CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: PARTY CRASHERS

After looking ‘in’ from the moment it had left his putter, Reggie’s ball, as expected, dropped dead weight into the hole, drawing isolated – bordering on ironic – cheers from the Great Britain & Ireland fans who’d been following their match since the 1st, and exasperated groans from those American fans who hadn’t yet abandoned the top match out in search of more positive viewing elsewhere around the course.

Because, the fact of the matter was, it hadn’t been a good morning to be following Mustang and Byron. Not at all. And after Reggie’s latest effort? It had just gotten a whole lot worse.

“GREAT BRITAIN & IRELAND THREE! THE UNITED STATES FOUR!” announced the Scorekeeper, needing only to raise his voice loud enough to be heard over the breeze that had been steadily picking up in strength since the latter half of the front 9. “GREAT BRITAIN & IRELAND WIN THE HOLE! THEY NOW LEAD 5UP!”

When he’d envisioned how their match might possibly go while travelling to Seminole earlier that morning, playing out various scenarios in his head and plotting the ideal game plan for how best to tackle the formidable challenge posed by the Riggs Brothers, not once did the thought enter Mustang’s mind that, come the time they’d be walking off the 12th green, he and Byron would find themselves 5DN and on the very brink of defeat.

Yet, here they were.

Should they fail to halve or win the par-3 13th, that would be it. Game over. No point. Not even a half. Just abject defeat and their names added to the long list of vanquished opponents to have fallen at the feet of Charlie and Reggie Riggs.

What Mustang found especially frustrating, however, was that in winding up in the dire position they currently found themselves, neither he nor Byron had given a proper account of their abilities. Not that it had been for a lack of trying, of course – nor, luckily, even another episode like that which Mustang had experienced on the 1st-tee. Far from it.

Instead, it had just been a case of no matter what they’d done or even attempted to do, Mustang and Byron just could not get a foothold in the match. Now, in the early stages, this hadn’t proved overly problematic, as the Riggs Brothers hadn’t exactly come out of the blocks firing on all cylinders either; choosing, instead, to feel their way into the match with efficient – albeit a tad conservative – play that saw them content to trade matching pars with Mustang and Byron that kept the match ticking along at all-square.

Once they reached the par-4 6th, though, having used the previous five holes to feel out Mustang and Byron with the odd jab here and there, the Riggs Brothers finally threw their first real punch of the match.

And it landed.

With Byron looking at a testing 6-footer for par after Mustang had done the best job that he could with the plugged lie he’d been left with in one of the greenside bunkers Byron had found with their second shot, Reggie stepped up and, from pretty much out of nowhere, drained a 25-foot, double-breaker for birdie that, simultaneously, saw them drawing first blood in the match and Byron reaching for his coin. 

And, unfortunately, that was to become an all-too-familiar sight over the next six holes.

Because no matter what Mustang and Byron did, they just couldn’t get even a thimble’s worth of momentum going their way. Naturally, they were trying their utmost to give each other birdie looks every chance they got, but those looks either wound up being in the range where, realistically, they weren’t all that makeable; and the rare ones that actually were? Those from around 12-feet out and in? Neither of them could take advantage of them. Their putters were just stone-cold – as in, they couldn’t have even bought a birdie putt between them, that’s how bad things were.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, however, you then had the Riggs Brothers. From the moment Reggie had grabbed that unlikely birdie on the 6th to put them 1UP, it was like seeing that one single putt go in had handed the brothers a set of cheat codes for the notoriously difficult greens at Seminole. And over the next half a dozen holes, whichever one of them it was who happened to have their putter in their hands, they promptly put those codes to good use as they set about nonchalantly torching up the greens.

The 7th? Birdie.

The 8th? Birdie.

9 and 10? Only two brutal lip-outs saw them missing out on adding another two birds to their feast.

The 11th? Birdie.

And after Reggie’s latest effort at the 12th? Another birdie. 

Seven holes. 

Five unanswered birdies. 

In one word? Dominant.

And the thing is, Mustang and Byron couldn’t complain. As much as it stung to see them 5UP and positively cruising towards the finish line, there was no denying Charlie and Reggie deserved to be in the position that they were. In every facet of the game, the British twins had just been the better team – simple as that. Byron knew it. His caddie knew it. Ray knew it. And, as bad a taste as it was leaving in his mouth, Mustang knew it too.

With the 13th tee-box less than the chip of a ball away from the 12th green, Mustang took his time walking dejectedly down the slope that led off the putting surface, itself cutting in-between two of the front greenside bunkers. As he moved, though – lost in his misery at how badly the match was going – Mustang couldn’t help but notice something out of the corner of his eye. Upon looking back down the fairway, itself now awash in sunshine, Mustang’s suspicions were confirmed as he spotted the familiar sight of Dallas trundling towards the green in one of the official carts the captains and vice-captains on both teams had been using to zip around the course in all week.

Recognizing that he could only be coming to talk to him and Byron, Mustang’s stomach immediately dropped. Because if he’d learned anything from watching him operate the previous day, Mustang knew that with anyone who was playing well, like Byron and Blake had been in the Saturday foursomes, Dallas just left them alone. When he got word from one of his vice-captains that the tide in a certain match was perhaps just beginning to turn against the U.S., however, or that the wheels were looking as though they were coming off the challenge of a certain member of the team, that’s then when Dallas would hop straight into his cart and speed off through the crowd to go throw an encouraging arm around whoever needed it in an effort to try and get things back on track. And given how badly things had actually gone on Saturday, Mustang had seen Dallas clock up more than his fair share of miles around Seminole doing exactly that.

To now see him speeding towards the 12th green, though, Mustang knew that meant himself and Byron – thanks to the many eyes and ears Dallas, no doubt, had around the course – were now, officially, one of those same problematic pairs in need of some encouragement. And that did not feel good.

“Gentlemen …” said Dallas, trying his best to sound upbeat as he brought his cart to a swinging stop in front of Mustang and now Byron also, who’d just vacated the green en route to the 13th tee-box. “We in trouble?”

“Well, if by ‘trouble’ you mean ‘are we getting whooped?’” replied Byron, frankly. “Then, yeah, we’re in trouble.”

Switching off the engine, Dallas exited the cart and stood stiffly out onto the fairway, his knees and back, all the while, arguing the case for remaining seated. “Yeah, the updates haven’t exactly made for the best of listening,” sighed Dallas, popping the earpiece out of his ear so that it dangled down around his shoulder before leaning up against the side of the cart. “If it’s any consolation, though, things ain’t looking all that rosy in the other matches either.”

“How bad is it?” asked Mustang, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Ah, forget it …” replied Dallas, attempting to dismiss the subject as if he regretted bringing it up in the first place. “Let’s just focus on you guys, huh?”

“Dallas …” said Mustang, not willing to let his question go unanswered. “Come on.”

Realizing that he was going to dig his heels in over this, Dallas, for the sake of ease, decided to just yield to Mustang’s request. “We’re down in all of ‘em,” he sighed, letting his guard down fully for the first time since arriving.“The board’s blue.”

“Are any of them at least close?” asked Byron, all traces of sarcasm gone from his voice and replaced, now, with just genuine concern.

“Last I heard?” replied Dallas, now foregoing any modicum of pretence and, instead, just laying everything out on the table. “Blake and Samson are 2DN thru 7 in the anchor match; Austin and Mason are 3DN thru 9; and Axel and Greyson? They’re about to go 4DN thru 11. So, not exactly close, but not terminal either. They just need a spark, though. Simple as that. Something to get a fire lit under ‘em and this crowd back onside –  ‘cause right now it’s way too quiet out here.”

Again, Mustang’s stomach dropped. Given their place in the order, he knew that it should have been him and Byron setting the tone with the crowd. Been the ones responsible for loud, raucous cheers echoing across the course for the other matches to hear as they put some much-needed red on the board early on. But, up until now, they’d failed. Dallas had trusted them to go out and do a job for him, and, instead, they’d been outplayed, outperformed, and outgunned.

And right then, Mustang knew something had to change.

Whether it was seeing the disappointment on Dallas’ face, hearing the almost resigned tone in his voice, or knowing that the U.S. were down in all the other matches, whatever it was, it was as though someone had just thrown a bucket of water straight into Mustang’s face, snapping him from the stupor he didn’t even realize he’d been in since teeing-off.

“Then I guess we know what we have to do then …” said Mustang, a renewed sense of purpose now suddenly coursing through his voice.

“And that would be?” asked Dallas, not sounding quite sure what he was talking about.

“Give the crowd something to cheer about,” clarified Mustang, bluntly, before turning and marching off determinedly in the direction of the 13th tee-box.

Having already set up shop off to the side of the tee-box, Ray turned to acknowledge Mustang as he arrived alongside him.

“No need to rush, kid …” he said, speaking around the mouthful of banana he was currently working his way through as Mustang reached into his bag and pulled out his 6-iron. “Some problem with the mic, so they’re just fixin’ it before we tee-off.”

Between being so preoccupied with what he’d said to Dallas and then fishing his club out of his bag, Mustang hadn’t even noticed the member of the television crew hurriedly examining one of the pesky on-course microphones that were dotted all around the greens and other tee-boxes at Seminole; its fluffy, grey windscreen making it look as though he had a firm grasp on a possum as opposed to an expensive piece of audio equipment.

“It’s 6 for this one, right?” asked Mustang flatly, clearly more concerned with ensuring he had the correct club in his hand as opposed to whatever struggle the crew member was having in trying to get the microphone to work.

Finally swallowing the banana in his mouth, Ray turned and looked off towards the 13th green. From the intensive studying he’d done of the tee-sheet, he already knew full well that the shortest par-3 on the course was measuring only 170-yards for the morning foursomes; so, for Mustang, that would, indeed, be a full-blooded 6-iron all day long.

What Ray needed to check, though, was whether or not the wind that had been picking up all morning needed to be factored into his decision on what club to pull. Because though it wasn’t visible from the tee, what Ray also knew was that just beyond the back of the green, over the bank of low sand dunes that ran all the way across the rear of the hole, the Atlantic Ocean was lying in wait; just biding its time to whip up a gust of wind that would send an unsuspecting tee-shot sailing into any one of the nine bunkers surrounding the green. 

As the gently fluttering flag sitting inside the hole told him that Poseidon was, apparently, on his coffee break, however, Ray was confident that the wind would be no such issue – for now, at least.

“Yeah, 6 should do the trick,” he confirmed, turning back and looking at Mustang. “I mean, there’s a little breeze up there, but nothin’ to be worried abo-…”

Having finished speaking with Dallas in the interim, a clearly disgruntled Byron landed brusquely next to Mustang and Ray. “I need to talk to you!” he hissed, cutting straight across Ray mid-sentence.

“Woah, ok, boys– whatever this is? Let’s just remember where we are, alright?” Ray warned, lowering his voice to try and prevent as few people as possible from noticing the obvious tension between Byron and Mustang. “We still got holes to play here.”

“It’s fine,” said Mustang, looking to allay Ray’s concerns. “This won’t take long.” He turned and looked at Byron. “Alright, come on …”

Given they weren’t exactly blessed with a plethora of secluded places in which to talk, Mustang and Byron made do with moving towards the very rear of the tee-box, right to where the hedging that flanked the entire left side of the hole wrapped around to form a 15-foot-high wall of dense, green foliage.

“Ok, what is it?” Mustang asked, disinterestedly, as soon as he and Byron came to a stop.

“What is it?!” repeated Byron, the volume of his voice creeping up ever-so-slightly. “Gee, I dunno, how ‘bout that little pipebomb you just dropped over there ‘bout how we’re, all of a sudden, gonna give the crowd something to cheer about?! Cause, I dunno ‘bout you, but I sure as hell know that I’ve been tryna’ do that ever since we walked off the 1st-tee!”

“And I know you have,” replied Mustang, remaining eerily calm in the face of Byron’s obvious frustration with him. “So have I. But you heard Dallas. We’re down in all the other matches – never mind the fact we’re 5DN with 6 to play. So, as far as I’m concerned, enough is enough. If Dallas thinks getting the crowd going will help the others, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

“Oh, just like that, huh?!” scoffed Byron. “That simple?! You’ve barely gotten anything inside 12-feet all morning, but now – just because you say so – you’re gonna what … knock down the flag?!”

Mustang paused for a moment before answering. After hearing it explained in such simple terms, it almost sounded too simple. Surely, it had to be more complicated? But nothing else was coming to mind. “Yeah, pretty much …” he answered. “I mean, it’s always worked before, so …?”

“Well, as great and all as that is for you?!” snapped Byron, the tiniest crack in his facade revealing, for the very first time, a hint of insecurity. “Not everybody can just flick a switch and decide to start playing better! It doesn’t work that way!”

Before he could attempt to reassure Byron, the sight of Charlie and Reggie suddenly appearing from around the corner of the hedge and walking onto the tee-box saw Mustang quickly hold his tongue.

“What’s goin’ on ‘ere?” asked Reggie, gesturing at the member of the television crew who’d given up on trying to fix the old microphone and settled on just replacing it with a new one.

Though unsure as to whether or not he was asking them directly or putting the question to the tee-box as a whole, Mustang decided to answer. “Some problem with the mic, so they’re putting in a new one, I think.”

“Ah … so, you’re sayin’ there’s no audio bein’ picked up right now then, no?” asked Charlie, appearing oddly interested in the status of the microphone.

“Uh, well, it’s hard to say, really …” replied Byron, now weighing into the conversation in the hope of ending it as soon as possible. “But I’d guess not, no.”

Charlie and Reggie exchanged a loaded glance. Though no words were said, from the subtly devilish expressions that lit up their near-identical faces, it was clear they were both thinking the same thing. And given they were members of ‘The Six’? It couldn’t be anything good.

“I see …” said Charlie, his strong Cockney accent suddenly sounding far too friendly for it to be considered even remotely genuine. “Well, given we have this unexpected moment of privacy, my brother and I want to let you boys in on a little secret. Ain’t that right, Regg?”

“Why, yes, it is, Charlie,” replied Reggie, dutifully playing along with whatever skit the pair of them were cooking up. “See, we’re not announcin’ this, officially, until after we win the cup, but given the circumstances? We think we should make an exception.”

“Well, aren’t we the lucky ones?” said Mustang sarcastically, not content to just let the Riggs Brothers continue to toy with him and Byron as they were attempting to do. “So, when exactly are you going to start using deodorant? Cause take it from someone who lived in a car for a month: I wouldn’t wait until the end of the day if I were you.”

Charlie and Reggie both smiled – one of the benefits of being 5UP with just 6 holes remaining.

“No, the announcement we’re talkin’ about …” continued Charlie, sounding thoroughly unperturbed by Mustang’s remark. “Is the fact that when all this is over and done with? And we’ve finally put you lot out of your misery? Me and Regg here? We’ll be turnin’ pro.”

“Ok …” said Byron, now torn between feeling completely disinterested or annoyed at the fact the Riggs Brothers were still talking to them. “And you’re telling us this … why?”

“Ain’t it obvious?” questioned Reggie, looking genuinely surprised that Byron and Mustang hadn’t figured it out yet. “Given we’re turnin’ pro, that means this is our final Walker Cup – which, in turn, means this? Us playin’ against the two of you? It’s our final foursomes match.”

“Exactly …” added Charlie, seamlessly taking over the reins from Reggie. “And given our – let’s face it – imperious record in the foursomes? Well, we thought it only right to thank you two for makin’ it so bloody easy for us to finish undefeated!”

“Oh, absolutely!” said Reggie, a similarly wide smile on his face as that on his brother’s now that the punchline they’d been working towards had been delivered. “Cause, I’ll be honest, when we saw it was you two we’d be playin’ against? I’m not gonna lie, we were a tiny bit worried – we were. But after actually seein’ you play?! Well, like Charlie said, it’s just really good of you to roll over like you’ve done and let us have the perfect record we deserve – it shows real class on your part.”

Suddenly, the sound of the Scorekeeper’s voice calling out from across the other side of the tee-box interrupted the Riggs’ fun. “Alright, gentlemen,” he said, eager to get the match back underway now that the crew member had solved the microphone issue and was just in the process of disappearing back into the shadows. “We’re good to go. Great Britain & Ireland? You have the honour.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Charlie, effortlessly pretending as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. 

“We’ll be right over,” added Reggie, he, too, perfectly imitating Charlie’s ‘choir boy act’.

 With the Scorekeeper dealt with, Charlie and Reggie looked back at Mustang and Byron, the same wide, irritating grins, once again, plastered across their faces.

“Well, better get back to it, boys,” said Charlie, cleverly whispering now that he knew the microphone on the tee-box was back working.

“Don’t worry, though …” said Reggie, again following Charlie’s lead by lowering the volume of his voice as well. “We won’t drag it out.”

Looking decidedly smug and oh-so-pleased with themselves, the Riggs Brothers turned around and set off back across the tee-box, leaving Mustang and Byron, as they’d started off, standing on their own.

“Now … I know just ‘deciding to’ doesn’t work for you to play better …” said Mustang quietly, as he and Byron watched Charlie, now with a 7-iron in hand, go about teeing up his ball. “But how ‘bout the idea of spoiling Tweedledum and Tweedledee’s party? That do anything for ya?”

“Yep …” replied Byron determinedly, watching as Charlie now began to take a few practice swings. “That oughta’ do it.”

*

The irons in Mustang’s bag rattled against one another as Ray slipped it off his shoulder and plopped it down onto the ground.

“Is there more water?” asked Mustang, looking towards Ray after draining the mouthful that had remained in the bottle he’d been working on since walking off the 18th-tee box.

“Uh, I think so …” replied Ray distractedly, loosely pointing at no pocket in particular on the bag as he was too busy already trying to decipher the exact yardage Byron had left Mustang for their second shot following the monster of a drive he’d just pumped right down the centre of the fairway. “Try the pockets.”

As instructed, Mustang began rooting through the many pockets on his bag and, after a little digging, did, indeed, find one remaining bottle squirreled away, the outside of it still refreshingly cool to the touch as he pulled it out into the open. Mustang, of course, knew that he wasn’t actually thirsty as he cracked open the cap and took a sip from the bottle; what he’d drunk while walking down the fairway had been more than enough. Instead, he just needed something to do. Some mindless activity – no matter how simple it was – to just busy his hands with and give himself a chance to gather his thoughts. And after the five holes he and Byron had just put together? Mustang’s thoughts were feeling anything but neatly aligned.

Because in those very same five holes, he and Byron had completely turned the tables in their match against the Riggs Brothers.

Starting back at the 13th, Mustang had kept his word to give the crowd something to cheer about by working a high, slinging draw into the green that wound up settling less than a foot from the pin and, ultimately, saw him and Byron win their very first hole of the match to cut the deficit to 4DN – a minor improvement, but if you were Charlie and Reggie looking at two back-to-back par-5s coming up at 14 and 15, not something that would’ve sent them reaching for the panic button.

Two unanswered eagles later, however, and now just 2UP walking to the par-4 16th, Charlie and Reggie weren’t looking quite so relaxed anymore. So, just as a precaution, that same panic button was gently pressed. And, as a result, one of the Great Britain & Ireland vice-captains duly answered the call to show up and attempt to steady the ship – after all, 2UP with 3 to play? Not as comfortable as being 4UP and already headed to the showers, no, but Charlie and Reggie were still very much in the driving seat.

Or, at least, that had been the message he’d tried to get across.

When that same vice-captain then promptly watched Byron drain the 8-footer for birdie that Mustang had left him with at 16 to see them win their fourth hole in a row and sitting just 1DN heading to 17 with a red-hot American crowd now firmly back behind them? Though Charlie and Reggie were still in the driving seat, it was blatantly apparent that the wheels were coming off at an alarming rate. They needed to get to the clubhouse. Desperately. But, unfortunately for them, there was no easy escape from the cauldron that Seminole, at this point, had now become.

And once Mustang then stiffed yet another tee-shot to within near-gimme range at the par-3 17th, followed by Charlie sending his tee-shot sailing into one of the greenside bunkers – thus all but sealing the fact Mustang and Byron were about to get the match back to all-square (which they, inevitably, then would) – that same panic button was now getting positively mashed.

Because between the standard of play Mustang and Byron were producing and the insane atmosphere being generated by the crowd, if there was any hope for Charlie and Reggie to come out of this match with any points, there was only one person left who they’d thought could possibly salvage the situation. And as Mustang screwed the cap back onto the bottle and looked across the fairway, he saw that very person talking to Reggie about the upcoming putt he was going to have following Charlie’s disappointing approach shot into 18 that had ballooned on the wind and ended up a good 40-feet from the back-right pin – none other than Desmond Finch.

Funnily enough, over the course of the entire week, this was one of the few times Mustang had actually seen the mysterious Great Britain & Ireland captain in person. He’d caught glimpses of him here and there, out on the range or, as was the case on Saturday, being driven around in a cart by one of his vice-captains. But, apart from that, the reclusive Englishman had pretty much been a ghost; preferring to remain some unseen puppet master pulling the strings from behind-the-scenes and putting together perfect game plans to ensure the downfall of the Americans. 

Thanks to Mustang and Byron, however, Desmond’s plan for the Sunday foursomes was now in real danger of going up in smoke.

Because with each hole that had passed where they’d slowly begun to chip away at the Riggs Brothers’ lead, word of their comeback and the noise from the crowd had begun to filter back towards the other matches. And, slowly but surely, as Mustang and Byron had continued to claw their way back into their own match, every now and then, the unmistakable sound of an American roar would ring out, carrying on the wind news that another hole had gone the way of the red, white, and blue somewhere else on the course.

Then? Soon enough? The roars were coming more frequently, erupting every few minutes like clockwork as the tide and, most importantly, the scoreboard began to turn the way of the U.S.A. In fact, so seismic had this shift in momentum been, that come the time Mustang had been walking down the 18th fairway and finally found himself able to catch a glimpse of one of the few large, manual scoreboards placed around the course, he’d seen that, of the three matches behind his and Byron’s, the U.S.A were now up in all of them.

Meaning, a clean-sweep was now most definitely on the cards.

Just not on any of the ones Desmond happened to be holding.

“Alright, kid, we’re lookin’ at 147 pin …” said Ray, flicking his yardage book closed and tucking his pencil back behind his ear. “Now, normally, I’d just say a full 9, but after seein’ what the wind did to Charlie’s ball, I’m thinkin’ chokin’ down on an 8 and sawin’ it off is our best play here. Get it pitchin’ 130? 135? Stun it off that ridge in the middle of the green, and then just let it run out the rest of the way. What d’ya think?”

Having taken to putting on his glove as Ray was speaking, Mustang pulled the tab closed, sealing the velcro tightly in place. “Yeah …” he replied, somewhat distractedly, as he tugged nervously at his glove. “Sounds good …”

Ray didn’t like the look of this. After seeing what had happened to him on the 1st-tee, Ray had been watching Mustang like a hawk all the way through the match. Looking for signs of discomfort. Looking for signs that he might be freezing up again or looking a touch distracted. And, luckily, thru 17 holes, Ray hadn’t spotted anything – until now, that is.

“You alright?” he asked, a serious tone now cutting through his voice.

Mustang hesitated for a moment before answering. “Yeah, no, I’m good,” he replied, unconvincingly.

“Well, it’s a good job you don’t golf like you lie,” quipped Ray, calling Mustang out on his subpar attempt at dodging the question. “Otherwise we’d be in the clubhouse by now. So, come on – out with it. What’s up?”

Given he’d played this game enough times in the past to realize there was no point continuing to try to throw Ray off the scent, Mustang decided to just relent. “Well, it’s nothing, really …” he began, trying to offset any concern before ever actually saying anything of worth. “I’ve just been thinking about something …”

“And that is?” probed Ray, looking to keep him talking.

Mustang took a breath in, prepping himself to say what exactly it was that had been on his mind since leaving the 18th tee-box.

“Well …” he answered, finally looking over at Ray. “Do you think we get a say over who we play in the singles?”

“What?!” snapped Ray, eyes widening. “That’s what you’re thinkin’ ‘bout right now?!”

“Well … yeah,” Mustang replied, not seeing why what he’d said had provoked such a strong reaction from Ray.

Though not knowing, initially, whether he should laugh or despair at what was “troubling” Mustang, Ray eventually settled on the former. “Ok, well, I’m not sure, but I promise I’ll find out from Dallas,” he bargained, a disbelieving smile on his face at the fact he was having this conversation at all given the circumstances. “Until then, though, can we perhaps concentrate on finishing this match first before we start thinkin’ ‘bout the singles?!”

Without saying another word, Mustang pulled his 8-iron from his bag, stepped forward to where his ball was sitting on the fairway and settled straight into his stance.

Just one look at the green later and he was drawing back his club.

THWWWIIIPPPPP!!!!

Coming right out of the centre of the clubface, Mustang’s ball split the air as it set off on the exact piercing trajectory Ray had imagined when he was first drawing up his idea for how best to play the hole. Even Mustang’s swing had looked picture-perfect. The choked-down grip? The sharp, sawn-off followthrough? It had all been there. And just one look at the flight of his ball as it entered the airspace above the 18th green told Ray that it had all been worth it.

Because it was on the perfect line.

Pitching in almost the precise location he’d picked out in his mind, Ray watched as Mustang’s ball skipped off the ridge running across the middle of the green, jumped forward, and set off rolling in the direction of the hole. Though difficult to see from the fairway what path it was now actually on, going by the excited shouts and screams of those American fans up greenside, Mustang’s ball seemed as though it was on a good line.

As in, a really good line …

But it wasn’t to be that good.

“OOOOHHHHHH!!!” roared the crowd as Mustang’s ball just crept past the right side of the hole and came to a stop but a few inches away from the cup, their cries an odd mixture of disappointed, yet at the same time hysterically excited.

Because, realistically, with the birdie now secured for Mustang and Byron, and Reggie staring down the barrel of a 40-plus-footer for his birdie try, the crowd had a pretty good inkling of what this meant: Mustang and Byron had pulled off the comeback.

And not only pulled it back to secure a half. No. In one fell swoop, they’d come charging back to claim a whole, full point, and the Riggs Brothers’ precious undefeated record right along with it.

Not a bad haul for one morning’s work.

With the crowd still cheering up at the green, a stunned Ray just turned and looked at Mustang, the usual smile on his face that tended to appear there whenever he found himself having just witnessed his young charge pull off some ridiculous shot.

“When you’re talking to Dallas?” said Mustang, a wry grin now on his own face as he looked over at Ray. “Tell him I want Finn.”

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Illustration by the incredibly talented Kyle Petchock.