside his chest before exhaling it up towards the window. Once the smoke had faded on the wind, however, Mustang couldn’t help but notice a sickly expression flash fleetingly across Bo’s face. It was the same one he’d noticed before when seeing other people finish off a cigarette; that brief second where, with that sour aftertaste just starting to kick in, they look as though they deeply regret what they just did – until, of course, they light up the next one.
“Well, I guess the only thing that really comes to mind,” replied Bo, now reaching up and grabbing the paper cup he’d been using as a makeshift ashtray from off the windowsill. “Is somethin’ this caddie said to me on my very first trip to Japan back in the … late-90s, I think it was. See, I’d been invited to play in this half tournament/half exhibition-style dealy – and when I say ‘invited’, I obviously mean paid – to christen this new golf course that had just opened a little ways outside Kyoto. So, first-round goes great, weather’s perfect – couldn’t ask for better. The second day, however? Well, it’s practically a washout; I mean, never mind ‘rainin’ cats and dogs’, this is more like rainin’ goddamned lions and wolves. Just miserable weather to be doin’ anythin’ in, let alone tryna’ play some golf.”
As he’d become accustomed to, Mustang watched as Bo paused from what he was saying and took a second to stub out his cigarette on the inside of the cup. If there was one thing Mustang had learned from this impromptu ‘audience’ with Bo, it was that he sure as heck didn’t like to rush. The only hope Mustang had now, however, was that this ethos wouldn’t extend to how he played once they got out onto the course – not when they were, quite literally, up against a ticking clock.
“So, anyway, me and this caddie I’d been given for the week – one of their most senior guys – are out on the course and, naturally, we’re caught in one of these torrential downpours that have been comin’ and goin’, pretty much, every half-hour,” said Bo, now happy to continue given he’d fully disposed of his cigarette butt. “So, we’re both huddled under this umbrella – after makin’ him stand in outta the rain for what feels like the tenth time since teein’-off – and we’re not really saying anythin’ ‘cause … well, he doesn’t have much English, and at that point, the only Japanese I’d felt necessary to learn for the trip had been how to say ‘more whiskey’.”
“Seriously?!” laughed Mustang. “That’s all?!”
“Oh, well, that and ‘thanks for the whiskey’, obviously,” confirmed Bo, grinning mischievously. “I mean … ‘manners’ and all that.”
Again, Mustang could only shake his head and smile.
“Anyway, though, outta the blue …” said Bo, getting himself back on track as he could feel time was just beginning to slip away from them. “With the rain still pourin’ and wind howlin’, the caddie turns to me and, in the clearest English I’ve heard him use all week, says, ‘Strong wind no match for strong mind.’ And even though it’s been twenty-odd years since I heard him say that? I’ve never forgotten those words. Not once.”
With that, Bo began to walk across the bathroom, the sense of purpose in his step denoting that he knew it was about time to start heading to the range. Just as he reached where he was standing, however, Bo came to a stop alongside Mustang, making him properly appreciate just how large he actually was for the first time since they’d begun speaking.
“So, if everythin’ I’ve heard about you is true?” he said, now looking Mustang dead in the eye. “Then you don’t need to be askin’ an old-timer like me for advice – ‘cause I reckon you’re already more than a match for any storm, kid.”
Leaving him with an encouraging wink, Bo brushed past Mustang, exiting the bathroom en route to the nearby door that led out of the locker room.
“You sound awful confident about that …” said a skeptical-sounding Mustang as he quickly turned around and caught Bo just as he grabbed the brass-plated handle on the door.
“Course I am …” replied Bo, smiling confidently back across the locker room at Mustang. “Cause when I look at you? I see a lotta me. And people like us? We’re fighters, kid … it’s what we do.”
At that, Bo pulled open the door and swept out through it, leaving Mustang now entirely on his own inside the locker room. With the impact of Bo’s words feeling as though someone had just hit him square in the chest, Mustang turned slowly back around and looked off towards the window that was still ajar on the opposite side of the bathroom. The wind outside was continuing to gust and snap as it whistled through the sliver of a gap Bo had opened it to, getting angrier and more violent-sounding with each passing second that it continued to blow.
As opposed to making him feel nervous, though, this, instead, merely saw Mustang’s jaw set determinedly as he stared out through the glass at the ever-darkening sky.
Because Bo was right. Mustang was a fighter.
So, if Caesar, indeed, wanted to go?
Mustang wouldn’t be found wanting in getting his fists up.
Not this time.
*
With one final revolution seeing his ball topple into the hole, the small crowd surrounding the 10th – many of whom were seeking some much-needed shelter from the wind by hunkering down in the deep gulley alongside the green – gave Mustang’s par-save a brief round of applause before quickly burying their freezing-cold hands back into the warmth of their jacket pockets.
Of all the talk about the storm and the effect it could have on the day’s play in terms of the wind and rain it might bring, how cold it actually was out on the course had been the factor that, now ten holes into his final round, Mustang had definitely found to be the most challenging to deal with. Of course, one couldn’t ignore the fact that these abnormally frigid temperatures were being driven mainly by the significant impact of the wind chill – that of which had been coming courtesy of the non-stop gusting that, at times, had seen the fairways of Royal St. George’s feel more like some desolate, wind-swept stretch of Arctic tundra rather than a golf course – but those were merely minor details. Either way, the end result had been the same, with every tour pro quickly reaching for the many layers they had stashed inside their bags as soon as they were hit by that bitterly cold wind funneling down the 1st-fairway that was seeing the 50℉ it actually was feel closer to something in the low-40s.
Well … ‘everyone’, again, except for Bo that is.
Because whilst Mustang had managed to make it to the 4th before asking Ray for the jacket he’d picked up for him at the tour truck in order to try and return some semblance of warmth to his extremities, not only had Bo not done likewise – not even to throw on a sweater – but he looked as though he was completely oblivious to the fact that it was aggressively cold; something which, given he, himself, felt as though the R&A should be handing out those tinfoil blankets you see exhausted runners getting at the end of a marathon, Mustang just could not wrap his head around.
Still, despite wondering whether or not Bo’s decades of hard-drinking and smoking had somehow given his body asbestos-like qualities, and fighting the constant battle to keep his hands in any way bit warm so as to maintain as much ‘feel’ running through his fingers as possible, Mustang had been pretty happy with how his round had gone thus far.
Having studied the leaderboard whilst waiting for the go-ahead to tee-off on the 1st, Mustang had been able to tell that, as expected, scoring was proving to be far more difficult than what it had been over the first three days of the Open, with the vast majority of the field either over par for their final rounds or, if they were lucky, holding firm at even. One of those few people he’d noticed who had managed to get under par, however, was Fletcher, who – before Mustang had even had the chance to stick a tee in the turf lining the 1st tee-box – had made the most of his three-hole head start by getting back to -6, and within just a single shot of him once again.
This, of course, hadn’t come as a surprise to Mustang; in fact, given the swirling mass of uncertainty surrounding so many different aspects of the final day, seeing that Fletcher had, indeed, come out of the blocks firing – just as he’d suspected he would – had proven to be an oddly reassuring dose of stability and predictability on a day where everything was anything but stable and predictable. So, naturally, as opposed to being shaken by Fletcher cutting his already slender lead back down to just the one shot, Mustang, instead, had simply stuck to the plan he, Rodney, and Ray had cooked up when they’d all finally rendezvoused, as agreed, down at the range.
And that plan for the final round was a simple one: they were going to ‘Tiger’ it.
See, in his prime, whenever Tiger Woods found himself heading into the final round of a tournament with the lead, it’s not an exaggeration to say that, come Sunday, that inherently meant everybody else was pretty much playing to decide who’d get to finish in second place. Because Tiger at that time? What made him so difficult to reel in once he got his nose out in front was that he put all of the pressure onto the chasing pack to hunt him down. And how he did this was by being just ruthlessly efficient. He didn’t make mistakes. He didn’t allow himself to make a whole host of bogeys that would open the door to the rest of the field. And on those occasions when he did drop a shot? More often than not, he’d just get it straight back by making birdie on the very next hole to tip the scales back in his favour.
In short, Tiger would just stalk his way around the course; pick up shots on those holes where they were most ripe for the taking – especially the par-5s; and just wait for everybody else to either come up short in their bid to catch him or swat away those challengers who dared get too close.
And it was this same machine-like approach that Mustang had looked to bring into his final round. Because the fact of the matter was, after his performance on Saturday, Mustang had put himself in the ascendency over Fletcher. He was the guy at the top of their own personal leaderboard in the race for the Silver Medal; the one to catch. So, with Fletcher, therefore, being the one who needed to go out and try to make up ground, it was almost like Mustang had turned the tables, as it were, by adopting that same ‘counter-puncher approach’ Fletcher had employed so masterfully when seeing him off in the final of the U.S. Amateur the year previously.
And despite not being his natural playing style – given he tended to prefer a more offensively-minded approach wherein he would fire at every pin in sight if Ray let him – for the first four holes of his round that more conservative, ‘Tiger-esque’ approach had worked a treat for Mustang, as he’d rattled off a quartet of steady pars to remain -7 and one clear of Fletcher, who, to his own personal frustration, hadn’t managed to double his tally of birdies on holes 4 thru 6.
Upon reaching the par-4 5th, however, Mustang’s dedication to playing somewhat within himself had faced its first real challenge of the day when, following his tee-shot ballooning badly on a rogue gust of wind from the elevated tee-box, he had been left with the bones of 200-yards into the wind for his second shot, pulled it, and wound up making bogey, as a result, to drop back to -6.
Yet, regardless of the fact that he had just dropped his first shot of the day, not to mention how Fletcher had birdied the par-5 7th at almost exactly the same time to officially retake the lead over him on -7, Mustang didn’t hit the panic button, nor did he scrap their original plan. Instead, he made a solid par at the par-3 6th – after working in a beautiful fade to the back-right pin off the vast, once infamous sand dune christened, ‘Jungfrau’, which sits imposingly to the left of the green – before then going on to regain the shot he’d lost at the 5th by matching Fletcher with a hard-won birdie of his own at 7 that saw the pair of them back level once again on -7.
Though, Mustang hadn’t planned on this parity lasting all that long.
Because having known before the round that holes 8 and 9 would be playing dramatically downwind, Mustang, Ray, and Rodney had all earmarked the final two holes of the front-9 as potential birdie chances; gilt-edged greenlights to pad Mustang’s lead with some ‘insurance birdies’ ahead of the trials and tribulations that would surely await him on the back-9. And after seeing from the leaderboard that Fletcher had failed to birdie either of those two holes himself, once Mustang had then stepped on the tee at 8 and felt that same wind he’d been battling all morning rippling the folds at the back of his jacket and tousling his hair, that had just made him all the more determined that he was going to be the one to make some hay – and he duly delivered.
At the par-4 8th? Full-send driver. Sawn-off 7-iron to 6-feet. Birdie. At the short par-4 9th? Smooth 3-wood. Chipped gap-wedge to 5-feet below the hole. Birdie. It was the kind of performance that, though perhaps lacking the fireworks and drama of Saturday’s comeback, was most certainly up there with some of the best golf Mustang had produced over the course of the entire week. The surgical-like precision? The controlled aggression? The courage to utterly commit to each and every one of those six shots it had taken him to get through those two closing holes? It was a showing truly worthy of the two birdies he’d been rewarded with to get to -9, and saw him deservedly taking a two-shot lead over Fletcher into the back-9.
And now that he’d secured his par at the always challenging 10th? It was like Mustang didn’t even feel the wintry conditions anymore. Not the wind that was trying its hardest to push him backwards with each determined step he took en route to the 11th tee-box. Not the icy-cold flecks of rain he could feel hitting against his face as the sky continued to struggle with deciding whether or not it was finally going to unleash the sustained rainfall it had been threatening all afternoon. None of it.
Because with the way Mustang was currently feeling? The level of concentration and focus at which he felt as though he was operating? His sole focus was the Silver Medal. And whatever about winning it just so that Fletcher wouldn’t, as the week had progressed and they’d gotten deeper and deeper into the tournament, Mustang had found himself not only wanting to win it for himself but for everyone close to him as well. All those people who’d had an impact on getting him from sleeping in his grandfather’s car to this very position. And not just Ray either – though, admittedly, he deserved the vast majority of the credit. But Jeanie? Beau? Dallas? Fr. Breen? The Pirates? Rodney? They’d all helped him in different ways, and now he wanted to repay that kindness by winning the Silver Medal for them.
And nothing was going to stand in his way of doing that.
Not Fletcher.
Not himself.
And most definitely not Caesar – if he ever chose to show his face that was.
“Nice putt, kid,” said Bo cheerily, as he suddenly arrived alongside Mustang on the trampled-down path that led to the 11th. It hadn’t been quite as good an afternoon for Bo as it had been for Mustang, given he was currently +4 for his round and after slipping way down the leaderboard; all hopes of contending for the Claret Jug now all but gone as Louis Oosthuizen, Collin Morikawa, and Jordan Spieth had firmly separated themselves from the field on -15 and -14 respectively … not that Bo seemed all that bothered by this, of course. Instead, given the rather chipper mood he seemed to be in as he strode alongside Mustang with his hands buried in the pockets of his slacks, you’d have been forgiven for thinking he was the one currently cruising along at -9 and not the other way around.
“Thanks,” replied Mustang, forcing his mouth to form the tiniest of smiles before quickly setting it back into its original position. He didn’t want to risk becoming too distracted by small talk or by stepping too far outside his bubble of concentration – not at this crucial stage in the tournament.
“Just keep goin’ the way you are, though, alright?” said Bo, his tone now firming noticeably as he pulled a box of cigarettes out of his pocket. “Cause the urge to start gettin’ a little too defensive? That’s gonna start kickin’ in, and kickin’ in soon. But you gotta fight that, ok? Now, that don’t mean I’m sayin’ you should start firin’ at pins or anythin’, but the shots you do take? You gotta be aggressive with ‘em, ya hear me? Be it a drive, iron shot, wedge – hell, even putts – you gotta pick your targets and go after ‘em … hard.”
With a practiced ease, Bo pulled one of his cigarettes smoothly from the box and popped it in-between his lips for safekeeping as he went about returning the box to his pocket.
“Cause to try and see out a tournament like you’re doin’?” he continued, taking the cigarette back down from his mouth so that he’d be able to speak clearly. “If ya ask me, it’s a lot like herdin’ sheep into a pen. If you got a dog that’s cowerin’ behind ‘em and too afraid to bark at ‘em for fear of spookin’ ‘em? Chances are they ain’t never gonna get in that pen. But if you got a dog that’s willin’ to go up there and nip those suckers on the legs to get ‘em movin’ where you want ‘em to? Well, you’re gonna have a pen full of sheep come the end of it – and quick smart at that too. And the exact same principle goes for that ball of yours. If you want it to go where you want it to? You gotta make it go there. Cause the second you start tryna’ cozy it out there or treatin’ it like it’s made of glass? That’s when the mistakes come, kid.”
Despite his determination to keep himself as ‘in the moment’ as possible, Mustang felt as though, in this particular circumstance, he needed to make an exception. Because to hear the advice that Bo had just offered him? These pearls of wisdom he’d gathered from his decades of experience spent playing golf at the highest level? He didn’t have to do that. He could have just complimented Mustang on his putt at the 10th and let that be that.
But he hadn’t.
Instead, he’d chosen to go out of his way to try and help Mustang – and that couldn’t go unacknowledged.
“Wow … uh, ok … thank you, Bo …” said Mustang, sounding genuinely taken aback at his playing partner’s generosity. “But why are you telling me all this?”
“No reason in particular, really,” Bo answered casually, as he now fished a silver-plated lighter out of his other pocket. “Maybe it’s ‘cause my race is already run today. Could be the fact I’m already mentally spendin’ the juicy cheque I’m gonna be gettin’ regardless of where I finish …”
Mustang couldn’t help but smile as he watched Bo’s face light up with that trademark devilish grin of his.
“Mainly, though …” Bo continued, as he now spied the crest of the 11th tee-box emerging on the path ahead. “I think it goes back to what I said in the locker room ‘bout seein’ a lotta myself in you, kid. That sense of fight that you have? That spirit? Honestly, it’s like lookin’ at myself when I was 16 – albeit a far less angry, far more talented version. So, the way I look at it? If I ain’t gonna be comin’ away from this week with some silverware … well, I reckon havin’ you do it will be the next best thing.”
Finally reaching the end of the path, Bo and Mustang came up over the top of the slight hill where the 11th tee-box lay perched and strode out into the very centre of it, acknowledging those spectators who’d been brave enough to choose such an exposed spot to camp out for the day.
As soon as their gaze fell naturally out towards the unrestricted view of the sea the windswept tee-box afforded them, however, the second ‘thank you’ Mustang had gotten all lined up to hit Bo with quickly faded in importance.
Because out on the horizon? Itself now completely filled in with some of the angriest-looking clouds Mustang had ever seen? The deep, stormy blue colour of the sky spelled out a reality as cold and sobering as the wind howling around the tee-box.
And that was that Caesar was coming – and fast, at that.
“And by the looks of it?” said Bo, before pausing for a moment to flick open his lighter and light the cigarette he’d, once again, popped in-between his lips, using his hand to shield the flame from the wind as he did so.
With his cigarette now lit, Bo took it back down from his mouth and gratefully blew out that first breath of smoke his nicotine-hungry system had been craving.
“You’re gonna have to do it the hard way, kid …” he said, sternly finishing off his point before clapping Mustang encouragingly on the shoulder. “So, get ready to fight.”
GET THE FULL DIGITAL COPY OF THIS BOOK BY FOLLOWING THE LINK BELOW – THANK YOU:
https://mustangpeyton.bigcartel.com/product/mustang-ii-stormbreaker
Photo by Anna Groniecka.