“Ladies and gentlemen! Please welcome to the green … from Orlando, Florida … Mustang Peyton!”
Though they couldn’t yet make out who exactly was announcing his arrival amongst the shadowy mass of applauding people surrounding the 18th, whoever he was, his loud, foghorn of a voice was a welcome sign for Mustang and Ray that they were, at last, getting close to reaching the green. Having started rolling in off the ocean from around the 10th hole of the afternoon session, the fog had grown so steadily denser with each passing hour that, come the time they reached the 18th tee-box, the simple act of teeing off had suddenly become a ‘trust exercise’ that a fairway still existed beyond the white, salt-licked wall Poseidon had deemed necessary to send creeping over the undulating swales and hollows of Bandon Dunes.
Whatever about what it had done to the visibility, however, the real issue Mustang had with the fog was how it had affected the course itself. Because he was the youngest competitor in the field – even after turning 15 the previous month at the beginning of July – Mustang had known heading into the U.S. Amateur that, much like had been the case at the Memorial Matchplay, he was going to be giving up a lot of distance off-the-tee against whomever he’d be playing. All week, though, whether it had been on Bandon Trails or Bandon Dunes, a spell of continuously dry, hot weather had seen both courses get baked out and harden up; meaning, even though he wasn’t flying the ball as far as his competition, with the amount of run he was getting out of the fairways – sometimes 30 to 40 yards in places – Mustang had still been managing to find himself left with decent amounts of loft in his hands for most of his approaches into the treacherously quick greens.
With the arrival of the fog, though – or ‘marine layer’, as he’d overheard it referred to by several knowledgeable-sounding spectators in the gallery that had been following their match – not only had the fiery nature of the course been dampened down by the moisture in the fog, thus reining in how far his ball had been rolling once it hit the deck, but the coinciding drop in temperature had seen the distance his ball was travelling through the air significantly fall from where it had been for the first 27 holes of the final. And given who Mustang was playing against? He’d discovered pretty early on in their match that he couldn’t afford to be giving up any advantages.
“And from Charleston, South Carolina!” boomed the mystery announcer once more, a noticeable tinge of extra excitement cutting through the fog, as if he’d been particularly looking forward to this moment. “He is the 2020 U.S. Junior Amateur Champion! … Fletcher Rhodes!”
Again, as they’d done for him, the crowd of people gathered around the 18th green, right on cue, politely applauded for Mustang’s opponent as he emerged through the fog and to within a few steps of the putting surface; the sound of their hands clapping rhythmically matching the rustling of the jackets they’d been forced into wearing on account of the weather.
Though primarily concerned with seeing where his second shot had wound up – as he knew full well that he’d hung it out to the right after not quite catching all of his 3-wood – Mustang couldn’t help but look in Fletcher’s direction. And where he could feel that he, himself, had started to look a little ragged with his damp hair and the tail of his polo shirt after coming untucked from his shorts on account of the musty Crescent Creek hoodie he was wearing – one that, up until he went looking, he’d forgotten he’d actually squirreled away inside the large side-pocket of his golf bag a few weeks previously – Fletcher, apart from the rather expensive-looking, red sweater he’d taken to wearing at the 12th, was still looking as polished and unfazed as when the final had begun. His perfectly coiffed blonde hair was still, somehow, perfectly in place despite the weather. His full leather, white golf shoes, unlike Mustang’s, were still immaculately clean as if he’d just slipped them on out of the box. And perhaps what Mustang found most unbelievable was the fact that Fletcher didn’t look even the tiniest bit tired.
After what had been an incredibly long week just to get to the final, Mustang had found that by the time they’d reached the 5th hole of the afternoon session, he’d already started to feel his legs getting a little heavy. Whether that was down to the meandering, hilly terrain of Bandon Dunes; how incredibly warm the weather had been before it turned; or just down to the simple fact he wasn’t used to playing 36-holes, pretty much, back-to-back in the same day, he wasn’t sure. But by the time he reached the par 5 18th, whilst well aware that he was 1DN, Mustang’s energy levels had plummeted so far down into the floor that he’d found himself fighting hard to keep his concentration on the match and not the delicious smell of food wafting down the fairway from the clubhouse. To look at Fletcher, on the other hand, from the way he was casually sauntering onto the green, putter already in hand, he looked like he, easily, had another 36-holes in him. Once Mustang actually cast his eye across the putting surface and saw Fletcher’s ball sitting less than two feet from the hole, however, he couldn’t blame him for looking so upbeat and at ease. Because to find yourself on the final hole of the U.S. Amateur? Up by 1? And you flush a 6-iron from 195-yards to near tap-in range for eagle? Mustang would have been walking on air as well.
“Hey, Fletcher?!” he called, his voice sounding overly loud in the hushed silence that had once again fallen over the green.
Having already reached his ball, Fletcher paused from fishing his ball marker out of the pocket on his neatly pressed, navy shorts and looked over at Mustang. “That’s good; you can take it away.”
With his putt conceded, and after exchanging a quick glance over at his caddie, Fletcher nodded his head and gave Mustang a very subtle thumbs up. “Thanks, buddy,” he smiled, flashing his pearly-white, perfectly straight teeth as he swept his ball up into his hand with the back of his putter.
“Alright, kid, we’re over here.”
Having been so focused on Fletcher and listening to the cheer from the crowd that had accompanied seeing him pick his ball up – a cheer which sounded suspiciously like they thought their champion had already been crowned – Mustang hadn’t even noticed where Ray had gone. When he turned and saw where he was standing, however, Mustang was unable to prevent a deflated-sounding sigh from seeping out of his lungs. About 3-feet inside the large waste area short and right of the green, an area populated with unkempt, wiry grass and patches of hardy brush that probably only saw a greenkeeper’s blade once or twice a year, Ray was standing with his hands tucked inside the large front pocket on his bib and looking straight down at where Mustang’s ball was lying with a stumped expression on his face that he was trying – and failing – to mask. Knowing this could only mean the news wasn’t all that great, Mustang bit the bullet and started walking over there to go see the damage for himself.
“So, how bad is it?” he asked, as he got to within a few steps of where Ray was still carefully scrutinizing the lie of his ball.
“Well … I’m not gonna lie, kid,” replied Ray, lifting his head and looking at Mustang. “It could be better.”
As tired as Mustang was feeling after the week they’d had, now that he took a second to properly look at him for what felt like the first time since they’d come back out after lunch for the second 18, he couldn’t help but think that Ray was feeling the exact same way he was. He had dark circles under both of his eyes. His normally clean-shaven face was sporting three days-worth of heavy stubble. And where all the sunshine from earlier in the week had led Mustang to turn brown like a chestnut, Ray’s face and legs just had the sore, red look of getting sunburnt too many days in a row. In short, it was an overall aesthetic contributing to him looking, as he’d say to Mustang after a long day caddying around the Creek, just a little ‘battle weary’.
Knowing he’d need to see the lie for himself, Ray stepped out from the rough and cleared the stage for Mustang. Within a second of seeing where his ball actually was, though, Mustang quickly understood what Ray had meant by saying “it could be better”. With just half of it visible, Mustang’s ball had not only nestled down into the rough, but it had managed to situate itself only a few centimetres away from being stuck right up against a thick clump of grass as well.
Put simply, it was pretty ugly.
“What are ya thinkin’?” asked Ray, who had picked up Mustang’s bag from where he’d laid it down on the grass and taken to resting his elbow up on top of it.
“Well, I could try and fly it up to the hole with a wedge,” pondered Mustang aloud, his gaze still firmly locked on the Bridgestone logo staring up at him. “Take the bunker and that ridge in front of the pin out of the equation?”
A sceptical-sounding Ray sucked his teeth as he stared off at the pin. “A wedge? Out of that lie? I dunno, kid. I mean, even if you manage to get perfect contact on it, with the amount of top-spin that’s gonna be on it? On these greens? It’ll be like a greased up hog runnin’ on a marble floor – won’t be no stoppin’ it.”
“Unless I play for that top-spin …” mused Mustang, looking over at Ray.
“Meanin’?”
“Well, if there’ll be no way to control it once it hits the green, why don’t I just play it like a bump and run? You know, grip down on a 7, stab it out, and run it up there?”
Ray didn’t know what to say. Whilst his gut reaction was to think of everything that could possibly go wrong with playing such a shot – namely how close the ball would have to get to the edge of the bunker in order to wind up anywhere near the pin; the relatively steep, undulating bank it would have to navigate after leaving the rough and how it could throw it any number of directions; and the fact there was no way of knowing how the ultra-fine layer of moisture now covering the tightly mown grass between the rough and the green would actually affect the ball – Ray had gotten used to the fact that when it came to Mustang, you couldn’t judge the feasibility of a shot based on a “normal” person’s gut reaction. Instead, you had to treat him like you would a bird standing on a cliff edge. Even if he jumps? Then chances are he’s going to fly.
“Yeah, I think that’s the play,” agreed Ray, making sure to sound nice and confident as he pulled the 7-iron out of the bag. “You got your spot picked out for where you’re gonna aim?”
Mustang looked off towards the pin. He started running his eyes on a path from the hole right back along the green and down into the fringe until he’d covered the full 50-feet of prime links turf separating his ball from the bottom of the cup. And about 15-feet away, perched on top of this little mound just short of the right-hand side of the bunker, was the spot where he knew he needed to land his ball. As per usual, he didn’t know how or why he knew that was the spot. He just did. And, ever since the Memorial, he’d come to learn that he should just trust that instinct.
“Yeah …” nodded Mustang, keeping his eye on the spot. “I got it.”
Ray stepped in and held out the 7-iron towards Mustang. “Then, in that case,” he said. “Let’s show Mr. Junior Champ over there that we ain’t goin’ down without a fight then, huh?”
A determined expression set across Mustang’s face as he reached out and took the 7-iron. Knowing there was nothing more he could do, Ray grabbed his bag and moved back a few steps to let Mustang get himself ready to take his shot. Seeing him begin to take a few practice swings, Fletcher, who’d been deep in hushed conversation with his caddie since picking up his ball, quickly turned to the crowd surrounding the green and began making a ‘shushing’ gesture, imploring them to fall silent. Not wishing to displease their would-be-champion, the crowd dutifully obeyed Fletcher’s instructions and all turned their attention towards Mustang. With the low hum of conversation now muted, the sound of the ocean churning against the shore off in the distance, once again, filled in the silence around the 18th as Mustang continued to swipe his 7-iron through a patch of rough similar to what he’d be attempting to extricate his ball from.
After getting a feel for how the clubhead might move through the grass – primarily, how there was a good chance it could either turn over on him if the hosel got tangled up or just straight-up jam into the turf – Mustang stepped in behind his ball just as the lightest of mists began to fall, gently coating the already damp grass with delicate droplets of water. Eager to get on with things before the mist got any heavier and made the extraction mission he was about to undertake all the more difficult, Mustang tucked his increasingly wet hair behind his left ear and settled himself down into his stance. He gripped right down the club as he’d planned, even going so far as to have the index finger on his right hand touching the shaft, and hovered the clubhead above the ball. With his grip and narrowed stance ready-to-go, Mustang looked back off towards the pin. What little breeze had remained with the onset of the fog had now been completely eradicated by the falling mist, as evidenced by the fact the flag was lying completely limp. Feeling even happier with his decision to take the ground route to the hole given the now incredibly benign conditions, Mustang’s eyes flicked back down to his target spot one more time, before turning his attention, finally, down onto his ball. Now ready to pull the trigger, Mustang gently placed the head of his 7-iron down onto the grass, allowing a little extra space between it and the ball than normal; after all, the last thing he needed with the tournament on the line was to have to call a penalty on himself for accidentally moving his ball, otherwise, he might as well just give the 7-iron back to Ray and go hand the Havemeyer Trophy over to Fletcher himself.
Knowing he’d have to come down a little steeper on the ball than he usually would for a ‘bump & run’, Mustang leaned slightly more into his left leg before, as per his normal pre-shot routine, taking his final glance off towards his landing area and then the hole. With everything still in check there, he looked back down at his ball and focused on a single dimple at its rear, one directly in line with the Bridgestone logo that was still, luckily, glaring judgmentally up at him for putting him in such a precarious position in the first place. For the next few seconds, though, that one, single dimple was all Mustang was going to focus on. Because, in reality, the contact he was going to make with it was the only thing left in this entire crazy situation that he had any control over. He couldn’t control how the ball would react when it hit the landing area he’d picked out. He couldn’t control how it would tackle the bank up towards the green. And he definitely couldn’t control how it would roll once it found its way onto the putting surface – if it even would at all.
So, as opposed to thinking about all of that, never mind taking into consideration the not-so-small fact that the match would be over if he didn’t chip it in … Mustang just didn’t.
Instead, he drew the club halfway back in his swing, focused all of his energy into sending it crashing back down into that one dimple, and …
THWIP!
Like it had just been shot out of a cannon, Mustang’s ball popped up out of the rough and launched forward out towards the short grass. Though he’d made pretty decent contact, between the unavoidable moisture on the clubface and the fact he’d trapped the tiniest piece of grass between the grooves and the dimple he’d been aiming to strike, as soon as Mustang lifted his head and laid eyes on his ball he could tell that he’d, indeed, gotten the top-spin he’d been playing for and then some.
In other words, it had come out hot – perhaps even too much so.
After covering the first 15-feet of its journey no more than a foot off the ground, Mustang’s ball, as planned, hit the mound he’d singled out as being his ideal landing area. Between the sheer amount of spin it was carrying and the layer of water now covering the grass, however, the ball skipped off the top of the mound and set off skidding up the bank with all the control of a dropped bar of soap inside a bathtub. Though ensuring it was carrying enough speed to avoid being thrown off-course by the subtle bumps and ridges carved into it, once Mustang’s ball barreled up over the top of the bank and onto the green with all the momentum of a runaway freight train, it quickly became apparent that getting it to slow down was going to be quite the challenge – if not nigh-on impossible.
“BITE! BITE!” urged Mustang, white-knuckling the grip on his club.
“SLOW DOWN, BALL! SLOW!” barked Ray, furiously snapping his fingers.
But Mustang’s ball didn’t want to listen. And they could tell it, too. Instead, all they could do was pin their hopes on the one remaining thing that could possibly slow his ball down: the ridge guarding the hole.
So like everyone else gathered around the green, they watched with bated breath as his ball scaled the ridge and …
IT WORKED!
Though not by much, as Mustang’s ball broke over the top of the ridge there was no denying it had lost just enough steam to dive to the right as it followed the fall of the green and trundled down the other side of the ridge.
And then, just like that, it was on a beeline right for the hole.
Quite unable to believe what they were seeing play out before them, the usual wave of electricity – one that had come to be “the norm” with watching Mustang do his thing on a golf course – began to sweep through the crowd huddled around the 18th. This was the Mustang they’d heard about. The kid who’d emerged out of nowhere as one of the most exciting amateur players in the United States. The kid who could do things with a golf ball that if you pulled off the same in 2K21 you’d deem it ‘too unrealistic’. The kid they’d heard called a ‘magician’, a ‘wunderkind’, and perhaps most dangerously of all … a ‘prodigy’. As his ball got to within 6-feet of the hole, though, not only did every single person gathered around that green wholeheartedly believe everything they’d heard about him, but they were convinced they were now witnessing Mustang add to his already burgeoning legend right before their stunned eyes.
Because 5-feet out? His ball was bang-on line with the hole.
4-feet out? The feeling of electricity started to grow even stronger.
3-feet out? The roars of ‘GET IN THE HOLE!’ and ‘GET IN!’ that, up until then had been solely reserved for Fletcher’s ball, began to ring out across the dunes.
2-feet out? A wide-eyed Ray, now operating completely on autopilot, joined in with a roar of ‘GET IN!’ himself as the adrenalin now pumping through his veins demanded he ball up his hands in anticipation of delivering a knockout blow of a fist-pump.
1-foot out? Mustang, with his 7-iron raised triumphantly up over his head, moved out from the rough and began to march in the direction of the green, his eyes glued to his ball for fear of missing even a single rotation.
It hit the right edge of the cup at speed …
Ran around the back of the hole …
And lipped out the other side!
“OOOOOOOHHHHH!” groaned the crowd as Mustang’s ball rolled 4-feet off to the left of hole and slowly came to a stop. Once the initial shock of not seeing his ball dive into the cup had passed, the crowd, realising what this now meant, quickly turned to applauding as they switched their allegiance back over to a beaming Fletcher, who was already in the middle of pulling his caddie in for a big, celebratory bearhug.
Still dumbfounded at the fact his ball hadn’t dropped for the eagle, and now feeling utterly lost in the commotion that had gripped the 18th, all Mustang could do was let his 7-iron drop limply back down to his side as he tried to wrap his head around exactly what had just happened.
Suddenly, from across the green, the Scorekeeper piped up.“RHODES, THREE!” he yelled, his voice cracking so hard after spending the day shouting that he could barely be heard over the still applauding crowd. “PEYTON FOUR! … RHODES WINS 2UP!”
And just like that? It finally hit Mustang.
It was all over.
Fletcher had won
And he had lost.
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