With Saturday seeing the return, once more, of unspoiled blue skies and unencumbered sunshine over Royal St. George’s, hats, lashings of sunscreen, and ample supplies of cold drinks were, most definitely, the order of the day as Mustang secretly took in the sight of those spectators packed tightly into the grandstands surrounding the 1st-tee.
Though they’d all been enduring the suffocating heat since well before lunchtime to ensure they were best positioned to see the leaders tee-off in little under an hour’s time – primarily, Oosthuizen, Morikawa, and Spieth – once the electronic screen set into one of the walls of the grandstands had begun to show that Mustang and Fletcher were going to be the next pair to tee-off, there’d been no denying that the crowd’s interest levels had been suitably aroused.
Mustang could feel it in the air.
That crackle of electricity.
The buzz of anticipation.
But he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it.
Because after Jake Maxwell’s rant about him on the Golf Channel the previous night, most of the other networks and media outlets covering the Open had proceeded to pick up the story about him punching Fletcher as well. And it had gone everywhere. Sky Sports. NBC. Peacock. The BBC. Golf Digest. Those same British tabloids Desmond had mentioned like ‘The Daily Mail’ and ‘The Sun’. All of them were back talking about what had gone down between Mustang and Fletcher at the side of that putting green in San Antonio three months previously. Even the same infamous video that had come out back in April – the one actually showing Mustang checking out how stable Fletcher’s jaw was – had resurfaced online and begun to spread like wildfire, again, across all the social medal platforms; everywhere from official accounts with blue ticks to ‘no profile picture’ accounts whose owners seemed abnormally angry about the whole situation.
And all of those people sitting in the grandstands? The same ones glistening in the sunshine with the height of sunscreen they’d slathered themselves in, and using their official Open programs as makeshift fans to attempt to cool themselves down even further? Mustang knew they’d all watched those same reports, read all the hastily-written articles, and shared the clip of the punch enough times to now be fully sold on seeing how his and Fletcher’s intriguing rivalry played out over the weekend – even if it was just as an interesting sideshow to the main event that was seeing who was going to win the Claret Jug.
What was quietly troubling Mustang, however – and had been since the previous evening – was wondering whether or not the crowd had been turned against him in light of the way he’d been portrayed by the likes of Jake and the rest of the media. Did they now, indeed, see him as some kind of ‘thug’? A dysfunctional runaway who’d, seemingly, assaulted Fletcher in an unprovoked attack? And, as a result, were they now going to be actively rooting for Fletcher and against him as they both attempted to stake their claim to the Silver Medal?
Because, as per Ray and Desmond’s instruction, whilst he’d tried his best to simply ignore all of the rekindled media attention, and the effect it may have on the crowd’s allegiances by just focusing on what he was going to be doing once he actually got inside the ropes that afternoon, as soon they’d arrived at the course just before lunchtime to begin their preparations for the third round, Mustang had realized pretty quickly that was going to be a lot easier said than done. For, everywhere they went? There seemed to be cameras watching him. Waiting for him in the parking lot outside the clubhouse. Watching him warming up on the range. Watching him when he’d then migrated over to the practice putting green.
It had been incessant.
What had really started to annoy Mustang about it, however, was that Fletcher appeared to be getting none of the same treatment. Even though they had both been on the range at the same time – granted, at opposite ends of it – Mustang couldn’t help but notice how there’d been no cameras, not one single one, pointed at Fletcher’s hitting bay watching him warm-up; and how the exact same thing had happened once they’d both made their way to the practice putting green. In truth, it was this clear disparity between how he and Fletcher were being treated – be it intentional or not – that saw Mustang actually finish his warm-up on the practice green earlier than what he normally would and head to the 1st-tee with nearly ten whole minutes to go before their scheduled tee-time.
Naturally, Ray had attempted to talk Mustang out of making such a decision, imploring with him that, regardless of the cameras, they should stick to the routine that had served them so well over the previous two days, but there was no talking him around. Though he’d become accustomed to seeing the army of cameras around the course over Thursday and Friday – to such an extent that he’d almost reached a point where he’d stopped noticing them altogether – there was just something Mustang had found inherently different about the way they’d been watching him before he’d cut his losses and made for the lesser of two evils in the shape of the 1st-tee.
In the preceding few days, the cameras had been there to just capture what he was doing with his golf clubs as he passed through certain checkpoints on the course; like a whole selection of camera traps set up in some isolated jungle clearing to catch the comings and goings of some wild, elusive animal. But the way they’d acted that afternoon? They hadn’t been there to see what Mustang was doing from a golfing perspective – no.
Just like what had happened at the Walker Cup, they’d been sent to seek him out and get footage of him for the sole purpose of having something for panellists and pundits in air-conditioned televisions studios to speak over as they talked about him. Each of them giving their opinions on whether or not they thought he should be playing in the Open. Each of them clumsily dissecting his character as if they could tell everything they needed to know about him as a person from a 15-second-long video of him punching Fletcher. And each of them making it pretty clear that they were rooting for Fletcher to win the Silver Medal and complete his Grand Slam because he “deserved it”. All of it done to simply fill time. To wile away the minutes with some idle chatter before they could cut to the next commercial break in order to keep the sponsors happy.
And, understandably, knowing that this is what was happening as he was being watched by those cameras, the discomfort and paranoia it had made Mustang feel was just too much to handle. All he’d wanted to do was to concentrate on his warm-up, but the distraction was simply too great. So, he’d bolted – seeking refuge in the cool, shaded tunnel that led out towards the 1st-tee.
And, despite knowing Ray would have preferred to see him just knuckle under and continue with his warm-up as normal, Mustang was happy with how his plan had worked out thus far. Because there were no cameras in the tunnel. It had gotten him out of the heat. And, most importantly, it had given him a much-needed opportunity to recalibrate; to refocus on what he was actually there to do. Because thinking about the likes of Jake Maxwell? Or how the crowd felt about him? That was going to achieve nothing. Moreover, Mustang knew it was exactly what Fletcher wanted. He wanted him preoccupied by the ‘circus’, as Desmond had put it so eloquently.
So, the best thing Mustang could do in light of that? Was not buy a ticket.
“Damn it …” muttered Ray disgruntedly.
Having continued to stare idly out at the crowd, Mustang turned back around to find Ray hurriedly rooting through one of the large pockets on his golf bag. “Something wrong?” he asked, sensing there had to be given how annoyed Ray seemed to appear.
“Yeah, I think I just forgot my towel out on the puttin’ green …” Ray sighed, now standing back up straight having officially called off his search.
“Maybe give Rodney a text?” suggested Mustang. “I’m sure he’d run out and grab it for ya.”
“Naw, he said that he was gonna head down to the 1st-green and wait for us to come through there ‘cause of the crowd,” replied Ray, shooting down that particular idea. “I’ll just go get it myself, it’ll be faster. Will you be alright here?”
“Yeah, sure – go,” said Mustang, quickly dismissing Ray’s concerns. “I’ll be fine.”
“Alright, I won’t be long,” said Ray, before turning and jogging quickly back down the length of the tunnel, the tees and balls housed inside his bib jangling noisily off one another with each rushed step.
After watching Ray disappear from view, Mustang turned his attention back out towards the 1st-tee. Having watched the group in front of them tee-off a good few minutes previously – both of whom had succeeded in finding the fairway – Mustang, reckoning there couldn’t be that much time left before he, himself, was called into action, decided to make a move towards stealing a glance at the large Rolex clock placed, as ever, in its traditional spot at the rear of the tee-box.
Just before he could get into a suitable enough position to beat out the glare from the sun that was obscuring the glass-fronted clock face, however, the sound of footsteps advancing up the tunnel behind him saw Mustang – thinking it must just be Ray returning from his rescue mission – postpone his attempt at checking the time, and begin to turn back around.
“That was fa-…”
As soon as he saw who the owner of the footsteps actually was, though, Mustang quickly cut himself off mid-sentence … because it wasn’t Ray.
Instead, standing in front of him – dressed head-to-toe in white – was Fletcher.
“Oscar …” he said, both sounding and looking unusually serious.
“Fletcher …” replied Mustang, feeling a little thrown by this non-grinning version of his nemesis he found himself faced with.
At that – and without uttering a single word more – Fletcher, with his caddie following closely behind him, just walked straight past Mustang and out into the sunshine of the 1st-tee, duly acknowledging the warm round of applause that greeted his appearance courtesy of those spectators filling the grandstands … and Mustang had no clue whatsoever how to react to it.
In all the time he’d known Fletcher – the real one, that is – Mustang had developed almost a ‘blueprint’ of sorts for how to handle their interactions. His goading grin? The way he would try to toy with you first before striking hard and unforgivingly with whatever venomous rhetoric that sadistic brain of his had cooked up in the time since they’d last seen one another? They all followed a similar pattern. And as Mustang had seen on Monday, the best way to come out on top in these interactions was to simply starve Fletcher of the emotional reaction he was searching for.
But to see what had just happened between the pair of them? For Fletcher to not say anything nasty? To not take the opportunity the privacy of the tunnel would have afforded him to let it be known that he was, indeed, behind their altercation in San Antonio reemerging back into the spotlight? Hell, to not even bump into his shoulder as he walked past him en route to the tee-box? Mustang just straight-up didn’t know how to process that. Was it just some new ploy on Fletcher’s part to mess with him? Did it mean he’d something else up his sleeve to try and throw Mustang off his game? And was him actually appearing civil merely a means through which to just lull him into a false sense of security before springing his trap? All of these questions and more began to race through Mustang’s head, quickly taking up all available bandwidth his brain had to offer as he attempted to dissect what – if anything – Fletcher was up to.
“Found it.”
Having been so preoccupied with obsessing about his run-in with Fletcher, Mustang hadn’t heard Ray come back from his excursion to the putting green; he wasn’t even sure how much time had elapsed.
“Huh?” mumbled Mustang, feeling slightly dazed as he took in the sight of Ray just picking up his golf bag and slinging it over his shoulder.
“The towel?” said Ray, readjusting the strap of the bag and throwing said towel over his other shoulder. “I found it. One of the stewards had picked it up.”
“Oh … cool …” said Mustang, slowly catching up with what was happening as he tried, unsuccessfully, to clear his head.
“So, you ready to head out?” asked Ray, the potent cocktail that was his concentration on the round ahead and his eagerness to get going causing him to miss the fact that Mustang was acting a little strangely.
“Uh … yeah, sure …” replied Mustang, doing well to quickly mask how he was actually feeling in order to avoid worrying Ray. “Let’s go …”
But Mustang was far from ready. And as soon as he walked the few steps needed to reach the end of the tunnel and emerge, as Fletcher had, out into the crucible-like atmosphere of the tee-box, that only became more apparent. Because with each passing second, all that recalibration Mustang had undertaken in the tunnel began to disappear at an alarming rate. It was as though his senses, all in one go, were being overwhelmed; bombarded with a flurry of information that he just couldn’t keep up with. The sweltering heat. The blinding sun. The din from the crowd clapping. All of it. It was just too much. It was like Mustang was suddenly underwater. Drowning. And, try as he might, he just couldn’t get a breath. Because there was something afoot. Something he was missing – there had to be. He just couldn’t quite put his finger on it yet.
As if able to instinctively tell that he was struggling, before Mustang knew what was happening – and, most pivotally, before he could prepare accordingly – he found himself, suddenly, face-to-face with Fletcher once again. Unlike the stoic, stone-faced version he’d seen in the tunnel only a few moments previously, however, Mustang quickly realized that, with his perfectly rehearsed smile on full display, he was now looking at ‘Stage Fletcher’ – because, of course, he was. With a crowd this size? The grand setting? The cameras that were, undoubtedly, capturing every second of their standoff? This was everything Fletcher had wanted. This was his world. His story. Every minute detail meticulously planned out to the nth degree.
And now it just needed its big finale.
“May the best man win …” said Fletcher, holding out his hand for a handshake.
And there it was. The exact words Fletcher had said to him when they’d shaken hands in San Antonio, right before Mustang had hit him. And it was at that moment it dawned on Mustang why his interaction with Fletcher in the tunnel had thrown him so far off-kilter; why he’d felt as though he was somehow being lured into a trap … because, in a way, he had been. Everything Fletcher had hoped for by bringing up the punch again? This was the culmination. The spectacle he had so carefully orchestrated. And Mustang? He was nothing more than a mere prop. Because in the minds of those spectators watching all this unfold before them like a piece of outdoor theatre – many of whom were recording it on their phones – Fletcher, the victim, had been the bigger man. He was the one who’d approached Mustang. He was the one who’d extended the olive branch, as it were, by looking to shake Mustang’s hand. He … was the very hero Jake Maxwell had made him out to be.
Realizing he’d no alternative but to play the part that had been foisted upon him or risk playing further into the role of the ‘villain’, Mustang stuck out his hand and took hold of Fletcher’s – trying hard to not let his wariness at him possibly squeezing it come across as ‘hesitance’ on his part to shake hands in the first place. But Fletcher was smarter than that. He wasn’t going to risk pulling a stunt like that. In front of all those people? The cameras? The microphones? Not a chance. It was the same reason he’d been so civil in the tunnel – because he knew he didn’t need to, not when he’d already gotten everything he’d wanted. Because that circus? It had rolled into town exactly as planned. The tent was chock-full of paying customers. And having been convinced he’d wanted to see him sitting in the front row, Mustang, instead, now felt like Fletcher’s star clown jumping through hoops for the crowd’s amusement.
So, after shaking his hand – wherein he’d put it under no undue pressure whatsoever – Fletcher, ever the Ringmaster, just simply released Mustang’s hand from his grasp. No smirk lighting up his face, and no smart-alec comment coming out of it either. His fake veneer was just too locked-in; too perfect to slip.
And from there? Things just started moving very quickly for Mustang.
So much so, in fact, that he began to question whether or not he was actually imagining things.
Because one second he was moving back across the tee to where Ray was standing, leaving Fletcher to swing his driver gently back and forth at the rear of the tee-box. But by the time he then turned back around, Mustang was shocked to find himself now looking at Fletcher just beginning his downswing as he launched every ounce of his muscular frame into the back of his ball.
FWWWEEEEESSSSHHHH!!!
Mustang didn’t know what was happening. Had the starter introduced their game already? Had he even introduced Fletcher? Going on the way no one appeared to be saying anything, and the fact the crowd were now applauding Fletcher’s drive – one he’d sent sailing effortlessly towards the fairway with a beautiful, sweeping draw – Mustang could only come to the conclusion that everything was, indeed, in order, and that he’d, somehow, just missed the introductions.
“Get your glove on, kid.”
Having been so busy watching Fletcher move back over towards the side of the tee-box and exchange a small fist-bump with his caddie as he handed off his driver to him, Mustang turned and looked up at Ray. “Huh?” he muttered.
“Kid, what’s goin’ on?” asked Ray, instantly forgetting about the fact Mustang wasn’t wearing his glove yet, as the concerned look spreading rapidly across his face indicated he’d finally twigged something was severely wrong with his charge. “What’s up?”
Mustang didn’t want to answer that question. How could he tell Ray that this was happening again? The same thing that had happened against the Riggs Brothers? And all because he’d let Fletcher’s games break him? Allowed the very thing to happen that Ray had warned him they simply couldn’t the previous evening?
Yet, what other choice did he have? He was trapped. No way out. So, sickening shame or not … Mustang surrendered.
“I can’t do this …” he whispered, a sense of panic now clawing at his throat.
“Ok, kid, just relax,” said Ray, lowering his voice as well after exchanging a quick glance with the starter to reassure him that they were almost ready. “What d’ya mean you can’t do this?”
“Tee-off. In front of all these people,” replied Mustang, now taking to speaking in hushed, frantic-sounding blocks of words. “They all want Fletcher to win, Ray. He’s turned them against me. I can’t compete with that. I just can’t …”
With his schedule now in real danger of being thrown off, the starter temporarily abandoned his podium to come see what was causing the delay. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?” he asked, trying his best to sound polite despite the obvious impatience he was feeling with seeing his running order for the afternoon getting held up.
“Well, uh …” began Ray, desperately scrambling to try and figure out how best to answer that question in a way that would buy them some badly needed time. “The thing is … uh …”
“Everything’s fine,” said Mustang, cutting across Ray. “I’m ready now. Sorry.”
“Very well …” replied the starter, knowing full-well he wasn’t getting the whole story from either Ray or Mustang, but as long as he got their game off the tee in time, he didn’t overly care. “I’ll just go introduce you then, shall I?”
After waiting a moment for the starter to get reasonably out of earshot – which wasn’t easy given the cramped quarters of the tee-box – Ray turned and looked at Mustang, who was now hurriedly pulling on his glove. “Kid, you don’t have to do this!” he hissed, desperately trying to get through to Mustang as he could tell he was in no frame of mind whatsoever to hit his tee-shot. “We can get some more time to figure this out!”
“And risk getting a referee involved?!” replied Mustang, stubbornly, as he pulled the tab on his glove into place, sealing it tightly against the velcro. “Maybe get put on the clock?! Turn the crowd even more against me?! Naw, not happening. I just have to get this over and done with. And it has to be now.”
Knowing there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it without causing a massive scene – and given the delay up until now had already drawn enough attention as is – Ray could only bite his tongue as he watched Mustang pull his driver from his bag, yank off the headcover, and begin to walk out towards the middle of the tee-box.
Sure, he’d seen Mustang act like this before on a 1st-tee and still manage to pull a rabbit out of the hat … but this time around? It just felt different for Ray. Whether it was because of Fletcher or the fact it just so happened to be the third round of the Open, he wasn’t sure.
All he knew for certain was that he had a bad feeling about this.
“And on the tee …” said the starter, the volume of his voice coming through the speakers surrounding the tee-box a little louder than what Mustang had remembered it doing the past two days. “From the United States of America … Mustang Peyton.”
Having succeeded, by some miracle, to tee up his ball without any issues, Mustang stood back up and, albeit distractedly, acknowledged the crowd’s round of applause while swearing internally that the reception he’d gotten on Thursday and Friday had been warmer than that which he was currently receiving.
With the crowd falling silent once again, Mustang, who was now desperate to find any sort of solid footing he could to try and get through the next few moments as unscathed as possible, took a few paces back from his ball – just like he normally would – and stared off down the fairway. As he tried to concentrate on the kind of drive he wanted to hit, however, that idea of losing it to the right – the same one that had plagued him on Thursday morning – right on cue, popped back into his head. Mustang tried to ignore it, to expel it from his mind. He told himself it was just a thought, and that alone; simply the anxiety he was feeling looking to double-down by throwing some gas on the fire. But try as he did, no amount of logic and no amount of reason seemed capable of wrestling that canister away – and the fire was starting to spread.
Despite having no specific picture in mind for what he was going to attempt to do, Mustang – with the flames now beginning to lick at his feet – just stepped briskly in behind his ball and settled into his address position. Given he’d no plan per se for his tee-shot, he’d decided he was just going to line himself up with the grandstand behind 17 and, thoughts or no thoughts, try to play the same holdoff fade he’d employed in the first two rounds. He knew it was a risk. But with the way he was feeling, he knew he had no other choice. He just had to get his ball out beyond the confines of the tee-box – by any means necessary.
Of course, the thought of attempting to hit a draw, as Fletcher had, crossed his mind as well; just try to take the right-hand side of the fairway out of the equation altogether. In the end, though, when that idea only brought with it further thoughts of horribly double-crossing himself and winding up in the 18th fairway as a result, Mustang decided against it.
With the seconds continuing to elapse, and Mustang showing no signs of actually pulling the trigger on his drive, the crowd surrounding the tee-box began to get antsy. It was like they could sense the discomfort radiating out from Mustang. The way his feet hadn’t stopped fidgeting up and down since he’d taken his address. The manner in which he kept gripping and regripping his driver over and over again as if it was hot to the touch. It was little wonder Mustang was beginning to hear the whispered conversations that were now just starting to filter around the grandstands as the crowd tried to figure out what was happening – something that, unsurprisingly, did little to help alleviate the crippling pressure he was already feeling.
It was as though he could feel their eyes burning a hole through him; the amused sideways glances and scrutinous glares. The way he just knew some of them were probably tweeting God knows what about him at that very moment; making fun of his struggles in 280 characters or less for the approval of random strangers on the internet doing the exact same thing at the exact same time.
All of it just made Mustang feel as though the walls of the tee-box were quite literally closing in on him; creating a vacuum that was sucking what little air there was from his lungs and leaving him dizzy and light-headed as a result.
So, he swung.
As hard as he could.
FWWWEEEEESSSSHHHH!!!
Though he’d not really been aware of what his driver – or his body, for that matter – had been doing during the one and a bit seconds it had taken him to load up and, for want of a better word, slash at his ball, the combined sharp intake of breath and guttural groans that immediately emanated from the crowd as soon as he’d made contact told Mustang everything he needed to know about how his ball was looking before he, himself, ever laid eyes on it. And once the momentum of his swing actually left him looking towards the sky? Facing the result of the wild hack he’d just produced? It made him think that the crowd’s reaction had actually been a little kind.
Because it was even worse than what he’d imagined.
Peeling off dramatically to the right, Mustang’s ball – having just about managed to cover the swale of ‘no man’s land’ known as ‘The Kitchen’ some 250-yards away from the tee – was now slicing through the hot afternoon air, heading straight for the thick rough lining the right-hand side of the fairway like an escaped convict making a break for the State Line.
“FORE RIGHT!!” bellowed Mustang despondently, lending his voice to the chorus of cries already yelling the exact same thing as he pointed his driver dejectedly off to the right.
Hearing their shouts of warning carrying on the breeze, those spectators shuttling up the right-hand side of the 1st-fairway all instinctively shielded their heads with their hands, bracing themselves for potential impact. Luckily for them, however, such was the amount of left-to-right spin Mustang’s ball was actually carrying that it flew not only right over their heads, but carried straight over the area of heavy rough altogether; crashing, eventually, back down to earth in a strip of rarely visited ground running in a direct line with the Royal St. George’s clubhouse.
With a portion of the same crowd who’d been ducking for cover just seconds previously now setting off sprinting in the direction of where his ball had ended up – that being just short of running into a drainage ditch – Mustang could only let his head drop hopelessly down into his chest as he felt a wave of embarrassment washing over him.
Knowing he couldn’t afford to let him wallow, Ray – seeing that Fletcher and his caddie were already beginning to stride confidently out of the tee-box – quickly grabbed Mustang’s golf bag and moved to where he was still standing on the tee, staring down at the ground and shaking his head.
“Alright, kid, chin up, let’s go …” said Ray, trying to sound upbeat so as to not compound how miserable Mustang was, obviously, already feeling. “You know the drill: we go find it and get back on track.”
But Mustang didn’t answer.
Instead, the best response he could muster was a curt nod of his head to show that he had, indeed, heard Ray. Because as they began to walk off the tee, with Ray already beginning to pore over his map of the course to try and preemptively conjure up an escape plan for his second shot, Mustang couldn’t help but notice he had that same nauseating feeling in his stomach he’d felt when walking off the 1st-tee at Marsh Island when the Pirates had played the Mariners last October.
And that could only mean one thing.
It was time to batten down the hatches.
Because it was going to be a long day.
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Photograph by the incredibly talented Anna Groniecka