Written by Stephen F. Moloney
For the umpteenth time since walking onto the tightly mown surface of the green, Byron got down onto his haunches, leaned his putter up against his shoulder, and buried his head into the old, battered-looking greens book he’d only glanced at once or twice over the course of the previous seventeen holes.
“Why is he taking so long?” whispered a confused Mustang.
“Cause he’s tryna’ figure out what the line is,” answered Ray, he, too, whispering as he adjusted where he had the18th flag leaning against his shoulder. “But it looks like he’s havin’ a little trouble seein’ what it does.”
“Do you think it’s ‘cause he’s nervous?” asked Mustang, again being sure to keep his voice down. “You know … cause of them?”
Though he already knew what he was referring to, Ray looked off in the direction where Mustang had subtly gestured towards with his head and took in the sight of Byron’s buddies all gathered at the top of the large bank that flanked the right-hand side of the green. They were the usual suspects that made up his group of hangers-on, those who’d come up through the junior ranks with him at the Creek and who, even after he’d gone to high school out-of-state, had been sure to keep themselves firmly situated within his inner-circle so as to ensure their continued proximity to his success on the course.
What this endeavour invariably then meant in practice was each of them falling over one another in order to be the one who fawned the most over Byron whenever he came back to town and decided to take in a round at the Creek – a sight that never failed to make Ray cringe whenever he had the misfortune of witnessing it. So, needless to say, when he’d seen Byron put the call out for them to gather greenside and be waiting to give him a hero’s welcome back to the clubhouse after, what he assumed would be, a routine birdie at 18, Ray was completely unsurprised to see them all gathered together with each of their expensive smartphones out and primed to capture the moment like they were Byron’s own private press corp.
Because of where his second shot had finished up, however, and the difficulty of the putt he had left for birdie, Ray could tell there was a definite feeling of tension radiating out from Byron’s buddies. It’s as if they knew the torturous afternoon that potentially lay in store for them if Byron didn’t manage to tie the course record – and all they’d been looking for was a free lunch on Truman’s tab at the clubhouse.
“Well, I doubt it’s helpin’,” whispered Ray, turning his attention back onto Mustang.
“Yeah, well, I just hope he hurries up and hits it soon,” whispered Mustang, a definite sense of urgency now in his voice. “Cause I really need to use the bathroom.”
“What?!” whispered Ray. “Why didn’t you say somethin’?!”
“I didn’t want to get in the way,” answered Mustang. “Plus, I didn’t want to ask you if I could go take a leak in front of these rich dudes – it’s embarrassing.”
“More embarrassin’ than wettin’ those overalls?” joked Ray, teasingly.
“Hey, I am not a baby!” whispered Mustang sharply. “Alright, I’m not gonna wet myself!”
“Fair enough,” replied Ray, still smiling. “I hear you.”
Mustang and Ray both fell silent as they returned to looking off at Byron who was still, much to Mustang’s frustration, down on his haunches and forensically examining the line of his putt from off to the side of it. His head moving left and right as if he were watching a very small, invisible game of tennis.
“Though if he takes any longer I will just have to leave!” whispered Mustang, now sounding incredibly strained.
Just as Ray smiled at Mustang, Byron, having gathered every possible piece of data there was to get on his putt – outside of hiring an actual team of surveyors to come in and give him a second opinion on what he’d been reading in his greens book – stood back up and returned to where his ball marker was lying on the green. He pulled his ball out of his pocket, the same one he’d tossed petulantly at Mustang to clean when they first landed on the green and set about replacing it back down in front of his marker.
Though he’d abandoned the routine he’d employed for reading every other putt he’d had during his round for the monster he was faced with at 18, now that it was time to actually hit the putt Byron slipped straight back into his usual routine. So, once he had his ball back down in front of his marker, he went about carefully lining up the black line on his ball with the line he wanted to start his ball rolling on, moving it a millimetre here and a millimetre there as he flicked his eyes back and forth between the hole and his ball. When happy everything was suitably aligned, he then swept his marker out from behind the ball and in one clean swoop shoved it back into the pocket of his shorts as he stood back up – all the while, of course, keeping his attention firmly locked on the line of the putt. He then moved a few feet back from his ball, came to a stop, and began making the tiniest and lightest of strokes with his putter as he stared intently down the line of the putt in an effort to get a feel for the pace. When he felt that, too, was dialled-in, he stood back up straight, expanded his broad chest and took a deep breath in to steady himself – he was ready.
He stepped in behind his ball and took his stance. He set the head of his putter gently down onto the green, took a practice stroke, and then one more. He looked back down the line of the putt and replicated the exact same practice stroke once again as he made sure he was happy with the line he’d chosen. Finally, with nothing left to check, Byron fixed his eyes squarely back over his ball as he ever-so-carefully placed the head of the putter in behind it.
And then everything went suddenly very still.
There was no buzzing of mowers off in the distance nor faint clinking of a ball ricocheting off the face of someone’s driver from one of the nearby holes. His cronies on the bank? They dared not make a sound nor move a muscle for fear of being a potential distraction. And Truman? He was intensely watching every micromovement that Byron made like a judge in a dance competition as he nervously chewed on the end of his third cigar of the round. It was like the entirety of the Creek itself had come to a complete standstill in order to witness this one, single putt.
With nothing more left to take into account and with history awaiting, Byron drew his putter back and, with a smooth rock of his shoulders, delivered the face straight into the back of the ball. Like everyone else, Ray and Mustang tracked Byron’s ball as it skated smoothly along the surface of the green. They watched it climb steadily to the top of the ridge ten feet in front of it and quickly barrel down the other side of it. After picking up pace thanks to the change in both elevation and grain the ball came skeeting off the bottom of that same ridge and began to traverse one of the flatter areas of the green for about twenty feet.
Just as it began to then lose some of its steam, Byron’s ball, as planned, began to break left towards the large spine that ran right across the middle of the green. Reaching the crest of the spine with, what must have been, one of its very last revolutions, Byron’s ball, to his relief, just about crept down the other side of the spine and, once again, began to pick up some much-needed speed as it cascaded down the side of the spine.
Now on its final descent to the hole and with twenty feet of a slope running straight downhill standing between it and finding the bottom of the cup, Byron’s ball careened down off the spine and almost immediately began to break sharply right. Pretty quickly, however, it became blatantly apparent that there was a problem – Byron’s ball was carrying far too much speed.
“Slow, slow, slow!” shouted Byron, desperately pumping his hand up and down as if pressing on an invisible brake pedal attached to his ball.
But it wasn’t listening.
After failing to take the final break to the left he’d been hoping it would about eight feet out from the cup, Byron’s ball, instead, broke straight through the break like an out-of-control boulder tumbling down a mountainside and sped past the hole.
“Aggghhhh! Stop!” roared Byron, frustratedly, as he looked on helplessly at his ball continuing to roll further and further away from the hole. “Stop!”
Eventually listening to him, but not until it had travelled a good fifteen-feet past the cup, Byron’s ball finally came to a halt.
“Good roll!” said Truman, eager to set the tone for how everyone else around the green should react to Byron failing to make the birdie he needed to tie the course record.
Taking the very deliberate hint, Byron’s lackeys, right on cue, erupted in a well-coordinated chorus of praise-filled commiseration for Byron, “Yeah! Great roll, By!”. “Unlucky, By!”. And perhaps the most obnoxious of the bunch, “You the man, B-Money!”.
In spite of their best efforts, however, Ray could tell that Byron was furious. He was trying his best to contain it, of course, but between the dour expression on his face and the way he had his putter gripped ominously between his two hands as if contemplating just straight snapping it over his knee, it was blatantly apparent that ‘Mount Ballas’ was perilously close to erupting. And yet, to his credit, Byron managed to keep his temper under control. He took a deep breath. Exhaled it out. And, much to his putter’s relief, took it out from between his two hands – and prime snapping position – and let the head of it drop back down to the surface of the green.
With his own putt still left to navigate, Truman rooted his ball back out of the pocket in his shorts and went about replacing it down in front of his marker as Byron began to trudge dejectedly across the green to get his own ball out of the way.
“Chin up, son …” said Truman, sounding a touch distracted, yet at the same time slightly strained, as he bent over and placed his ball back down onto the green. “No one makes that putt from there – no one.”
Thinking he was keeping his voice down, Mustang leaned in towards Ray and whispered confidently, “Betcha I could.”
“What did you just say?!” snapped Byron, suddenly coming to a stop mid-stride and glaring over at Mustang.
“Huh?” said Mustang, caught off guard at having Byron directly address him for the first time since the round began.
“You heard me …” growled Byron, beginning to walk menacingly towards where Mustang and Ray were standing. “You think you can make that putt?”
Mustang glanced quickly at Ray to see if he could somehow telepathically tell him how best to proceed. All Ray could manage, however, was a slight shrug of his shoulders and shake of his head that seemed to say, “You’re on your own, kid”.
“Yeah …” said Mustang, steeling his voice as he turned his attention back onto the still approaching Byron. “I think I can.”
“Oh is that so?” replied Byron, coming to a stop just close enough to Mustang that he could impose his far taller and wider frame over him. “A hundred bucks says you can’t.”
“I don’t have a hundred bucks,” replied Mustang, not cowering back from Byron.
“What a surprise,” sneered Byron sarcastically and smiling not unlike how one would imagine a shark might. “The caddie’s apprentice with holes in his crappy sneakers doesn’t have a hundred dollars.”
Mustang’s jaw clenched as he glared angrily back at Byron.
“Ok, boys, let’s just take a deep breath, alright?” said Ray, feeling the need to interject as the temperature of the situation began to get a little too hot for his liking.
“Don’t baby the boy, Thackett,” barked Truman, all thoughts of his own putt now far from his mind as he focused on what was unfolding between Byron and Mustang. “If he’s big enough to talk some trash, he should be big enough to deal with the consequences.”
“It’s only talking trash if it isn’t true,” said Mustang, looking defiantly over at Truman before quickly turning back to staring a hole straight through the middle of Byron’s head. “And, believe me, it is true – I can make that putt.”
Unable to help themselves, an anticipation-filled “OOOOHH!” rang out from Byron’s cronies up on the bank. They’d never seen anyone front up to Byron like this – never … and they were secretly enjoying it.
“Alright then …” said Byron, clearly furious that Mustang was threatening his status amongst his cronies. “Let’s bet on it. You make that putt? I’ll give you a hundred bucks. But when you miss?”
Byron looked around for a second as if searching for inspiration as to how best to find satisfaction for his side of the bet. As his gaze ran over the expansive lake off to the side of the green, however, Ray could see Byron’s eyes light up – he’d found his prize. He turned his attention back onto Mustang.
“You have to jump in the lake,” he grinned.
“Aw come on, man,” groaned Ray, now not caring in the slightest what Byron’s surname was. “You know you can’t go in the water here.”
“Oh relax, Thackett!” said Truman with an irritatingly taunting tone to his voice. “Me and my buddies used to make people jump in the lake all the time when we were their age – never did them any harm. Plus, with sunshine like this? Any snakes and gators will be perched out soaking it up somewhere – they won’t be in the water … probably.”
Knowing that final part was only for the purpose of trying to scare him, Ray looked down at Mustang.
“Look, it’s up to you, kid,” he said, knowing he had no choice, really, but to let Mustang make up his own mind.
Having refused to break eye-contact with Byron for the entire time that Ray and Truman had been speaking, Mustang looked up at Ray before quickly turning his attention out over the lake. Apart from the odd ripple here and there, the surface of the water was pretty much mirror-still; its faint greenish tinge perfectly reflecting the cloud-spotted blue sky looming overhead. Mustang turned back to look at Byron.
“Can I borrow that?” he said confidently, pointing at the putter in Byron’s hand.
Without saying a word and with the grin on his face even wider than what it had been before, Byron held out his putter for Mustang to take. With the putter now in his possession Mustang turned and began to walk across the green towards the spot where Byron had hit his putt from. About halfway there, though, Mustang, suddenly realizing he was missing something rather important, came to a stop and turned back around.
“I need a ball,” he said.
“Here,” replied Truman, shoving his hand into the pocket of his shorts and pulling out the unused spare ball he’d been housing in there. “You can use this.”
“Thanks,” said Mustang preemptively as he lifted up his right hand in preparation to catch the ball as he knew full well Truman wasn’t about to come over and hand it to him.
Instead of throwing it to him, however, Truman got the ball and tossed it not only a way too high, but a way out to the right of where Mustang was standing, making it impossible for him to even have a chance at catching it.
“Sorry,” sneered Truman sarcastically, drawing a snigger from Byron in the process.
Refusing to rise to Truman’s attempts to get to him, Mustang merely turned around, walked over to where the ball had come to a stop, and plucked it out of the greenside rough. Now finally able to make his way over to the spot where Byron had hit his putt from, Mustang knew he was going to have to swallow another attempt from the Ballas’ to get in his head as he heard Byron call out to his cronies up on the bank, “Hey boys!”.
Like a team of well-trained meerkats, all five of his cronies stood immediately to attention and peered down at Byron, eagerly awaiting their command.
“Make you sure film this, alright?! I wanna post it on my ‘gram later!”
“You got it, By!” called out one of the cronies. “Already rollin’, bro!” yelled another, making a point of gesturing at the smartphone he was already holding in his hand and aiming down at the green.
Confident that he was now in the correct spot, Mustang looked back across the green at Byron and asked, “Here?”.
“Yeah, that looks about right!” replied Byron in a loud and embellished manner for the sake of the five cameras now pointing at him.
Having been given the all-clear, Mustang let his ball drop nonchalantly down onto the green near his feet. As he went about fine-tuning its position with the sole of his sneaker, Ray, who’d suddenly developed a very noticeable sick feeling in his stomach, glanced up towards the bank at the side of the green. As well as Byron’s troop of flunkeys, it quickly became apparent that the commotion on the green had caught the attention of some by-standers floating around the nearby clubhouse as the numbers had swollen from just five to closer to twenty.
Mike and Becca who ran the pro-shop. A collection of caddies and club members who were waiting to head off the 1st and getting in some last-minute tune-ups on the practice putting green. Some of the greenkeeping staff who were milling around the clubhouse because they were in the midst of having their mid-morning coffee break. Even Mr. Denby himself had managed to pull himself away from his usual morning routine of brown-nosing the wealthier club members to come and see what was happening on the 18th. And from the way they were all whispering to one another and gesturing towards not only the green but everyone standing on it, Ray could tell the story of what exactly was happening was spreading like wildfire amongst the impromptu audience.
Happy with how his ball was placed, Mustang lifted his sneaker off it and took a moment to survey the green from where he was standing. He looked towards the hole and traced his eyes back along the line Byron had picked. When he’d finished doing that, however – much to Ray’s confusion – Mustang turned his attention way off to the right of where he was standing and up towards the back edge of the green. Now, in all his years caddying at the Creek, whenever Ray had seen anyone unfortunate enough to be left putting from the side of the green where Mustang currently was to any hole location even close to the one he was casting his attention back to every few seconds, he had never seen anyone look towards the back of the green because, as far as he was concerned, it was a dead end. Yet, despite Ray’s reservations, after what had only amounted to about ten seconds total, Mustang, to everyone’s surprise, stepped in and addressed the ball … but in doing so completely turned his back to the hole.
“What the hell is he doing?” muttered Truman, sounding an odd mixture of both genuinely confused and the slightest bit concerned.
Now settled in his stance, Mustang took one more look at a spot up near the back of the green before dropping his eyes, once more, over his ball. He drew the putter back past his right foot, then rocked his shoulders hard and sent the head of the putter crashing solidly into the back of the ball. It shot off the middle of the face like a sprinter exploding out of the blocks and dove over the same ridge Byron had been forced to contend with at the beginning of his putt.
About only fifteen-feet into the ball’s ascent towards the back of the green, however, Ray, out of the corner of his eye, saw Mustang walking off the green and moving towards where he’d laid Byron’s bag down on the ground near the exit to the hole when they’d all first come up onto the green – a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by Byron either.
“Hey!” he shouted in an agitated and accusatory manner. “Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?!”
“To the bathroom!” replied Mustang, calling out from over his shoulder in a casual, matter-of-fact manner as he carried on walking towards Byron’s bag.
“What about our bet?!” cried Byron, sounding like the kind of kid who has a temper tantrum when he has a friend over to their house because they’re not playing the way they want them to.
“Don’t worry about it!” replied Mustang, gently leaning Byron’s putter down against his bag before turning around and looking back across the green at him. “You can just give the cash to Ray!”
With nothing more left to say, Mustang turned on his heels and set off walking up the flight of steps that led from the side of the green up to the top of the bank. Utterly confused by what was happening, Byron, like Ray, quickly turned his attention back onto Mustang’s ball just in time to see it reach the very back of the green. It kissed the razor-thin collar of fringe circling the green and immediately took a sharp turn to the left. Having used the majority of its speed in order to make the climb to the back of the green, Mustang’s ball, after initially creeping away from the fringe, now began to pick up a little more pace as it tumbled back down the slope and hit the flat part of the green that served as a buffer between the very back portion of it and the spine traversing the middle of the green that had caused Byron so many problems.
With the pace it had gathered on the slope, Mustang’s ball made short work of that flat area but still reached the edge of the spine with, what Ray could tell, was the perfect amount of speed as it skidded ever so gently down over the cusp of it and veered smoothly to the left.
Now just twenty feet out from the hole and looking the perfect speed, the sense of anticipation around the green began to intensify. No longer was this just a convenient sideshow to distract and pass away the time for all of those gathered on the bank – they could sense they were watching something special. And with each revolution Mustang’s ball took down the final slope that stood between it and the cup, the more into the moment it pulled everyone watching, as cries of “GET IN THE HOLE!” and “GET IN!” began to rain down on the green.
As good as everything was looking, however, Ray could tell from where he was standing that Mustang’s ball still needed to take one more break back to the right if it was going to have any chance of going in – and, from the looks of things, it seemed to be carrying a hair too much pace to do that.
“Slow down …” pleaded Ray, whispering to himself as he tracked Mustang’s ball. “Slow down!”
And it listened.
Just as it reached the point where it had to break, Mustang’s ball suddenly weaved to the right like a car drifting around a corner, leaving it on a direct collision course for the hole.
The cries of “GET IN THE HOLE!” and “GET IN!” grew even louder as a palpable wave of energy rumbled around the green.
Mustang’s ball was now only two feet from the hole.
“No way …” whimpered Byron, shaking his head as if he were in the middle of a nightmare and desperately trying to wake up.
It was now only a foot from the hole.
“Get in!” whispered Ray, feeling like the excitement was about to explode out of him like a firework. “Get in!”
With the last vestiges of pace it had at its disposal, Mustang’s ball crept right up the edge of the hole and … came to a stop.
There was a sharp inhale of breath from everyone gathered around the green as they tried to come to terms with what they were seeing. Mustang’s ball, in a bold defiance of gravity itself, was somehow staying perched on the edge of the hole.
But then it started to wobble.
And lean.
And lean a little more.
For what seemed like an eternity everyone around the green looked on with bated breath. All eyes firmly squared on Mustang’s ball like it was a Jenga tower toppling in slow motion …
Until it dropped!
“YEEEEAAAAAHHHH!!!!” screamed Ray, so delirious with delight he flung the flag out of his hands as he threw his two arms triumphantly up into the air.
The crowd on the bank erupted in a loud, throaty roar. Even Byron’s cronies couldn’t help but cheer and jump and down at the magic they’d just witnessed. In fact, the only people who weren’t sharing in the delirium that had engulfed the green were Byron and Truman, who, upon seeing Mustang’s ball topple beneath the surface of the green, had just turned away from the green in utter bemusement.
As the crowd continued to cheer and work out between them who exactly the mystery caddie was that had just drained one of the most insane putts they’d ever seen, Ray – who, in the interim, managed to compose himself enough to retrieve the flag he’d let fly like a javelin – walked over to the hole and plucked Mustang’s ball out of it.
“Here you go, Mr. Ballas,” said Ray, looking to give Truman a ‘heads-up’ before tossing his ball back to him.
“Keep it,” grunted Truman as he turned around and looked at Ray, “And uh … you may as well just put that flag back in as you’re there too … I think we’re done for the day.”
“You sure?” asked Ray.
“Yeah uh …” mumbled Truman, clearly trying to think of a believable excuse as he gestured loosely towards the bank where the crowd was still buzzing after Mustang’s putt. “It’s a bit of a circus right now so … yeah, I think we’re good.”
“Alright, well, if you’re sure,” replied Ray, politely, as he pocketed Mustang’s ball. “Great playin’, gentlemen – it was a pleasure.”
“Yeah …” grumbled Truman sorely before turning his attention onto Byron, who had taken to just staring in utter bewilderment at the green as he tried to figure out how Mustang had pulled off that putt. “Let’s go.”
With Truman practically pulling him away, Byron, though still looking completely shell shocked at what had just happened, broke his focus on the green and set about walking off in the direction of where their golf bags were lying on the ground near the base of the steps that led up the bank.
“Oh and Byron?” called out Ray.
Having not expected to be hearing anything more from him, both Byron and Truman looked back over their shoulders and glared sourly at Ray.
“What?” snapped Byron, petulantly.
“You can just leave the hundred dollars in the Pro-Shop,” said Ray, smiling. “I know you’re good for it.”
Instead of answering, the Ballas’ already sulky expressions just grew even darker and they returned to their plan of trying to get out of Crescent Creek as quickly as possible in order to sufficiently lick their wounds.
And all Ray could do was smile.
*
“So, yeah …” said Ray, leaning back in his chair. “That wound up being the very first ‘final hole roar’ of Mustang’s career.”
“And he wasn’t even there to see the ball go in the hole,” replied a quietly stunned Maggie.
“Nope,” confirmed Ray, himself sounding somewhat stunned even though he’d been lucky enough to actually be there to witness it. “Though I do remember him tellin’ me that he did hear the roar as he went about lookin’ for a bathroom … so at least he had that.”
“And what happened to the ball he used?” asked Maggie.
“Well, when I finally found him in the workshop after I’d managed to dodge the barrage of questions that were thrown at me when I walked off 18 …” said Ray, sounding exasperated at the mere memory of that experience. “I gave it to him – you know, as a souvenir …”
Ray paused for a moment as he turned his head towards the opposite side of the room and cleared his throat – clearly, whatever he was thinking of saying next had made him suddenly quite emotional.
“But when we first realized he was missin’ …” he continued, forcing himself to get the words out for fear he’d stop talking entirely. “And I went to his place to look for him? He’d left that ball for me to find …”
Again, Ray took a moment to try and compose himself. A deep breath. A clearing of the throat.
“And a note …” he said, his voice now quivering as he fought back the wave of emotion hitting him. “Sayin’ he was sorry …”