In the 162-year history of the Open, more so than in any other Major Championship, the elements have always played a significant role in dictating who exactly emerges victorious come Sunday evening. Howling winds? Bitter cold? Driving rain? Whenever one throws their hat into the ring to become the ‘Champion Golfer of the Year’, these are the unpredictable, uncontrollable forces of nature you just accept you may have to do battle with in order to reach the ‘promised land’ that is hoisting the Claret Jug aloft … but secretly pray that you won’t ever need to.
And of all the courses on the Open rota that, throughout those same 160-plus years, have proven themselves the most likely to see those prayers go unanswered? Given its position on the very edge of the Kent coastline has seen it perennially exposed to the temperamental whims of the English Channel ever since it first opened its doors in 1887, Royal St. George’s has definitely always been one of the most unforgiving, with not too many of its previous fourteen stagings of the world’s original Major going unaffected by inclement weather in some way, shape or form.
And when that ‘inclement weather’ does, indeed, hit? It transforms Royal St. George’s from what is already a difficult enough course to deal with when the weather’s fine, into a near untameable beast – case in point being the last time the Open had rolled through the winding streets of Sandwich a decade previously in 2011.
With the first two days of that year’s Open having passed without much in the way of incident, once dawn broke on Saturday, those players unfortunate enough to have found themselves on the morning side of the draw were greeted with buffeting winds and squall after squall of torrential rain sweeping across the course. It was utter mayhem. A massacre the likes of which an Open leaderboard hadn’t seen since the opening round of the 137th championship three years prior when Royal Birkdale was struck by a similarly diabolical band of low pressure.
And come the end of that fateful third round at Royal St. George’s? One in which very few of the field had come away from the course feeling anything other than thoroughly demoralized? The damage had already been done. The storm had decimated the field and left but a small handful of players in contention to win – with Darren Clarke, eventually, coming out on top as one of but a quartet of players to actually make it across the finish line under par.
And while the scars of conditions like that stick with those players – and spectators – who had to endure them long after their rain gear has dried back out and their facial muscles have thawed, that’s every bit as true for the R&A. Because storms like that? They’re a nightmare for the decision-makers from St. Andrews. Because bad weather means delays. And if the delays are bad enough? Like they were throughout the weather-beaten Open at St. Andrews in 2015? Then you end up faced with that most dreaded of scenarios which no golf tournament ever wants to find itself staring down the barrel of … ‘The Monday Finish’.
So, needless to say, once the R&A got word on Saturday night that the storm they’d been monitoring since late Friday afternoon – one dubbed, Storm Caesar, that had been leaving a trail of destruction in its wake as it had crossed mainland Europe throughout the course of the week – had suddenly changed trajectory and was now looking as though it was going to pass dangerously close to Royal St. George’s come Sunday afternoon, they hadn’t wasted a second in taking action. Because they knew that if Caesar were to hit with players still out on the course, even if it were to lose some of the ferocity it was carrying whilst making the journey over the north-west corner of France and then across the Channel in the proceeding hours, there was more than a good chance that it could see play grind to a complete halt until Monday morning – and, naturally, they were going to do whatever they could to try and make sure that didn’t happen.
So, as per the text alert that had arrived into Ray’s phone as he and Mustang had been hurriedly making their way back through the trees which separated the cliff face from the house to see if Desmond had heard about the storm, the R&A had made the decree that they were going to be bringing forward all of the following day’s tee-times by a substantial margin; with the very first pairing now scheduled to be heading out as soon it was bright enough for them to see, while the two leaders, Oosthuizen and Morikawa, would be getting their final round underway just before 11:30.
With this, of course, meaning Mustang, too, would be teeing off far earlier than what he’d been expecting when leaving Royal St. George’s that evening, once he and Ray had made it back to the house and spoken with Desmond – who, unsurprisingly, was already abreast of the entire situation courtesy of his extensive contacts inside the R&A – Mustang had been promptly packed off to his bedroom in order to get as much sleep as possible given his plans for a ‘sleep-in’ the next morning had unequivocally gone up in smoke.
Having figured that his chances of getting even a semi-decent night’s sleep ahead of the final round were always going to be pretty slim, once the prospect of having to negotiate a potential storm entered the equation, however, those same ‘chances’ pretty much evaporated entirely for Mustang.
Because whether it was during their time hanging out at the Walker Cup or throughout the week when they’d been whiling away the evening hours after getting home from the course, Mustang had heard all of Rodney’s old ‘war stories’ from his time as a caddie. And in amongst the tales of particularly nightmarish bags he’d had the misfortune of guiding around Royal St. George’s, and those unbelievable ones that make all the terrible loops worth it – like the time an American tourist tipped him £500 for giving him the read on a putt that helped him win a big-money match against his friends – Rodney had, of course, regaled Mustang with his accounts of those especially memorable occasions when he’d been out on the course at the precise moment Mother Nature had felt it necessary to remind everybody just what exactly it was she was capable of.
And whether it was Royal St. George’s or those times he’d been doing cover work on the adjacent Prince’s Golf Club, Rodney’s stories had always left Mustang coming away having learnt the exact same lesson: should you see storm clouds barrelling across the Channel when you’re out on either of those courses? Your two best choices are to simply run to the clubhouse … or sprint there.
Still, despite spending what felt like hours staring up at the ceiling of his room trying to preemptively plan for every possible worst-case scenario that might befoul him should he get caught in Caesar’s wake, Mustang, eventually, managed to string together some semblance of disturbed sleep before being jarred awake just after seven o’clock by the alarm on his phone.
With his first port of call having seen him, instinctively, make for the window of his room, however, Mustang was surprised by what he saw upon drawing back the curtains. Because as opposed to finding himself staring out at the ominous scene he’d been imagining the previous night wherein he’d been expecting to be greeted by the sight of a dark, overcast sky acting as a herald for the tempest lurking out beyond the horizon, Mustang, instead, found himself looking at quite the opposite. For, though not the sea of unspoiled blue that it had been on Saturday, the sky, from where Mustang had been standing, was still looking incredibly pleasant.
Yes, there were large splodges of silvery-white clouds streaming across it at pace as they headed for higher ground inland – some of the darker-coloured ones, undoubtedly, bringing the odd drop of rain with them. But apart from that, if one didn’t necessarily know that there was a storm, supposedly, due to make landfall in the next few hours, you wouldn’t have been blamed for thinking that such a nice-looking morning meant you were in for nothing more than yet another pleasant day out by the coast.
Once Mustang had made his way downstairs after grabbing a quick shower, though, his hopes that the forecast had perhaps changed overnight and that Caesar had decided to now veer more westward towards Ireland were soundly dashed as soon he came across Rodney sitting at the kitchen island. He’d been up since before 6 – as he had done consistently throughout the week – and in that time he’d been steadily monitoring his own version of the same weather app that Ray had installed on his own phone. And in-between the mouthfuls of porridge he’d been wolfing down as Mustang had gone about eating his own breakfast, Rodney had painted a far bleaker picture than what the blue skies and sunshine outside were trying to convince Mustang of otherwise. Because, according to Rodney, not only was this merely the calm before the storm – meaning, Caesar was still, indeed, on the same trajectory that had seen the meteorologists at the R&A pull the trigger on bringing the tee-times forward – but according to the radar he’d been watching like a hawk since waking up, the storm itself, worryingly, appeared to have grown in both strength and size overnight.
Of course, given he could tell from the expression on his face that, understandably, this wasn’t exactly the news Mustang wanted to be hearing ahead of his final round, Rodney had been quick to qualify his “doomsday-like” outlook for the day with the silver lining that as long as the storm remained on the trajectory which, at that point, it looked as though it was going to continue to track along, then Royal St. George’s should escape the worst of it – with conditions, at most, seeing the wind pick up to perhaps a club and a half’s-worth of a difference from where it had been over the first three rounds, and the field getting its first taste of rain for the week in the shape of some heavy showers.
And thanks to that ever-so-faint glimmer of hope provided by Rodney, as the rest of the morning had progressed with him going religiously through the exact same pre-round routine as that which he’d been doing all week, Mustang had found himself thinking less and less about the various ‘what-ifs’ associated with the storm – though, admittedly, the added addition of having his grandfather and everybody else from the party milling around the house may have played a small role in this most timely of oversights as well.
By the time he, Rodney, and Ray had loaded into the minivan outside the house, though, and actually set about making the short journey back to the course – leaving Travis and the others to make their own way there a little closer to his tee-time – Mustang hadn’t been thinking about the storm at all. Instead, he and Rodney had just passed the time chatting about the previous night’s party; although, for the most part, that particular conversation had revolved mainly around how Rodney now had a huge crush on Indie, and him asking Mustang what he thought the chances were, realistically, of him having a shot with her.
When they finally did reach the course, however, and he’d disembarked from the minivan, Mustang quickly realized that it was going to take a lot more than listening to a deluded Rodney attempt to convince himself that a long-distance relationship between himself and Indie could work if he was going to continue to keep thoughts of Caesar at bay. Because whether it was feeling the already increased strength in the wind as it whipped through his hair; hearing the sound of the large Union Jack flag hoisted above the clubhouse straining and tugging against its flagpole as the breeze ripped steadily across it; or seeing the various golf bags all noticeably prepped for bad weather with umbrellas strapped to their sides and fit with waterproof covers just waiting to be pulled up over the clubs should it begin to rain, it was clear that Caesar was already making his presence felt at Royal St. George’s … even if he, himself, was still hours away from fully traversing the Channel.
Having pulled everything out of the trunk of the minivan, Ray closed down the door with a heavy, metallic clunk before rapping on it twice to let their driver know that he was now free to leave.
“Alright, kid, your stuff’s here,” said Ray, grabbing Mustang’s golf bag and slinging the strap of it up over his shoulder as the minivan pulled slowly away from them.
“Oh, yeah … sorry …” replied Mustang, ‘coming to’ from the slight trance he’d fallen into after letting his gaze float back up to the rippling Union Jack above the clubhouse.
“Now, while you’re gettin’ your shoes on and everythin’ …” said Ray, getting straight down to business as he watched Mustang grab his small duffel bag from up off the ground in front of him. “I’m just gonna run real quick down to the tour trucks, ok? So, I’ll just meet you out on the range; where they hand the balls out.”
“What do you need from down there?” asked Rodney, his interest immediately piqued at hearing Ray mention the tour trucks, as each of them, in their own right, were like giant, mobile, golf versions of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.
“Nothin’ crazy interestin’,” replied Ray, stealing a quick glance at his wristwatch to make sure that he wasn’t running late. “I just mentioned to Desmond that I could do with gettin’ in some fresh supplies to make sure we’re prepared for the weather should it hit while we’re still out on the course – you know, some good rain gear; a new cover for the top of the bag; an umbrella that, unlike ours, don’t have a hole in the top of it. So, he arranged for me to meet a buddy of his who works with Taylormade who said he could fix us up.”
“Do you mind if I tag along?” asked Rodney, sounding hopeful that Ray’s answer would be ‘yes’. “I’ve just always wanted to see the inside of a tour truck.”
“Yeah, sure, if ya want,” said Ray, readjusting the strap of Mustang’s bag into a more comfortable position ahead of the sneakily long walk that it was to the clearing where all the tour trucks were holed up together like some makeshift town. “Though, keep those hands of yours to yourself, ya hear me?”
Straight away, Rodney slapped an amusingly horrified expression across his face like he’d never been so insulted in all his life. “Woah, where’s that coming from?!” he cried, aghast at being so bluntly accused. “I’ll ‘ave you know that I’ve never stolen anything in my life!”
“Oh, is that right?!” laughed Ray, knowingly. “So, does this mean you’re not plannin’ on tryna’ sneak the Playstation 5 outta the house tomorrow, then?!”
Almost immediately, a look flashed across Rodney’s face that was equal parts guilt at being caught red-handed, and confusion at how Ray knew that was exactly what he’d been planning on doing. “So, shall we go?” Rodney asked, changing his demeanour in an instant as he attempted to drastically change the subject from the details of his now ruined ‘Playstation Heist’. “Don’t want to keep this bloke waiting, now do we?”
With that, Rodney set off walking in the general direction of where the tour trucks were located, leaving Ray and Mustang to just watch him go with big smiles on their faces.
“Well, I guess that’s my cue to leave as well,” said Ray dryly, as he turned his attention away from the absconding Rodney, and looked back at Mustang. “You remember what I said, though, right?”
“When I’m done here, meet you on the range where they hand the balls out,” answered Mustang, confidently repeating back Ray’s earlier instructions.
“Cool,” said Ray, feeling better now that he knew for certain they were both on the same page. “And, hey, try not to be thinkin’ too much about this storm, ok? I know I’m goin’ off gettin’ all this stuff should it hit early but … well, even if it does? We’ll just figure it out like we always do, alright?”
“Yeah, ok …” said Mustang with a nod, as he smiled weakly back at Ray. “I’ll try.”
“At a boy,” replied Ray, winking reassuringly at Mustang before turning heel and setting off after Rodney, who was already after building up quite a significant lead over him.
As he watched Ray leave, however, seeing him angle his head slightly downwards in order to stop a sudden gust of wind from whipping the baseball cap straight off his head, Mustang knew full well that, despite what he’d just said, he wasn’t going to be able to just forget about the storm. Not in the slightest. Because now that he was actually at the course? Feeling the skin on his exposed arms beginning to goosebump as the increasingly bitter wind began to cut deeper and deeper to his bones? Mustang just couldn’t ignore the ominous feeling he now had in the pit of his stomach.
And it wasn’t one borne out of uncertainty over wondering whether or not Caesar was going to arrive before he finished his round.
It was the fact that Mustang couldn’t feel more certain that he was going to arrive before he reached the 18th.
And when he did?
It wasn’t going to be pretty.
*
Having changed into his golf shoes – and decided it best to finally pull on the sweater he’d been bringing to the course all week on the outside chance the mercury would drop to those chillier temperatures one would more normally associate with the notoriously fickle ‘Great British Summer’ – Mustang grabbed his duffel bag, shoved it into his locker, and closed the door; hearing the latch slipping into place with a satisfying click as he did so.
There hadn’t been that many pros milling around the locker room in the time Mustang had been in there, though that wasn’t really anything new. As he’d noticed since the tournament had properly kicked off on Thursday morning, those same chummy catch-ups the locker room had seen over the three practice days at the beginning of the week had pretty much all but vanished, with most of the pros now just making quick pit stops inside there to simply change their shoes or perhaps use the bathroom. And, truth be told, this hadn’t bothered Mustang in the slightest – in fact, be it before or after his rounds, he’d come to savour these quiet moments when, more often than not, it was just him inside in the locker room. The peace? The quiet? It was like a small haven in and of itself from the intense pressure that lay in wait just outside its walls; a carpeted sanctuary lined with wooden lockers that smelled of history and refinement … well, usually, at any rate.
Because, for whatever reason, as Mustang began to move away from his locker to go about meeting Ray, as planned, down by the range, he couldn’t help but notice that he could now smell the distinct aroma of cigarette smoke coming from somewhere inside the locker room. Once a quick scout around then left him with the conclusion that the smoke could only be coming from the adjoining bathroom where the showers were located, Mustang – realizing that, chances were, Ray and Rodney weren’t going to be anywhere near being finished with their business down at the tour trucks yet – allowed himself to indulge his curiosity by going to investigate just what exactly was happening inside said bathroom.
So, after swiftly reaching the large opening that separated it from the rest of the locker room area – and whilst trying to remain as stealthy as he had been thus far in creeping across the carpet towards it – Mustang peeked sneakily around the corner of the wall and into the bathroom to see who the mystery smoker could possibly be. Because ever since Tiger burst onto the scene in the late-90s and became the poster boy for golfers treating themselves more like athletes, that idea had evolved and mutated over the years to the point where pretty much every professional golfer on Tour nowadays would be far more likely to be incorporating some kind of complicated weight-lifting and stretching regimen into their pre-round routine as opposed to sneaking in a sly cigarette inside the cold, tiled confines of a locker room bathroom … well, almost every professional golfer, that is.
Because whilst the ‘Era of the Golf Athlete’ was most certainly here to stay, there were still a few holdouts left in the ranks of the professional game that didn’t quite subscribe to the modern idea of what it is to be a pro golfer in 2021.
Those ‘old-school’ golfers who, whilst everybody else is holed-up in their private gyms curling dumbbells on top of a Bosu Ball at the behest of some eye-wateringly expensive personal trainer, they’re … well, doing absolutely anything but that.
The dying breed of a bygone era who would roll up to the final round of a tournament hungover, do a few half-hearted stretches in the parking lot to “loosen out”, then head straight to the tee, shoot 65, before collecting their cheque for their week’s “work” and moving on to the next town to, no doubt, repeat the exact same process all over again.
And, unsurprisingly, once Mustang finally laid eyes on the person who was after lighting up inside the bathroom, not only did he, indeed, find himself looking at one of these very same outliers, he found himself looking at one of the most notorious ones there was.
His playing partner for the final round … Bo Dano.
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Photo by Anna Groniecka.