Unbelievable. Astounding. Inspired.
As the media officer for the American team – a nice, though undoubtedly fierce, woman by the name of Synthia – threw them in front of what felt like an endless line of interviewers and camera crews in the immediate aftermath of their match, these – and countless synonyms just like them – were the kind of words Mustang and Byron kept hearing to describe their unlikely comeback against the Riggs Brothers.
‘At any point did you think the match had slipped beyond your reach?’
‘We saw Dallas speaking to you just before the 13th, was there something specific he said in that moment to spark the amazing comeback we just witnessed?’
‘What was it like playing in front of this amazing crowd this morning? Did you find that energy really helped you on the back 9? Was it an extra gear, almost?’
Question after question. A conveyor belt of different microphones from the likes of NBC, CBS, and Sky Sports passing in front of Mustang’s and Byron’s faces. The crowd making it difficult to hear anything the various interviewers were actually saying. In truth, Mustang found the whole process rather overwhelming. It made him yearn for the days when the most difficult thing about doing press was trying not to get a headache from the fumes emanating off Melvin Burbage’s overly-applied hair gel as he got some copy for his column in ‘The New Malo Journal’.
When they were eventually given the nod from Synthia that they’d, thankfully, fulfilled all of their required press duties, however, Byron and a mightily relieved Mustang had moved quickly to swap the lions’ den that had been the media scrum they’d just been surrounded by, for that of the far more palatable version they, themselves, had helped create out on the rolling fairways and super slick greens of the course. Because having gotten a taste for the patriotism-fuelled hysteria the crowd had become lost in the throes of, the pair of them were keen to not only experience it without the pressure of having to actually play in front of it, but to also lend their own voices to it as they, and everybody else, attempted to cheer home the American pairings still out on the course trying to deliver the clean-sweep they so desperately needed.
And hole by hole, shot by shot, and putt by putt, Mustang and Byron watched as the other members of Team U.S.A. duly delivered the goods.
Axel and Greyson?
Austin and Mason?
Blake and Samson?
One by one, they all saw off their respective Great Britain & Ireland pairings – each of them containing, at least, one member of the infamous ‘Six’ – and, as a result, dragged the American team right back into the match. For as soon as Blake and Samson secured their huge 2&1 victory over Finn and Maddox in the anchor match, as well as forever sealing the session’s place in the history books as one of the greatest ever performances by an American team in the Walker Cup, it also meant that as the dust settled and the afternoon singles began to come rapidly into view, the scoreboard now read that Great Britain & Ireland still, yes, had 8½ points, but the U.S.A. had come roaring back with a tidal wave of red to now sit on 7½ points.
The 5 point deficit that had faced the Americans at the beginning of the day? The same one Charlie Riggs had been so kind as to remind Mustang of before their match had started? In just one single session, it had been almost completely eradicated – with ‘almost’ being the pivotal word. And after he and his vice-captains had moved quickly to get Mustang and the rest of the team off the course and back into the peace and calm of the locker rooms at Seminole, amid all the jubilation and celebrating what they’d just achieved, that had been the message Dallas had hammered home.
Yes, they’d gotten all four points on offer. And, yes, it had been an amazing performance. But the job wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. Because they were still one back. And given the ultimate destination of the Walker Cup could be decided by something as small as just half a point, being a whole one to the good meant that Great Britain & Ireland still very much had the advantage – meaning, it was imperative that Mustang and the rest of the American team kept an even keel and didn’t get carried away with themselves.
Of course, this ‘even keel’ Dallas had espoused became a tad more difficult to maintain once everybody broke for lunch and discovered their phones were blowing up in light of what had actually happened in the foursomes. Be it an avalanche of messages from friends and family back home or idly scrolling through whichever social media outlet was their preferred poison of choice, there was just no getting away from the fact that the hype ahead of the final singles session had reached a whole new level because of what Mustang and the rest of the Americans had pulled off that morning. It was at a fever pitch – no other way to describe it.
In what turned out to be one lucky break for Dallas, though, because the morning session had ran a little long, the time both teams had between the end of the foursomes and the beginning of the singles wound up being a touch shorter than what it had been the previous day, thereby, meaning, with everything that needed to be done before the ten matches actually got underway, there wasn’t all that much time for everyone to dwell too long on the exact scale of what awaited them in the singles and possibly psyche themselves out. In fact, so tight was the amount of time that they really had, in a departure from how he’d done it ahead of Saturday’s afternoon session, Dallas had actually gone around to everyone at lunch and told them where he wanted to put them in the order, and who’d they’d be going up against.
While most of the team had been happy to just carry on eating as this had been happening, hungrily scoffing down whatever they’d ordered after the exertion of the foursomes had suitably stoked their appetites, Mustang had found himself unable to take his eyes off of Dallas as he floated around the dining room from table to table. He tried reading his lips as he quietly spoke to the other members of the team, seeing if he could spot anything that looked as though he was saying ‘Finn’ to anyone else. But it was no use. The only way Mustang was going to see whether or not he’d gotten Finn was when Dallas finally spoke to him.
And, eventually, having gone through the agonizing wait of having to watch him speak with all nine other members of the team before him, Dallas did, indeed, finally arrive at where Mustang was sitting.
“Alright, kid …” he’d said, grabbing onto the back of his chair and, just as he’d done with everyone else before him, lowering himself down a touch to get a little closer to his level. “Last match out. You got ‘im.”
And that was it. Nothing more, nothing less. Just those eight words, a hearty slap on the shoulder, and Dallas was gone.
Truthfully, though, Mustang didn’t need anything else. Because he’d gotten his wish. Come the afternoon, it would be him and Finn Hennessy. One-on-one.
And the fact the pair of them could, potentially, wind up closing out the show as well? Merely the cherry on top.
“Ok, Grandpa, I will …” said Mustang, trying to complete the rather awkward task of unlacing his golf shoe with his one free hand as he used the other to keep his phone pressed up against his ear. “Make sure to say hi to Eddie and the Willis’ for me, alright? … Ok, and I’ll give you a call later if it’s not too late … Alright! Even if it’s late, I’ll call!”
Noticing a now freshly showered and changed Byron walking back into the locker room from the adjoining bathroom, Mustang moved towards getting off the phone.
“Ok, I really gotta finish getting ready now …” he said, sounding a touch more adamant than the previous two times he’d tried to hang up on Travis. “Alright … ok … bye.”
Finally able to bring his phone down from his ear, Mustang tapped the screen to fully hang up before casually tossing it down onto the cushioned bench alongside him.
“Don’t tell me that’s the same call from before I went into the shower?” scoffed Byron, grabbing the towel he had slung around his neck and throwing it into a nearby laundry basket as he crossed the locker room.
“No, different one,” answered Mustang, making short work of undoing the laces on his shoe now that he was back up to his full complement of hands and fingers. “I was talking to my friend Donny before you went into the shower; that, there, was my grandpa.”
Byron reached his locker and pulled open the polished wooden door, leaving the panel carved with the number 53 facing out towards Mustang. “Your grandpa …” he said, attempting to jog his own memory. “He was the old guy at the Memorial, right? The one with the cowboy hat?”
“Yep, that’s him,” smiled Mustang, nostalgically, as he finally slipped off his shoe. “He was just calling to wish me luck before the singles.”
“That is, of course, if you ever actually finish getting ready for them,” sighed Byron, now scrutinizing his reflection in the mirror attached to his locker door, carefully studying his hair for the horror show that would be any flyaways.
“Well, as my definition for ‘getting ready’ doesn’t involve being in the shower for twenty minutes, and then doing my hair for another twenty on top of that?” Mustang replied dryly, as he stood up and pulled open his own locker to reveal his uniform for the singles hanging neatly inside the door. “I think I’ll be ok.”
“And, believe it or not, I actually really respect you for that …” said Byron, suddenly sounding very sincere even though his hair continued to demand 99% of his attention.
“Really?” said Mustang, caught so off-guard by Byron’s comment that he actually had to pause from pulling the hanger with his clothes on it out of the locker to look over at him.
“Absolutely,” said Byron, finally tearing his eyes away from his reflection and looking at Mustang now that he was content his hair had met his exacting standards. “I mean, to go out on national T.V. looking like that? That takes some real courage.”
With that, a cheekily smiling Byron grabbed his locker door and closed it, the blast of air it generated wafting the aroma of his expensive-smelling cologne towards Mustang. “See ya out there,” he said, throwing the words back over his shoulder as he marched confidently towards the door of the locker room, grabbing one of the many bottles of water that had been neatly laid out for the team as he moved.
“Yeah, sure …” sighed Mustang, still smiling at the fact he’d been gullible enough to walk straight into Byron’s shot at his hair as he finished pulling out his clothes and hung them on the brass hook screwed to the inside of his locker door.
“And don’t be late!” called Byron, making sure to get the last word in just as he rounded the corner outside the door of the locker room and disappeared from view.
With the door closing behind him with a gentle thud, Mustang quickly realized that he was now completely alone inside the locker room – and it felt a little strange. Though he’d been coming in there all week, what with getting ready for practice rounds and listening to Dallas’ instructions for who he wanted to play with whom on a certain day, this was the very first time Mustang had the entirety of the large locker room all to himself. The noise of several different conversations all happening at once. The hustle and bustle of people getting ready. The constant coming and going of players and those members of the backroom team who kept the show running.
All of it now gone and replaced, instead, with an eerie, almost hallowed, silence.
With the far-off, muffled sound of the crowd cheering something or someone promptly reminding him that the world was still very much turning outside the four walls and lofty interior of the storied locker room, however, Mustang quickly busied himself with taking his uniform off the hanger to set about getting ready – even if he was, suddenly, a smidge more self-conscious of the fact it felt as though the various stuffed animal heads on the walls were now watching him with their wide, unblinking eyes.
Just as he pulled the white polo shirt off the hanger and began to exam the same bright red trousers the rest of the American team would be wearing for the singles, the sound of the door to the locker room opening once again caught Mustang’s ear. Thinking it must be Byron, Mustang called sarcastically across the room as he concentrated on checking the label on his trousers to make sure that they were the correct size.
“What happened?” he asked, a smile already on his face as turned to take in the sight of, what he assumed, would be Byron. “Gust of wind mess up your hair or someth-…”
When he saw who had actually entered the locker room, though, Mustang fell instantly silent; unable even to finish his sentence, such was the level of shock that had just hit him. Because as opposed to seeing Byron Ballas walking across the patterned, blue and yellow carpet covering the floor, Mustang, instead, found himself looking at the one and only, Desmond Finch.
Though dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing when Mustang had last seen him out on the 18th just after he and Byron had beaten Charlie and Reggie, given every item was tailored to absolute perfection, Desmond still struck a most elegant figure as he walked further into the locker room.
“My apologies,” he said, the deep timbre of his voice amplifying his distinctively upper-class English accent. “I presumed you’d be changed by now – I can come back if you’d like?”
“No, it’s fine …” said Mustang, still taken aback at this unexpected audience he found himself suddenly having with the Great Britain & Ireland captain. “Can I, uh … help you with something?”
Having been given the green light to continue their interaction, Desmond walked a little further into the locker room, stalking his way ever closer to the area where Mustang was standing. As he moved, Mustang couldn’t help but notice how Desmond’s eyes wandered around the room, casually drinking in the details that had garnered the historic space such a highly-revered reputation in the golf world. The photo albums dating back to the club’s founding. The framed scorecards belonging to the likes of Claude Harmon and Ben Hogan. The array of silver trophies played for throughout the year at Seminole proudly on display in-between the many plush couches dotted around the centre of the room. The dark-coloured, wooden boards attached to each of the four walls, all of them inscribed in gold with the names of the various winners who’d won different long-running competitions at the club over the years. Essentially, the endless list of items that made the locker room seem more like a small golf museum you could just so happen to have a shower in.
“Well, funnily enough …” said Desmond, finally focusing, solely, on Mustang. “In a roundabout way, that’s sort of what I was coming in here to ask you.”
“I don’t understand,” replied Mustang, his wariness growing at the rather cryptic fashion in which Desmond happened to be speaking. “You want to help me? With what?”
Finally stopping his advance towards where he was standing, Mustang watched as Desmond now idly traced his hand across the cover of a hardback book detailing the history of Pebble Beach, one which Mustang, himself, had perused earlier in the week. “I understand how this may seem a little … ‘out of the blue’,” said Desmond, briefly opening the book and coming across a rather impressive picture of the famous par-3 7th at Pebble Beach, the image making him recall his latest visit to the famous links earlier in the summer. “And, given the circumstances, perhaps even a tad … suspicious.”
Closing the cover of the book back down – and making a quick mental note to have his assistant arrange another trip to the Monterey Peninsula for the following week – Desmond looked over at Mustang. “But, for a second, let’s just forget the Walker Cup, shall we?” he said. “After all, what I’m proposing here, I’m doing so as ‘Desmond Finch the Businessman’, not ‘Desmond Finch the Walker Cup Captain’.”
“Alright …” said Mustang, his wariness, unsurprisingly, not abating. “So, this ‘proposal’ … what is it, exactly?”
“Well, Mustang-…” began Desmond, before quickly catching himself. “Sorry, do you mind if I call you Mustang? Or would you prefer Oscar?”
“Mustang’s fine.”
“Very well …” smiled Desmond, continuing with his original thought now that he had confirmation on how to address him. “In that case, Mustang, I’ll keep this very simple. You don’t need me to stand here and tell you what a special golfer you are; I mean, the fact you’re standing here at all having just turned 15 is testament enough to that – not to mention, of course, what it says about Dallas’ eye for spotting talent … but I digress. My point is: have you ever given any consideration to turning professional?”
“As a golfer?!” asked Mustang, eyes widening.
“No, as a ballroom dancer,” quipped Desmond, his accent making it sound all the drier. “Yes, as a golfer. Ever thought about it?”
Mustang didn’t know what to say. The simple answer was, of course, yes – after everything that had happened since meeting Ray, how could it not be? Winning the Memorial Matchplay? Winning the few junior tournaments he’d entered? Almost winning the U.S. Amateur? Everything he’d experienced, thus far, at the Walker Cup? No, the idea of, someday, becoming a professional golfer was one that had long since taken root in the forefront of Mustang’s mind. What was stopping him from just coming straight out and saying that, however, was not knowing why Desmond was so interested in knowing the answer.
“Yeah … I guess,” said Mustang, eventually yielding, but keeping his cards close to his chest. “You know, when I’m a little older. Maybe after playing in college.”
“Well, that certainly is a … ‘popular’ route to take on this side of the pond,” replied Desmond, sounding as though he was really struggling to make himself say something positive about Mustang’s plan. “Though, that being said, does it not seem a touch inefficient, no?”
“How do you mean?” asked Mustang, not for the first time finding himself left confused at Desmond saying but a scant amount of words.
“Well, playing college golf is fine for those people who need that time to hone their skills and to really see if they have what it takes to make it as a professional – and that’s perfectly fine,” Desmond answered, the words flowing free and unencumbered from his mouth without even so much as a second’s hesitation or single stutter. “But as is clear for anyone to see – well, anyone worth their salt, that is – you’re not like ‘most people’, are you? No, as this morning showed – and, please, do pardon the pun here – you, Mustang, are nothing short of a thoroughbred. And when you’re of that standard? Well, to continue with the racehorse analogy, you don’t go wasting your time entering Donkey Derbies, now do you?”
Having taken to gently leaning on the table where the book about Pebble Beach was lying, Desmond now pushed himself away from it and began moving towards the lockers about four or five doors down from where Mustang’s was. Each step appearing carefully measured. Exact. Precise. Almost choreographed.
“Of course, that isn’t to say that you’re the complete finished article,” Desmond continued, tempering his glowing evaluation of Mustang’s ability just a hair. “But with another year of growing under your belt? By this time next year, I’d see no reason why you shouldn’t be ready for the Tour.”
Once again, Mustang had no idea what to say or how to react. Him? Ready for the Tour? At 16?! This either had to be a mistake or some kind of elaborate ploy to throw him off his game.
Surely.
Or perhaps that’s just what Mustang felt he needed to tell himself.
Because, deep down, hearing someone like Desmond Finch say that he thought he was just a solitary year out from realizing his dream as opposed to the five he’d been thinking it would take? It annoyed Mustang how badly he wanted to believe him.
“But, wait a minute …” said Mustang, a sobering thought, suddenly, anchoring his feet firmly back down to earth. “I’ve checked this. You can’t join the PGA Tour until you’re 18 – so, how could I possibly play on it at 16?”
“Because the ‘Tour’ I’m talking about isn’t the PGA …” said Desmond, taking a break from examining the carved numbers on one of the locker doors to look over at Mustang. “It’s the European Tour.”
*
“Are you serious?!” gasped Rodney, all previous commitment to keeping his voice down now flying straight out the window. “Is that even possible?!”
“Apparently so,” answered Mustang, pulling another ball out from the pile alongside him and maneuvering it carefully into position with the head of his 7-iron. “As long as you’re accompanied by a guardian and you get through Q-School? Then, even if you’re only 16, you can play.”
With his piece said, Mustang drew his club back and, as he had done with every other shot he’d hit during his warm-up, put a smooth, controlled swing straight into the back of the ball.
THWWWIIIPPPPP!!!!
After a quick glance to make sure it was carrying the required amount of fade he’d looked to put on it, Mustang turned around and looked at Rodney, subtly reaching into his pocket as he did so.
“And when he was done explaining how it would work?” he said, noticeably lowering his voice as he pulled a business card from his pocket and held it out for Rodney to take. “He gave me that.”
Taking his cue for how he should act based on the rather secretive way in which he’d handed it to him, Rodney cupped his hand around the card to shield it as best he could while he examined it. And, unsurprisingly, given it had come from Desmond, Rodney could immediately tell that the card had a decidedly ‘premium’ feel to it. The satisfying weight of the card stock. The smooth, matte black finish. The embossed lettering finished in a tasteful shade of gold.
Yes, this was definitely the kind of business card someone like Desmond Finch would be handing out.
“Guild 79 …” said Rodney, the words ringing a familiar, though just-out-of-reach, bell as he read them aloud. “Guild 79 … why do I know that name?”
“It’s a sports management agency in London that Desmond is on the board of,” Mustang answered, telling Rodney everything he, himself, had been told about the mysterious-sounding ‘Guild 79’. “And according to him, they’ve a lot of high-profile athletes on their books – mainly, soccer players.”
“That’s where I’ve heard it!” said Rodney, the name finally twigging inside his brain. “Aston Duke just signed with them!”
“Wow, the Aston Duke?!” exclaimed Mustang, getting jokingly excited.
“Yeah!” replied Rodney, his genuine excitement about the subject matter preventing him from picking up on the fact Mustang was messing with him. “You’ve heard of him?!”
“Have I heard of him?!” said Mustang, keeping up the act perfectly. “Of course not!”
Finally realizing that he’d only been teasing him, a smiling Rodney just shook his head and got back to the matter at hand. “Anyway …” he said, handing the business card back to a grinning Mustang. “I take it Desmond wants you to sign with this lot, then?”
“If I turn pro, yeah,” confirmed Mustang, the smile slowly fading from his face as he tucked Desmond’s card back into the safety of his pocket. “Said with his help that, should I get through Q-School, within an hour of securing my card he could guarantee he’d have me at the centre of a bidding war for companies looking to sponsor me – Nike, Adidas, Puma … all of ‘em.”
“Wow …” said Rodney, taking a second to puff out his cheeks in disbelief. “And what did Ray say when he heard all this?”
From how instantly squirrely Mustang began to act upon hearing Ray’s name, Rodney knew, immediately, what this meant. “You haven’t told him, have you?!” he hissed.
“Well … not exactly, no …” replied Mustang sheepishly, knowing full well the reaction this would draw.
“Aw, mate, are you serious?!” groaned Rodney, as expected.
“Hey, it’s not like I’m never gonna tell him!” argued Mustang, attempting to defend his decision. “But given I’m pretty sure I know how he’s gonna react, I just don’t see the point in telling him right before I’m supposed to go out and play Finn!”
“But, mate, do you not thin-…”
RING-RING! RING-RING! RING-RING!
“Oh! Better get that!” said Mustang, jumping on the opportunity the sound of his phone suddenly ringing from inside his bag had given him to tag out of their conversation. “Could be important!”
Knowing exactly what he was doing – but knowing just as well that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it – a smiling Rodney just shook his head exasperatedly and stuck out his hand for a handshake.
“Yeah, yeah …” he sighed, as the pair of them quickly shook hands. “Just good luck against Finn, alright?”
“Thanks, man,” smiled Mustang, appreciating the sentiment.
Replying with a wink and a nod of his head, Rodney turned and set off walking back down the now near-empty range, leaving Mustang free to fish his still ringing phone out of his bag. Though, normally, Ray wouldn’t allow him to go on his phone while in the middle of warming-up – one of his very few rules for when they were in a competitive setting on a golf course – given he was, currently, off at the opposite end of the range getting a fresh batch of supplies ahead of their match, Mustang figured it would be ok to see who was calling him … at least, just this once anyway
As he looked at the screen, however – turning it ever-so-slightly to escape the glare from the sun – Mustang saw that whoever was calling him was doing so from a hidden number. While usually reluctant to answer calls from numbers like this – as, more often than not, they were just spam – after learning earlier in the week that Dallas’ phone always showed up as hidden, Mustang had no qualms about answering this particular call.
“Hello?” he said, moving back to where the range balls were still scattered on the turf and idly pulling another one of them out with his club.
“Hello, Oscar …” said an all-too-familiar-sounding voice on the other end of the line. “Long time no see.”
Straight away Mustang’s stomach clenched and his jaw set firmly in place.
Because he’d know that voice anywhere.
That smug, self-serving South Carolina drawl making him stand out like a tiger in the snow.
“Fletcher …” growled Mustang through clenched teeth. “What do you want?”
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