Having grabbed what remained of his bottle of water from inside his golf bag, Mustang sat back down on the lip of Maisie’s trunk. It had been a long morning, and not because he’d just played 18-holes – though the dull ache coursing through his legs and sweat licking at the back of his hair were prominent reminders of his first full lap around the Jungle.
After discovering that Cody had joined the Sharks in the off-season, Mustang had immediately hightailed it from the range straight down to the clubhouse in order to speak to Fr. Breen. When he finally found him in one of the dilapidated locker rooms at the rear of the clubhouse, though – a locker room where half of the lockers in question either had busted locks or were missing doors entirely – Mustang found that Fr. Breen was already fighting the losing battle of trying to calm down the Pirates in light of, what they deemed to be, Cody’s betrayal.
“Now, I understand that this news might have come as something of a ‘shock’ …” Mustang had heard Fr. Breen say just as he walked in through the door of the poorly ventilated locker room, the musty smell of the perennially damp carpet hitting him full-blast in the face as he ventured further inside.
“A shock?!” Donny had spat, his voice filled with enough venom to make a rattlesnake proud. “No, this goes way beyond a shock, Coach! I mean, is Cody for real?! After that whole, ‘I need a break’ and ‘I just wanna focus on playing singles’ shtick he goes and joins another team?! And the Sharks of all people?! I mean, come on!”
With Donny wheeling away to return to the pacing he’d been doing before speaking up, Indie had then stepped in as Mustang quietly took up a position leaning against a row of lockers. “He’s right, Father,” she’d said, sounding more composed than Donny, but still clearly furious. “No matter what way you break this down, Cody lied to us.” At that point, Indie had turned and pointed at one of the narrow, wooden benches sitting end-to-end right down the middle of the locker room. “After our final conference match last season? When we’d just missed out on the second qualifying spot? He sat right there and lied to our faces.”
“Well, in the interest of fairness,” Fr. Breen said then, continuing to try and hold back the tide of opinion that had clearly already found Cody guilty of all charges, but even Mustang had thought he’d sounded as though he were only saying it because he felt that he should. “At that point, he may well have meant what he said in needing to take a break from the 66 and wanting to concentrate on playing singles golf.”
“Naw, I know Cody,” said Logan then, choosing that moment to enter the fray – the fact his phone was nowhere in sight telling Mustang all he needed to know about how seriously the oldest member of the Pirates had been taking the situation. “Dude’s always thinkin’ twenty steps ahead. So, trust me, when he was sittin’ in here tellin’ us all that? He knew full well he was gonna be a Shark come today. The only thing he didn’t bank on, though, was playin’ us in the first match outta the blocks and havin’ to face up to what he’d done before we’d a chance to find out on our own.” In a worrying move, Logan had then taken to looking around the locker room at the rest of the Pirates. “Well, I dunno ‘bout the rest of y’all …” he’d then continued, his voice suddenly adopting a subtle – though nonetheless razor-sharp – menacing tone. “But I feel like goin’ to have a little word with our “dear friend” Cody ‘bout what happens when you jump ship on the Pirates – who’s with me?”
With everyone making a move to follow Logan out of the locker room to go confront Cody – well, everyone bar Layla, who Mustang remembered noticing had just been sat on a chair off to the side of the locker room staring straight down at the floor while all this had been happening – Fr. Breen had officially seen enough.
“You’re not going anywhere, Logan,” he’d said firmly, planting his hand square into Logan’s chest and stopping him dead in his tracks. “None of you are.”
Mustang had heard about this side of Fr. Breen from Indie and Donny. After telling them how different he was to his old principal in Orlando, the pair of them had been quick to inform him that whilst the ‘affable priest routine’ Mustang had come to know was how Fr. Breen acted 99% of the time, on those rare, 1% occasions, if appropriately pushed, it was like he could flick a switch and transform into a completely different person right before your eyes. And, as Mustang had been able to see for himself inside that dank locker room, that version of Fr. Breen was not one to be trifled with.
“Is the fact Cody joined the Sharks disappointing?” he’d growled, casting a steely glare between Logan, Ryan, Indie, and Donny, all of whom knew full well what version of Fr. Breen they were looking at. “Yes. But that does not give you permission to turn into some marauding band of vigilantes hell-bent on finding some misguided sense of what you deem to be justice by getting into a shouting match with him and the rest of the Sharks. Is that understood?”
Though they didn’t end up answering him, from the sheepish looks on their faces as they each nodded their assent, Mustang had been able to tell that Fr. Breen had successfully ‘sobered up’ Logan and the rest of the Pirates.
“Good,” he’d then continued, sensing that his stern dressing-down had achieved the desired effect of stripping them of their metaphorical pitchforks and burning torches. “So, instead, if you still want to teach him a lesson, might I suggest you each grab your clubs and do it out there on those 18 holes. Because if you really want to get to Cody? Make a point? You’ll do it on the leaderboard – what d’ya say?!”
The problem with motivational speeches, though, is that while they can get you suitably fired up and ready for action – as Fr. Breen’s effort inside the locker room had managed to do – they don’t guarantee success. And after the 18-holes they proceeded to put down after exploding out of that very same locker room like some bats out of hell, that was a lesson Mustang and the rest of the Pirates had wound up learning the hard way.
Because after taking the bullet of being the one to head out with Cody – an idea he had successfully floated by Fr. Breen upon leaving the locker room – Mustang had set to work in the only way he knew how: by making birdies. And as the staggered shotgun start had, fortunately, seen him and Cody start their round at the 11th and, therefore, as far away from another Pirate as was possible, by the time they made the turn onto the front 9, Mustang was cruising at a comfortable -4 compared to the hard-fought -2 Cody had managed to wrench from the Jungle’s grasp. Unfortunately, however, thanks to the updates he’d been getting from around the course courtesy of Ray and Fr. Breen – both of whom had managed to commandeer two of the few functioning carts at the Jungle – Mustang had learned that the rest of the Pirates hadn’t been quite as successful with their respective birdie hunts.
In fact, despite relatively steady starts across the board, once all five of them had managed to get through a full 9-holes, there wasn’t one of them under par. Ryan had been level. Indie was +2. Donny and Logan were both +4. And, in what was probably the most shocking revelation, Layla was +7 come making the turn. And by the time he was walking off the 10th? What had been their 18th hole of the morning? Regardless of the fact his three extra birdies on the front side had seen his -7 total outscore Cody – who had wound up posting -5 after finally finding his ‘A’ game to rattle off three birdies-in-a-row to close out his round with – Mustang was pained to discover that things had only gone further downhill for his fellow Pirates. All five of them had finished so over par that, even with his -7, their combined score for the strokeplay session was a hefty +25 in comparison to the 23 under the Sharks had mustered up between them.
In short, the Sharks had drawn first blood – and in emphatic fashion, at that.
Not used to being on the wrong side of a trouncing, following the official confirmation from the match referee that the Sharks had won the strokeplay session and taken the point that had been up for grabs – an announcement that had drawn an obnoxiously loud cheer from their supporters – that’s when Mustang had decided a breather away from everyone else was exactly what he needed. And the best place to do that? Out in the parking lot. But, unfortunately for him, it was only a matter of time before his hiding spot was discovered.
“So, it’s out here you are …” said Ray, a faint hint of relief colouring his voice as he rounded the back of Maisie and came to a stop. “I’ve been lookin’ for ya, kid.”
“Yeah, sorry, I probably should’ve said something,” Mustang apologized, screwing the cap back onto his bottle after draining what little water had remained inside.
“Ah, don’t worry ‘bout it …” said Ray, his relaxed sigh dismissing any need for an apology. “I was guessin’ you’d needed a bit of a break from the circus anyway – scooch.”
Seeing he wanted to sit down, Mustang slid across the lip of the trunk to make sufficient room for Ray.
“So …” Ray began as he lowered himself down onto the lip, Maisie’s suspension groaning a little too loudly for his liking as she bore the brunt of his extra weight. “Bet ya didn’t think you could feel so bad after shootin’ -7, huh?”
“Nope,” said Mustang, now idly tracing his thumb over the logo that had been laser-printed onto his bottle, the stainless steel it was made from still cool to the touch even after four hours out in the sun.
“Yeah, well … that’s the beauty of team sports for ya,” replied Ray with a rueful shake of his head. “Even if you play great yourself, you either all win together or you all lose together – it’s just the way it goes.”
“I guess …” said Mustang, still tracing the logo. “Though, there’s a slight difference between just getting ‘beaten’ and getting beaten by nearly fifty shots.”
Though he knew he shouldn’t, Ray couldn’t help but let out a little snigger at hearing Mustang remind him just how bad the score had been. “Yep … it was a bit of a whoopin’,” he said, trying hard to squeeze out the words without laughing. “But, hey … it coulda’ been worse, right?”
Hearing Ray sound as though he was about fit to burst with the height of laughter he was attempting to hold back, Mustang couldn’t help but smile. “That’s true …” he said, dryly, as he looked up at Ray. “Coulda’ been actually by fifty!”
Seeing Mustang being able to joke about it, the dam finally broke for Ray and he burst out laughing himself. With the air now cleared of the tension that had been lingering there before they’d started laughing, Ray and Mustang gradually began to recompose themselves.
“Man, I wish this stuff with Cody wasn’t such a big deal for everyone,” Mustang sighed as the final few remnants of laughter left his chest. “Cause I know they’re better than how they played this morning; like, they are. I saw it myself last week. I mean, we can beat these guys, Ray – I know we can.”
“So, go tell ‘em that,” Ray said bluntly, turning his head and looking across the lip at Mustang.
“Yeah, right,” scoffed Mustang, shifting his gaze back down onto his water bottle.
“Why not?” Ray questioned, not seeing why what he’d said had seemed so ridiculous to him.
“Cause …” said Mustang, speaking as though the answer should be obvious. “Yeah, I might be getting on well with Donny and Indie; and, yeah, everyone else might be ok with me playing on the team, but …”
“But?” said Ray, trying to prompt Mustang into finishing his point after he’d trailed off into disgruntled silence.
“But, in their eyes, I’m still just some kid who’s playing on the team now instead of Cody,” Mustang continued, laying out, frankly, how he was feeling about the whole situation. “So, even if I were to say something, it wouldn’t matter ‘cause they wouldn’t listen to me – so, what’s the point?”
Now it was Ray’s turn to take a moment or two to mull over how best to respond. “Look, kid …” he began, measuring each word carefully as he continued to craft his response on the fly. “While this probably goes against every rule that someone in my position should be sayin’ … you might think that Donny and the rest of ‘em see you as just ‘some kid’, but the truth is … they don’t. They can tell you’re different.”
Taken by surprise at hearing him say that, Mustang just focused even more of his attention down onto his water bottle – he, at least, wanted to see where Ray was heading with this before deciding how to react.
“Now, don’t get me wrong …” Ray continued, as if reading Mustang’s mind. “I don’t mean ‘different’ in a bad way or in a weird way – far from it. I mean they can see how special you are; heck, anyone who’s ever lucky enough to see you play can’t help but see it. I mean, kid, remember, you won the Memorial Matchplay just a few months ago. You’ve won every junior tournament you’ve played in since then. Not even three weeks ago, you narrowly missed out on winnin’ the U.S. Amateur to the number one amateur in the world. And to cap it all off, tomorrow, you’re flyin’ to Florida to be an alternate on the Walker Cup team. Like, kid, there aren’t many other 15-year olds racking up that kind of résumé in the timeframe that you have. Not on the Pirates. And most certainly not on the Sharks.”
Having spent as much time as he could stand looking at his water bottle, Mustang finally turned and looked back up at Ray.
“So, while I’m not sayin’ you need to start goin’ ‘round thinkin’ you’re Tiger Woods or anythin’,” Ray said with a smile. “I do think you need to start givin’ yourself some more credit. Cause I’ve seen first-hand how tough you are – both on and off the course – and there’s a leader in you, man. And a darn good one at that; take it from someone who’d know.”
“Are you talking about yourself?” Mustang asked, thinking Ray was talking about his days as a sergeant in the army.
“Me?! God, no!” said Ray, his laughter quickly dispelling that notion. “I was talkin’ ‘bout a buddy of mine. We became friends in the academy; wound up being deployed together; toured together; we even both became sergeants at the same time.”
“And this friend of yours … he was, obviously, a good sergeant, then?”
“Man, was he ever,” replied Ray, sighing nostalgically. “We used to joke around, actually, ‘bout how we should just combine our two squads and he could be in charge of ‘em both. Cause he just had a knack for leadin’, you know? I mean, he wasn’t one of these guys who needed to be screamin’ and shoutin’ all the time to get his men to listen to ‘im – naw, they fell on his every word ‘cause they wanted to.”
“Why? What was it about him?” Mustang asked.
“Well, there’s so many qualities that go into makin’ somebody be someone that makes other people want to follow ‘em,” Ray explained, trying to come up with a satisfying enough answer to Mustang’s question. “And a lot of the time, they’re not really qualities you can put into words, you know? But, I think with him, the two things that stick out the most were the fact you knew he would never ask you to do somethin’ that he, himself, wouldn’t do for you. And the other thing was that, though he really wasn’t one for speeches … when he did give ‘em? Like, before headin’ out on a mission where there was a chance things could get … ‘hairy’, let’s say? Though he never sugar-coated anythin’ and was always upfront ‘bout what the reality of the situation was … there was just somethin’ ‘bout the way he put things that made you think, whatever happened, you were gonna come out the other side on top.”
“Wow … he sounds impressive,” said Mustang, the picture his imagination was conjuring up of Ray’s friend a cross somewhere between a real-life person and a GI Joe doll come to life. “What was his name?”
As opposed to answering straight away, Ray, instead, remained quiet. It had been such a long time since he’d allowed himself to think about him and that time in his life. And thanks to the all-too-familiar aching feeling he suddenly had in his gut, Ray was quickly remembering why.
“His name was Frank …” he said quietly, eventually forcing himself to say his name out loud. “Frank Lawson. He, uh … unfortunately, he didn’t make it back from our last tour together, so … yeah.”
Sensing that speaking about Frank had hit him quite hard, Mustang reached out his hand and placed it on Ray’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ray …” he said, not really knowing what else he could say.
“Thanks, kid …” Ray replied, looking over at him with a watery smile on his face. “But I’m fine – really.”
Feeling Ray had meant what he said, Mustang took his hand back off his shoulder and cast his eyes back across the parking lot, taking in the sight of the private bus the Sharks had arrived to the Jungle in parked on the opposite side of the lot, its pearlescent black paint job shimmering under the noonday sun. The driver, a tall man with greying, curly hair and wearing a pair of wraparound sunglasses he had attached to a lanyard, was sitting on the bottom step of the bus nursing a cigarette and reading a book that, from the looks of it, he was about halfway through. As Mustang looked at him, though, he couldn’t help but wonder how many times that very same driver had been on excursions like this over the past three seasons. Schlepping the Sharks and their supporters around to various golf courses; waiting a few hours; then hauling them all back to Vermilion Bay once they’d beaten whatever team had been put in front of them; hearing the excited discussions of everyone carefully dissecting the various shots they’d taken en route to claiming the four precious points that had been up for grabs that week. At this stage, the whole process must have felt like being a part of some relentlessly efficient, well-oiled machine.
Pick up. Drop off. Win. Go home.
As he then watched the driver, annoyingly, flick what remained of his cigarette down onto the ground next to the bus, however, the one thought running through Mustang’s mind suddenly became how he’d love nothing more than to take that same machine and see if he couldn’t throw a spanner into the works.
“Hey, Ray?” Mustang said, his eyes remaining locked on the driver as, having had enough of reading, he finally stood up and disappeared back inside the bus.
“Yeah, kid?” Ray replied, now sounding back to his normal self after fully regaining his composure.
“Do you remember what you said to me at breakfast the morning I played Skip in the semi-final of the Memorial?” Mustang asked, watching as the final few wisps of smoke wound their way skyward from what remained of the driver’s cigarette. “You know, about sharks like him?”
“Uh … yeah, I think so …” said Ray, a vague recollection of that particular transcript flashing before his eyes. “It was somethin’ like … uh … ‘sharks don’t break’, right?”
“Yep,” confirmed Mustang, the memory of that breakfast still carved deep into his memory as he turned and looked Ray dead in the eye. “Well, today I’m gonna prove they do.”
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