Having been somewhat apprehensive over the effect the flight from New York might have on his internal body clock, Mustang was relieved to wake up Monday morning feeling surprisingly refreshed after getting a pretty decent night’s sleep. Of course, the fact he’d stayed up until well past midnight hanging out with Rodney and playing through Royal St. George’s in 2K21 (using the Playstation 5 Desmond had gotten hooked up inside the house’s game room) had helped ensure he was suitably exhausted by the time Ray came in and made the two of them go to bed; but, either way, from the moment his head had hit the pillow of his very own king size bed, Mustang had been, gratefully, out like a light.
As the morning wore on, however, and they got ever closer to leaving for the course, as planned, at 10 o’clock ahead of their scheduled 11:30 practice slot, the excitement Mustang had been feeling since flying over Royal St. George’s the previous evening had begun to take on a decidedly nervous edge. Because this was it. As soon as they left the house and climbed into whatever vehicle Desmond had arranged to drive them back down the coast and in through the gates of the course, there would be nowhere left for Mustang to hide.
Sure, whatever he did that day wasn’t going to have a bearing on the leaderboard or decide whether or not he was going to make the cut – he knew that. The problem was that the same concern Mustang had been trying his utmost to ignore since Saturday night – the one that had seen him questioning whether or not he could still perform to the standard that had made Desmond deem him worthy of joining the Guild – had slipped loose from its shackles once again and was making a pretty convincing argument that perhaps he had, indeed, lost a step in the time he’d been out.
Obviously, he tried to counter that argument by remembering the feeling of ‘belonging’ he’d felt when looking down at Royal St. George’s from the helicopter; that sense of being exactly where he was supposed to be which had made him think that it would, maybe, be possible to return to how he’d been playing at the U.S. Amateur, for instance … but that seemed to have lost its impact. Because, the reality was, having a ‘sense’ or a ‘feeling’ would only get Mustang so far. Eventually, there would come a point where he’d have to get a club in his hands, stand back over a ball, and try to make something happen with it – and that prospect terrified him.
For, unbeknownst to everybody, Mustang had been harbouring a secret.
Though he’d gotten his cast off, as per Dr. Miller’s schedule, the week of the U.S. Open back in June, Mustang had yet to actually try out how his hand was feeling post-surgery by hitting even a single ball.
And it wasn’t as though he’d been short of opportunities to give his hand a test run – far from it, given Ray had only allowed him to man the range at the Creek in the immediate aftermath of getting his cast removed. But every time he’d drummed up the courage to wander into the old, wooden shed at the back of the range where the Picker and the crock of a tractor he used to mow the range were kept; grabbed one of the relic-like golf clubs that had been long-since abandoned in there to rust, and then thrown a ball down onto the grass to try hitting it, Mustang just hadn’t been quite able to make himself take that final, all-important step in behind it to pull the trigger.
He couldn’t remember the number of times he’d wound up standing next to that shed, staring down at a ball, willing himself to just hit it, and feeling himself becoming more and more frustrated with each passing second that he didn’t. After all, this was something he’d done thousands of times before. This is what he did. He was Mustang Peyton, for crying out loud. Hitting golf balls and hitting them really well had pretty much become his “thing”. It was what he did best, what he felt the most comfortable doing. And, yet, standing next to that shed – the very same one where he’d been hitting balls without a care the night Ray had first found him – Mustang, try as he had, just could not for the life of him step up and do the exact same thing.
Naturally, part of the problem was worrying how his hand would physically stand up to the exertion of swinging a golf club again. Would there be any pain? And if there was, would that mean more surgery to try and fix it? And what if it was something that couldn’t be fixed?
For the most part, however, what had been serving as Mustang’s biggest stumbling block was remembering how he’d performed the last time he’d been able to swing a club freely whilst playing against the Saint Mary Mariners at Marsh Island – because he’d played horribly. Missing it left and right. Hitting vicious snap hooks and raking slices. It was as though he’d straight up forgotten how to play golf, and this was before he’d ever had the excuse of breaking his hand.
But the way he’d felt that day? Hacking and slashing his way around the picturesque, links-like surrounds of Marsh Island? Even if his hand was, indeed, physically fine – as Dr. Miller had assured him it looked – Mustang was terrified that the moment he stood back over another ball and tried to make it do what he wanted, he’d be right back to feeling that exact same way, and, as a result, be a certified menace to any and all spectators – and players – unfortunate enough to be within his range on whatever course it was he chose to terrorize.
Obviously, had he known that, come July, he’d end up standing outside a mansion in Kent on the cusp of going to Royal St. George’s ahead of the first official practice day for the Open, Mustang would, of course, not been so reluctant to attempt to shake the cobwebs from his swing back at the Creek, but hindsight is a wonderful thing. And the thing is, it didn’t change the fact that as he now stood on the patio outside that same mansion, looking out over the back garden and off towards the sea – itself already dotted with colourful sailboats enjoying the sunshine and healthy breeze – Mustang was soberingly aware that not only would he have to try and finally conquer his fears or risk the week being a write-off before it ever even began, but he would also have to do it on a range where some of the very best players in the world would be honing and dialling-in their swings at the very same time; a situation which, one would have to believe, is why the word ‘daunting’ was invented.
Hearing the french doors which led from the kitchen out into the back garden opening up, Mustang turned from where he was leaning up against one of the pillars supporting the first-floor balcony and took in the sight of Ray walking towards him. He’d showered and shaved since last seeing him at breakfast, and he was now wearing one of his better polo shirts – clearly, he was intent on showing the Open and Royal St. George’s all the respect he felt the pair of them deserved by making sure he looked his absolute best.
“So, it’s out here you are …” said Ray, getting to within a few steps of Mustang. “I was lookin’ for ya. You know we’re leavin’ at 10, right?”
“Yeah, I know,” replied Mustang, keeping his gaze locked on the boats gliding through the whitecaps off in the distance to try and mask the substantial level of nerves he was feeling. “I was just about to get ready. I just, uh … wanted to see what the weather was doing first.”
“The weather. I see …” said Ray, taking to resting his shoulder up against one of the pillars as well. “So, uh … how do you wanna play this?”
Mustang turned and looked at Ray. “Play what?” he asked, looking confused as to what Ray was talking about.
“You tellin’ me what’s wrong,” answered Ray, his tone frank and to-the-point. “I mean, look, you can either tell me now, or you can say everythin’s ‘fine’ and continue to be bothered by whatever it is that’s buggin’ ya until ya wind up tellin’ me later anyway – your choice. If ya ask me, though? Given we’ve somethin’ of a busy day planned? I’d go with the former of the two – but, hey, that’s just me.”
Mustang looked back out towards the water and shook his head; he really needed to work on being more of a closed book.
“So, is it somethin’ to do with Fletcher?” Ray asked, sensing that a little more coaxing on his part might just get Mustang to open up. “You worried ‘bout seein’ him again?”
“No, it’s nothing to do with him,” said Mustang, answering honestly.
“Ok …” said Ray, quietly relieved to hear that Fletcher, for once, wasn’t involved. “So, if it’s not Fletcher … what is it then?”
Mustang took a deep breath in – the air, noticeably, still holding a touch of its early morning chill – and let it straight back out as a tired-sounding sigh. Whether or not he told Ray what the problem was, as soon as they got to the course and went to the range, he was going to find out what the issue was regardless; so, given that meant continuing to hold his tongue made, ultimately, no sense, Mustang knew what he had to do. “Remember how I told you that I’d started hitting balls up at the range?” he said, looking out towards the horizon so as to make it easier to actually force himself into saying the words. “You know … just a few to see how my hand was feeling after getting it out of the cast?”
“Yeah …?” replied Ray, a look of concern instantly furrowing his brow as he waited to hear what Mustang had to say next.
“Well, uh … I lied …” admitted Mustang, shifting his gaze down towards his shoes where he was now awkwardly scuffing the sole of his sneaker against the ground. “The truth is I haven’t hit any balls since I got my cast off. I’ve been, uh … I’ve been too afraid.”
“Of hurtin’ your hand?” asked Ray, the furrow in his brow not getting any shallower as he tried to understand what Mustang was saying.
“Partly that, yeah …” Mustang answered. “Mainly, though, I’m worried that I won’t be able to do the things I used to be able to do. And that the way I played against the Mariners? Well, that’s just gonna be how I play now. And as soon as Desmond sees that? He’ll realize he made a huge mistake in bringing me over here. And, look, I know you’re probably gonna say that I’m overreacting and that I should just get over it, but –…”
“Kid …” said Ray, quickly cutting across Mustang as he could tell from the somewhat frantic tone creeping into his voice that he was on the verge of beginning to spiral. “It’s ok.”
Grateful for Ray’s interjection – because he had, indeed, been dangerously close to going into a full-on tailspin – Mustang took a moment to catch his breath that, in his efforts to explain himself, he’d, inadvertently, allowed get away from him.
“Look, at some point, everybody loses confidence in themselves – everybody,” said Ray, continuing with his point now that he could see Mustang was in the state of mind to actually hear what he had to say. “It don’t matter if it’s someone like you or someone who’s already won a bunch of Majors – heck, it don’t even have to be specific to golf. In every sport, every job, even in just day-to-day life, there’ll always come a point when things we would have done without thinking before, suddenly, become the most difficult thing in the world. And it can happen for any number of reasons; and, sometimes, annoyingly, it can just happen without any explanation whatsoever.”
“Ok, but what do you do when that happens, though?” asked Mustang, looking hopefully over at Ray to see if he was about to reveal some secret trick that would, finally, help him clear the mental block that was, seemingly, clogging up the connection between his brain and his hands. “Like, how do you get back to that point when things were just easy?”
Now it was Ray’s turn to look out towards the water. He took a breath in and let it back out. He knew Mustang wasn’t going to like his answer. “Honestly?” he said, looking back over at Mustang. “In a situation like this? Sometimes the best thing you can do is just strip everythin’ right back to basics and build from there – one brick at a time.”
“One brick at a time?! But I’ve only got three days before the Open starts!” argued Mustang, leaning away from the pillar he’d been propped up against and looking desperately over at Ray – as expected, he’d been hoping for more of a ‘quick fix’. “What if I’m not ‘built’ by then?!”
Taking a leaf from Mustang’s book, Ray now leaned away from his own pillar and moved the few steps to where he was standing. “Well, in that case …” he said, placing his hand reassuringly on Mustang’s shoulder. “We’ll just do what we’ve always done.”
“And that is?” asked Mustang, still not feeling overly confident about Ray’s plan.
“The only thing we can do, kid …” smiled Ray. “Go out swingin’.”
*
Having expected to find it nigh on deserted when they arrived, Mustang had been shocked to see Royal St. George’s, instead, to be a veritable hive of activity upon pulling in through the gates. Spectators strolling in every direction; all of them armed with backpacks and comfortable shoes ahead of a long day of walking (some pessimists, even, toting umbrellas despite the idyllic blue skies and sunshine). The rows of picnic tables placed in the middle of the tented village that had already been descended upon by swarms of people either enjoying mid-morning snacks or those more boisterous of revellers pre-emptively filling up their tanks with some ice-cold beers ahead of striking out onto the course later in the afternoon. Queues of people standing outside the various merchandise tents dotted around the same tented village; all of them eager to spend whatever it took to get those oh-so-perfect pieces of memorabilia and souvenirs they were either going to gift to friends and family or, what was far more likely, use to further lord over them the fact that they hadn’t been so lucky as to be in attendance at the Open.
Basically, it was a crowd so large that, for one panic-inducing second, it made Mustang second-guess whether or not they’d actually gotten their wires severely crossed and, accidentally, missed the first day’s play.
Once he’d been suitably reassured that this was merely the normal turnout for practice days at a Major, however – in particular, for those at the Open – a more relaxed Mustang had felt comfortable enough to actually settle down into his new surroundings and properly soak up the atmosphere. Because he’d done it. He’d finally made it to a Major Championship. And going on the official badge Mr Fernsby had handed him before leaving the house earlier that morning – the one he now had proudly clipped to his belt – it was under the exact circumstances for how he’d wanted it to happen too: as an actual player in the field.
And as he, Ray, and Rodney ventured further into the seaside property, entering those areas roped off from the general public like the large practice putting green, short game practice area, and then off towards the range, all those worries he’d been feeling about the state of his game and the seemingly arduous journey that stood between him and rediscovering his best form?
For a moment, they all just … faded.
Because wherever Mustang looked, it was a ‘who’s who’ of the biggest names in golf.
Having last seen him in San Antonio at the Valero Texas Open, Jordan Spieth was after setting up shop on the practice green and was rolling putt after putt with his usual deadly accuracy as he chatted to Justin Thomas and Rickie Fowler; all three of them making the most of the opportunity to beat the steadily increasing heat by wearing the shorts allowed during practice rounds. In the short game area, Jon Rahm and Sergio Garcia appeared to be locked in some kind of fiercely competitive chipping contest with Rafa Cabrera-Bello and Joaquín Niemann; the desire of which to be crowned the winners of seeing both sides trading a never-ending stream of friendly snipes and jabs in jovial-sounding Spanish. And then on the range itself? Well, it probably would have been easier for Mustang to list off who wasn’t there.
Because Rory McIlroy? He was already in full flow with his driver; freewheeling his way through rendition after rendition of his signature high draw. Collin Morikawa? Though still working his way through the iron portion of his workout, Mustang wasn’t complaining, as he got to get a front-row seat to the otherworldly level of ball-striking the previous year’s PGA Champion had become known for. Bryson DeChambeau? As usual, he appeared to be trying his very best to wear away the layer of grass beneath his feet as, time after time, the heels of his Pumas were spinning out and tearing up the turf as he launched every ounce of his hulking frame into the back of some misfortunate golf ball with his driver; pulverizing them so far into the stratosphere it was though he was attempting to hit a fairway somewhere off in France.
In short, no matter what bay they walked past en route towards the far side of the range, Mustang, Ray, and Rodney were greeted by the sight of yet another star from the PGA or European Tours; each of them grinding on their games in the hopes their efforts would see them finish as high up the leaderboard as possible come Sunday evening.
Having been enjoying the temporary reprieve from his worries that marvelling at seeing so many famous golfers had provided, however, Mustang was brought quickly back down to earth as soon as he saw Desmond standing at the end of the range. He’d left a message with Mr Fernsby instructing him to have the three of them meet him on the range as soon as they arrived at the course – an instruction they’d, naturally, duly followed. Now that they were actually walking towards him, though, and he saw that he was standing with an older-looking couple – a man and woman who both had the look of people who were just exceedingly wealthy – Mustang couldn’t help but get a sinking feeling in his stomach at what Desmond had in store for him.
“Ah, here they are! And right on time too!” said Desmond, announcing their arrival a little too loudly for Mustang’s liking as he spotted them approaching. “Gentlemen, come! I’ve some fellow directors from the Guild I’d like you to meet!”
The sinking feeling in Mustang’s stomach, suddenly, got all the heavier.
“Beatrice? Jeffrey? Allow me to introduce Mr Rodney Burrage; a local here in Sandwich …” said Desmond, charismatically beginning the introductions as soon as Mustang and the others landed in front of them. “He was my alternate for last year’s Walker Cup team – so, quite a nifty little golfer in his own right. This week, however, I’ve brought him in as something of a ‘Course Consultant’, if you will, given his extensive knowledge of all things Royal St. George’s.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Rodney, taking his cue to smile politely at Desmond’s associates and shake their hands, all the while feeling internally delighted at hearing such kind words said about him by Desmond, of all people.
“And then, of course, we have Mr Ray Thackett…” said Desmond, now gesturing towards Ray and Mustang as he smoothly rounded out his introductions with all the suave sophistication of a gameshow host. “And our latest addition to the Guild, Mr Mustang Peyton.”
“Mornin’…” said Ray, smiling warmly as he, too, shook hands with Beatrice and Jeffrey. “Pleasure to meet y’all.”
Feeling Ray, suddenly, give him a subtle poke into the back, Mustang quickly followed suit. “Uh, yeah … it’s really nice to meet you,” he said, smiling weakly in an effort to mask how distracted he was feeling as he shook their hands. “And, uh … thank you for giving me this opportunity.”
“Please, the pleasure’s all ours,” replied Jeffrey, his thin, wispy hair shuddering in the gentle breeze as the Ralph Lauren polo shirt pulled taut across his rather robust waistline looked as though it was one wrong move away from ripping. “After all, whenever Desmond here gives his seal of approval to someone, all of us just tend to sign-off on it without question!”
“Yes, Desmond has built quite the reputation within the Guild for his perfect record when it comes to talent scouting!” said Beatrice who, though similarly advanced in age as Jeffrey, was impossibly thin by comparison and looked as though she’d spent far too much time out in the sun.
“Oh, come now, Beatrice, no need for flattery; I already said I’m buying lunch!” quipped Desmond, much to the delight of Beatrice and Jeffrey.
After taking a moment to enjoy their little chuckle – the sound of which had drawn one or two curious glances from those players closest to where they were standing on the range – Desmond finally turned his attention back towards Mustang and the others, all of whom had just stood there awkwardly smiling as they waited to be told what to do next.
“Anyway, what I thought might be a nice idea …” said Desmond, his face now setting back into a more normal-looking expression after laughing heartily at his own joke. “Is if Beatrice and Jeffrey here just watched you warm-up for a bit before you head out for your practice round? You know, give them an ‘up close & personal’ look at what it is exactly that makes you ‘Guild material’, as it were.”
Having previously been feeling as though it was merely sinking, Mustang’s stomach now felt as though it had just straight-up exploded. Because this was a disaster. Not only was Desmond expecting to see him hit some shots, but he’d brought along an audience of people just as influential as himself from the Guild 79 board to take in the show as well; all of whom were blissfully unaware as to the severe confidence issues Mustang was currently having with his game.
“Well, uh …” said Mustang, doing well to hide the white-hot panic he was now feeling at being potentially exposed. “As great and all as that would be? The problem … is, uh …”
“Is that Mustang’s hand is actually feelin’ a little sore this mornin’,” said Ray, jumping in quickly to give Mustang the excuse he was so desperately scrambling around to try and find.
“The one he broke?” asked Desmond, any and all light-heartedness immediately disappearing from his face, and, instead, getting replaced by genuine concern.
“Yeah,” answered Ray, playing his part perfectly. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s nothin’ serious – he probably just slept on it a bit funny, in all honesty. But, just to be on the safe side, we were thinkin’ that for today we might just … you know … walk the course? Hit a few putts to get a feel for the greens? Maybe some chippin’ if the hand loosens out? But nothin’ too intense.”
After glancing between one another to see how everyone was feeling about this development, Jeffrey took it upon himself to be the first to speak. “No, absolutely – no point rolling the dice unnecessarily,” he said, sounding as if he truly understood what Ray was saying.
“Yes, by all means, you do whatever you think is best for you,” added Beatrice, quickly following Jeffrey’s lead.
“Though, just so we’re clear, you will be alright for Thursday, yes?” asked Desmond, his tone a little more business-like than those with which Beatrice and Jeffrey had spoken – clearly, this hadn’t been part of the plan when he’d arrived at the course that morning.
“Oh, yeah, definitely,” replied Mustang, coming across convincingly confident – despite feeling anything but – to give Ray some much-needed backup with their deception.
“Yeah, he’ll be right as rain come Thursday,” said Ray, doubling down on Mustang’s guarantee, even if he, himself, knew it was anything but guaranteed. “100%.”
“Alright, well … good,” mumbled Desmond, feeling a little better at hearing the positive outlook Mustang and Ray seemed to have regarding his hand. “Though, just make sure you have the physio take a look at that hand when you get back to the house, alright? That’s what he’s being paid for.”
“We certainly will,” said Ray, making sure to sound as agreeable as possible in order to further assuage Desmond’s obvious concerns over Mustang’s fitness. “And, look, apologies for the inconvenience.”
“No need to apologize,” replied Desmond, waving his hand dismissively. “These things happen. Just try to enjoy your round, though, yes? And watch that hand, young man.”
“I will, Mr Finch – don’t worry,” said Mustang, breathing a huge, internal sigh of relief as he realized he’d just dodged a massive bullet.
“Good,” replied Desmond, before turning and looking at Beatrice and Jeffrey. “So, uh … I know it’s a tad sooner than what we were previously thinking, but how about we go get that lunch we were talking about?”
After coming across as being more than content with that plan – and once they’d both, very pleasantly, wished Mustang a speedy recovery – Beatrice and Jeffrey followed Desmond in walking back up the length of the range to go off in search of something to eat, leaving Mustang, Ray, and Rodney, once again, on their own.
“So, uh … anyone care to tell me what all that was about, then?” asked Rodney, knowing full well something was up given the odd exchange he’d just witnessed. “Is your hand actually sore?”
“Naw, that ain’t the problem …” sighed Mustang, dejectedly, as that all-too-familiar sinking feeling returned to his stomach. “Though given what the actual one is? A sore hand seems like it would be a hell of a lot easier to fix at this stage.”
*
By the time Mustang, Rodney, and Ray found themselves walking down the 18th fairway at Royal St. George’s, the mercury was showing it to be just verging on 84℉ (or 29℃, as Rodney knew it) and it was beginning to take its toll both on the course, and those walking it.
The grass covering the fairways had been steadily browning before their eyes like they’d been watching a rotisserie chicken turning on a spit. The speed and firmness of the putting surfaces had increased so rapidly that the greenkeeping crew had actually been forced into breaking out the hoses to make sure they didn’t lose those greens closest to the coastline that were more exposed to the gentle, though relentless, onshore winds that had been holding their pace consistently since noon. And as for Mustang, Rodney, and Ray? Well, apart from the sweat they’d been fighting a losing battle against to replenish, and the aching in their legs courtesy of the incessant heat greedily sapping every ounce of energy it could from the breakfast and snacks their chef back at the house had prepared for them, they were all sporting the same sallow, vaguely red glow from being out in the sun for too long – with Rodney, in particular, looking as though he’d added a whole new collection of freckles to his face in the time they’d been at the course.
Yet, all things considered, Mustang felt as though the afternoon had gone pretty well.
As planned, they’d only walked the course, but thanks to Rodney, that alone had been enough to open both Mustang and Ray’s eyes as to how exactly they could best try to tackle the unique challenge Royal St. George’s presented. Getting shown the best lines to take off each tee-box. Being told the different kinds of wind direction to be expected on each hole, from least likely to most. Rodney had even gone to the effort of marking out every pin placement used during the Open’s last three visits to Royal St. George’s into a greens book, and then used that as a guide to break all 18 greens into sections: those which were green lights to go out and attack should pins be placed in and around that area; and those which, under strictly no circumstances, were to be trifled with – regardless of how benign the conditions might be.
Put simply, Rodney had knocked his assignment right out of the park. Because even though it may have only been their first official lap of the course, by the time they were walking up the 18th fairway, Mustang and Ray felt as though they’d already gotten a pretty substantial glimpse behind St. George’s royal curtain.
Moreover, still, just as Ray had prescribed earlier that morning, Mustang had taken the opportunity that walking the course had provided to ‘dip his toe’, so to say, back into the waters of rebuilding his game – and it had gone surprisingly well. Rolling putts on each of the greens from locations, of course, handpicked by Rodney. Hitting a few chips from the uber-tight, greenside lies; floaty ones with his lob-wedge; lower, zippier ones with his 54° that grabbed after two bounces and dug their heels in; even the odd ‘bump & run’ with a 7-iron that saw his ball navigating the various swales and hollows on the greens with reckless abandon. All of them completed without any pain or discomfort in his hand whatsoever; and, given his concerns over the condition his game would be in following his extended hiatus, all of them completed with a level of competency and ‘feel’ reassuringly reminiscent of how he used to do it pre-Walker Cup.
Of course, given he hadn’t ventured into the territory of hitting anything outside of 15-yards or shots that required no more power than that generated from a half-swing, Mustang knew he had to take his afternoon’s work with a pinch of salt and not get overly carried away with himself. Because he knew there was still a significant amount of work ahead of him to get anywhere close to being ‘game-ready’ come Thursday – that was obvious. But, regardless, he’d made progress. Taken a step in the direction. And any time you do that? No matter how small a step it may seem, they all add up in the end.
“Alright, so, assuming you find the fairway from the back tee …” said Rodney, coming to a stop as he had done all afternoon so that he could continue with his walkthrough of how to play the 18th. “Then, at best, even with a friendly wind and getting a nice kick off the ground, chances are you’re going to end up somewhere in this general area – give or take a little bit left or right depending on if you’ve drawn or faded it, obviously.”
Despite having gone through this exact routine seventeen times previously since they’d taken to the course, Mustang still couldn’t help but be impressed with how well Rodney had taken to the role of teaching him and Ray the ‘ins & outs’ of Royal St. George’s. His application. The depth of his knowledge and how he communicated it. His ability to know what information he needed to relay, and that which to leave out. The whole experience had just made Mustang quietly think that if professional golf didn’t work out for him, Rodney would make one heck of a caddie someday.
“So, let’s say you land …” continued Rodney, pulling from his pocket the same golf ball he’d been using all afternoon for demonstration purposes and tossing it down onto the fairway, drawing a satisfying, hollow-sounding thud from the rock-hard ground in the process. “There. Then going on where the pin is today? You’re probably looking at … 178 to the green?”
“Yep, 178 …” said Ray, confirming Rodney’s educated guess as he squinted through his rangefinder. “Bang on the money, Hot Rod. Again.”
Pleased to have correctly guessed yet another yardage – and positively loving Ray’s new nickname for him – a smiling Rodney set about continuing with his walkthrough. “Well, as I was saying: you’re looking at 178 to the green, right? Now, the most important thing you have to remember with this green is that–…”
“COULD IT REALLY BE?!”
Straight away, Mustang’s head dropped straight down into his chest. With all the concentrating he’d been doing throughout the afternoon on learning the course and getting some semblance of feel back into his hands for creating shots, he had completely forgotten about something rather important.
Or to put it more accurately: someone.
“Of course …” he sighed, before, like Ray and Rodney, turning to look in the direction the painfully familiar voice they’d all just heard had come from.
Sure enough, strutting cockily through the area of mown-down rough separating the 1st and 18th fairways, there was Fletcher Rhodes, locked on a direct collision course for where Mustang and the others were standing.
Meaning, the inevitable had happened – albeit earlier than what Mustang had been expecting.
Fletcher had found him.
So, Mustang prepared himself accordingly.
“Alright, kid, just keep your cool, ok?” warned Ray, dropping the volume of his voice as he kept his eyes trained on Fletcher. “Whatever he says? Don’t bite. That’s exactly what he wants.”
“Yeah, I know …” replied Mustang, he, too, keeping a close eye on Fletcher. “He won’t get me again.”
“Though, if he does require another smack?” added Rodney, now forgetting all about his course tour. “I volunteer to break my hand this time around.”
Having finished eating up the distance between them, Fletcher finally arrived in front of Mustang and came to a stop, keeping his back facing off towards the 1st-fairway from whence he came. As per usual, he was dressed impeccably well; with his perfectly tailored polo shirt and white shorts making him already look every inch the fully-fledged professional he would finally become the following Monday. Plus, going on the way his sleeves seemed to be stretched particularly tightly around his biceps, he’d obviously added a noticeable amount of muscle to his already svelte frame – even more than what he’d been sporting the last time Mustang had seen him whilst playing in the U.S. Open.
“Well, ain’t this a pleasant surprise,” said Fletcher, the friendly smile on his face not fooling anyone. “I mean, I’d heard the rumours; whispers here and there that you’d somehow managed to get a spot in the field. And lo and behold … here you are. How ya doin’, bud? Hey, how’s the hand?”
“All good,” replied Mustang firmly, successfully ignoring Fletcher’s opening salvo. “How’s the face?”
Though his visible reaction may have been a grin, from the way Fletcher’s eyes hardened, Mustang could tell his response, much like the right hook they were indirectly discussing, had, indeed, landed.
“As you’d expect: perfect,” said Fletcher, looking to immediately regain the upper hand. “Pity the same can’t be said for the state of your game, though … right, Oscar?”
Now it was time for Mustang’s eyes to harden. How could Fletcher possibly know about the troubles he’d been having?
“I dunno what you’re talking about,” said Mustang, trying his best to lie convincingly in order to keep his cards close to his chest.
He knew he couldn’t afford to expose any weakness.
Not around Fletcher.
“Oh, come now! Sure you do!” said Fletcher, his eyes now glinting menacingly as if Mustang lying was exactly what he’d been hoping would happen. “Last October? You were playing a match with the New Malo Pirates against the … Saint Mary Mariners, I believe?”
This time, Mustang didn’t respond; in reality, because there was nothing he could respond with. Clearly, Fletcher had done his research. And now? There was nothing Mustang could do but clench his jaw and wait for whatever was coming next to be over.
“And accordin’ to one, Melvin Burbage, of ‘The New Malo Journal’ …” said Fletcher, gleefully continuing as he could tell from the look on Mustang’s face that he was getting suitably under his skin. “Walker Cup ‘star’, Mustang Peyton, appeared to be a little … how did ole’ Melvin put it again? Oh, yeah: ‘Out of sorts’ – which, as we both know, is just a polite way of sayin’ you stunk up the joint, ain’t that right, Oscar?”
“Alright, Fletcher, that’s enough,” said Ray, now stepping in as he’d finally heard enough. “You’ve had your fun, made your point; so, how ‘bout you just get back to your practice round and leave us to ours?”
“Aw, well, ain’t that adorable?” replied Fletcher, blatantly ignoring what Ray had just said as he kept his eyes firmly focused on Mustang. “You got your ‘fake daddy’ fightin’ your battles for ya now, Oscar? Huh? What’s next? Your little loser of a buddy here gonna jump in and try to fight me? Maybe hit me with a sucker punch when I’m not expectin’ it? Just like you did?”
“Shut up …” growled Mustang, clenching his fists tightly as he felt the anger beginning to swell up inside him.
“Why? Is this not how you saw this little plan of yours pannin’ out or somethin’?” asked Fletcher, leaning in a little closer to Mustang and jutting out his jaw as if trying to goad him into punching him again. “I mean, what? Did you really think that I’d give even a solitary damn that you’d managed to bluff your way in here? That I’d be scared of you stoppin’ me from winnin’ the Grand Slam? That it, Oscar?”
Again, Mustang didn’t respond. This time, however, his choice to plead the fifth was borne more out of necessity than being actually lost for words. Because the anger he was feeling was now getting dangerously close to bubbling over and he needed every ounce of self-control and concentration he had left at his disposal to keep that from happening.
“That’s enough, Fletcher,” said Ray again, this time his voice a little firmer as he, too, tried to control the anger he was feeling.
Fletcher, however, wasn’t listening. And he didn’t intend on changing that anytime soon either. He was untouchable. And he knew it.
“The problem with that plan, though …” said Fletcher, baring his teeth as he smiled maliciously at Mustang. “Is that the only way I’d ever be worried about you? Is if I thought for even a second that you still had what it takes to beat me. But the version of you who actually stood a chance at even maybe doin’ that?”
Again, such was the level of confidence he was feeling, Fletcher leaned in even closer towards Mustang. “I broke him. And then I buried him …” he snarled smugly. “He’s gone. And just like that mom of yours? He ain’t never comin’ back neither.”
Mustang had heard enough. The anger he was feeling? There was no more controlling it. The dam was broken. It was in his system. Thundering through his veins and overwhelming his senses. All he wanted to do was to hit Fletcher again. Every fibre of his being was urging him to do it; begging him to knock that sickening smirk off Fletcher’s face …
But Mustang didn’t pull the trigger.
Because he knew that’s exactly what Fletcher wanted. And, just like Ray had warned, Mustang wasn’t going to bite – not again.
But that didn’t mean he was going to send Fletcher away empty-handed.
Without saying a word, Mustang turned around to where Ray was standing with his bag and pulled ‘Arnie’ out of it. He then stepped straight in behind the ball Rodney had tossed down onto the fairway earlier, and without pulling on a glove or even taking so much as one glance at the green, drew Arnie back and launched him straight into the back of the ball.
THWWWIIIPPPPP!!!!
Setting off in a small cloud of dust that billowed up from the grass, Ray, Rodney, and, most importantly, Fletcher, could only look on in stunned disbelief as Mustang’s ball climbed steadily upwards high up over the 18th fairway, scything through the paper-thin air until it was standing out against the hazy blue sky on the perfect line for the green.
Having not seen him hit a ball like this since the Walker Cup, Ray felt as though he was right back on the range at the Creek, coming across Mustang for the very first time on that fateful late-April evening the previous year.
Because this was the Mustang he knew.
The Mustang who could do things with a golf club and ball that few others on this planet could rival.
The Mustang who made the impossible seem mundane, and mastery seem like child’s play.
The Mustang he’d missed seeing.
After drawing back in off the grandstand placed to the right of the 18th, Mustang’s ball, exactly as he’d planned, pitched on the front edge of the green, leapt forward and set off trundling towards the pin that had been placed towards the left-centre of the green, eventually coming to a stop no more than a foot away from the hole.
With a smattering of applause carrying back down the fairway from those few spectators sitting in the grandstands surrounding the 18th, Mustang brought Arnie back down to his side and looked over his shoulder at Fletcher, who was still staring off at the green, dumbstruck at what he’d just witnessed.
“See ya Thursday,” said Mustang, before turning and walking off down the fairway.
This time around there was no smart-alec response from Fletcher.
Nothing he could say and nothing he could do.
So, instead, he just watched as a smiling Ray and Rodney set off after Mustang, his tanned face now looking noticeably pale as though he’d just seen a ghost.
Because, in truth, he had.
And it was he who’d summoned him.
Mustang was back.
Meaning, it was now, officially, game on.
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