Written by Stephen F. Moloney
Having waited out the mass exodus of people rushing from the 17th in order to get to the 18th tee and beyond, Travis, Jeanie, and Bill, finally, saw Mustang – with his driver in hand – walking towards them down the cart path which connected the two holes.
“Unlucky, kiddo,” said Travis, stepping away from the golf cart which, contrary to what Mr. Denby had said the previous day, Beau was more than happy for them to drive around the course in order to watch Mustang play. “Good effort.”
“Yeah, man,” added Bill, trying to mirror the fine balance Travis was striking between sounding supportive, yet not overly consoling. “The break around that pin – and especially from that side of it – is always tricky.”
“You alright for everything?” asked Jeanie, eager to help in whatever way she could so as to try and distract herself from just how nervous she was feeling. “You need some more water? Food, maybe?”
Once he reached the point in the path where they were all gathered, however, Mustang completely blanked all three of them. He didn’t stop. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even so much as look at them. Instead, with his eyes locked straight ahead, he just continued walking right on past the three of them as if they weren’t even there.
“Oscar?” said a confused Travis, attempting to get his attention. “Oscar!”
But, for what they were worth, Travis’ efforts may as well have fallen on deaf ears, for, Mustang just carried on walking.
“Don’t take it personally,” said Ray, suddenly arriving on the scene as Mustang disappeared around the slight bend in the path which led to the 18th tee, the faint sound of the spikes on his new shoes grinding against the concrete the only sign of his continued presence in the vicinity. “He wouldn’t talk to me either – just came off the green, grabbed his driver outta the bag, and started walkin’.”
“But why is he acting that way?” asked Jeanie, her confusion tinged with a noticeable hint of concern after their interaction – or lack thereof – with Mustang. “I mean, I know he lost that hole as well, but Bill was saying they’re still tied, right?”
“Yeah, they are,” replied Ray, trying to find the correct way in which to word the rest of the rather complicated answer to Jeanie’s question. “But you’ve gotta understand that this is unchartered territory for the kid. Ok, before this match, he’d lost one hole all weekend, yet in the space of … what? … 45 minutes? He’s just lost three in a row. Nevermind the fact that he’s just made his first bogey as well – and I don’t just mean this weekend either. Alright, in all the times he’s played here’? He’s never made a bogey … until right there.”
“So … what? Is he just frustrated then? Angry?” probed Jeanie, desperate to understand.
“Worse,” said Travis, the worry on his face growing all the more deeper as he looked off down the path in the direction of the 18th tee. “He’s rattled.”
“Unfortunately, I think so, yeah,” said Ray, hating the fact that he had no alternative but to agree. “I mean, up until the last few holes, golf’s been nothin’ but easy for the kid; but now … now he’s gettin’ a glimpse at how it is for everyone else. And knowin’ what to do when things are goin’ wrong? Like, how to handle it? That’s somethin’ you can only learn when you’re stuck in the middle of it. Mustang’s problem, though, is that I don’t think he wants to admit that things are goin’ wrong, so, instead, he’s just doublin’-down and tryna’ force himself into playin’ like how he normally does.”
“Which, in the end …” added Bill, sighing knowingly. “Is only servin’ to dig himself a deeper hole to try and get out of.”
“Pretty much,” confirmed Ray, himself, too, now sighing as his mind wandered back to how he’d felt walking off the 14th green – a moment which almost felt like a different lifetime ago at this stage, if not even a dream.
Mustang had just wrapped up a routine par without any fuss, whilst Byron, not for the first time since they’d made the turn, had needed to bail himself out with the flatstick in order to secure a matching par and stop himself from slipping to 4DN with 4 to play – a deficit that, even for someone with his skill-level, may have just been too high a mountain for him to climb.
And, yet, as he and Mustang had walked along the edge of the lake en route to the 15th tee-box, a refreshing breeze blowing across the surface of the water and rustling the reeds in its path, Ray had, just for a second, felt as though – despite him salvaging that half – that same mountain was already too high for Byron. Because as long as Mustang kept playing the way he had been, that would have kept the door closed and therefore have prevented Byron from getting back into the match.
But in golf, and especially so in matchplay, there’s a reason why ‘nothing is over until it’s over’ is one of the most important philosophies by which one has to play; because whether you’re up by three, four or five – or even down by the same amounts – as long as there are holes to play, you have to believe that anything can happen. That’s what Byron had done and, as a result, he had gone from being on the cusp of a humbling defeat to now heading down the last all-square, with all of the momentum on his side, and Mustang firmly on the ropes. Or, in other words, it had turned out that mountain wasn’t quite as high as Ray had thought.
Before he could begin to needle himself with the possibility that perhaps he hadn’t kept Mustang focused enough on what still needed to be done or that maybe his ‘overly-confident’ attitude had accidentally rubbed off on him and seen him take his foot off the gas as a result, Jeanie asking Ray a question forced him to concentrate on her as opposed to cowing to the urge he was having to blame himself for how the match had turned in Byron’s favour.
“Ok, so what’s the plan for how to ‘un-rattle’ him then?”
“Well, really, there’s only so much that can be done,” said Ray, wishing he could give a more positive answer. “And, even then, before I can even try to help ‘im I have to somehow figure out a way to get him to just stop for a second and actually listen to me fir-…”
FWWEEEEEESHHHH!!!
Smashing through their conversation with all the subtlety of a brick through a window, the high-pitched sound of Byron sweeping away his drive echoed loudly around the walls of trees surrounding the 18th tee-box and carried back down the path to where Ray and the others were standing.
“Oh, no …” said Ray, quietly, a feeling of white-hot panic exploding in his stomach as a rowdy round of applause followed Byron’s, clearly successful, drive. “No, no, no!”
Like a sprinter out of the blocks, Ray set off running down the path as fast as his legs could carry him, leaving Travis and the others to scramble back into the golf cart which, right on schedule, was now proving troublesome to start.
“Oh, come on, you hunk of junk!” cursed Bill, twisting and cranking the key in the ignition. “Start! Start!”
Recognizing that he wasn’t going to be getting a much-needed ride in the golf cart any time soon, Ray put his head down and kept on sprinting. He’d thought he’d have more time to get to the 18th tee-box before Byron would tee-off, ‘time’ he was going to use to pull Mustang aside and try to settle him back down into his game. Now, though, having heard that Byron had already hit his drive – because he, obviously, still had the honour – Ray was, suddenly, in a race against time to get to the tee-box before Mustang took his turn because, in the frame of mind he was in, goodness knows what could happen.
With Mustang’s irons clattering noisily off one another with each passing step and the strap of the bag digging uncomfortably into his shoulder, Ray – having internally lambasted himself every step of the way for not foreseeing the, now seemingly obvious, fact that Byron would, of course, look to continue riding the tails of his hard-won momentum by playing quickly and forcing Mustang to do likewise when he was, clearly, struggling – rounded the bend in the path, hoping against hope that he’d see Mustang just waiting on the tee-box for him to arrive …
But he was too late.
The second he laid eyes on the tee-box, Ray was greeted with the sight of Mustang not only addressing his ball, but he had just begun the process of sweeping his driver back to begin his swing, meaning Ray couldn’t even risk yelling at him to stop.
Whatever was about to happen, was going to happen.
The die had been cast.
There was no stopping it now.
Having reached the top of his swing, Mustang whipped his driver back down around his body and launched himself into his ball.
FWWEEEEEESHHHH!!!
Just like had happened with Byron’s, the sound of Mustang’s strike reverberated loudly around the trees flanking them on all sides like someone had just fired a gun. Everyone gathered on the tee-box, including those spectators crammed in around it, all turned their heads in unison as Mustang’s ball tore out through the chute of trees separating the collection of other tee-boxes from the fairway beyond, each of them straining their necks in order to track the flight of his ball as closely as they could.
Desperate to see what was happening for himself, Ray barrelled down the narrow, roped-off path leading to the tee-box and dropped Mustang’s bag to the ground, etiquette be damned. Before he could even turn his gaze skyward, however, all the signs began to tell Ray that wherever Mustang’s ball was, it wasn’t in good shape.
“FORE RIGHT!!!” bellowed Byron’s caddie, sharply holding out his right arm as the steward on the tee-box did her best impression of a panicked airplane marshaller by gesturing wildly to the right with the two ‘Quiet’ signs she had in her hands.
With others around the tee now joining in with disjointed cries of, ‘FORE!!!’, Mustang’s eyes dropped to the ground as he pointed his driver limply off to the right as well – he couldn’t even bear to watch.
Ray, though, forced himself to.
After quickly scanning the sky ahead, itself now beginning to turn a dusky orange colour as the evening continued its rapid, incessant march towards nightfall, Ray soon spied Mustang’s ball just as it hit the tail-end of its descent – and things were looking just as bad as everyone else around the tee had seemed to think they were.
Knowing that he would have been trying to start his tee-shot right down the edge of the lake on the left-hand side of the fairway and then work it back to the right with a tight fade, from how and where his ball was actually flying, it was clear that Mustang had bailed out on his tee-shot at the very last second, because, whilst it was, indeed, fading, it had started way too far right of the lake and was now going even further right at an alarming rate.
With nothing over on that side of the fairway to stop it – and seeing that it was going to comfortably fly the fairway bunker, the rough, and the crowd lining the raised bank running all the way along that side – Ray, much like watching a car crash in slow motion, could only watch and wait for Mustang’s ball to crash back down to earth and see what damage was going to be done. When it finally did land, though, of all the worst possible outcomes that could have happened, Mustang’s ball ricocheted off the cart part which led to the clubhouse, shot straight back up into the air like a bottle rocket, then set off bounding further to the right again and beyond the reach of where Ray’s eyes could see through the evening gloom.
After a torturous few moments wherein everybody back on the tee was wondering whether or not Mustang would have to reload, one of the stewards further down the fairway – one who’d just about managed to avoid being crushed in the stampede of people who’d scrambled to track down Mustang’s errant drive once it hit the path – began to wave their ‘Quiet’ signs animatedly back and forth to signal that they had, indeed, found his ball.
With that small mercy, at least, meaning he wouldn’t need to hit another tee-shot, Ray turned his attention back onto Mustang, who was still staring dejectedly down at the ground with his driver in hand.
“Alright, kid …” said Ray, gently, not really knowing what else to say or how exactly to say it. “Next shot, let’s go.”
As if the sound of his voice had woken him from some kind of trance, Mustang turned around and looked sheepishly over at Ray. When their eyes met, however, Ray couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. It was like there was this different kid standing where Mustang used to be. Sure, he had the same clothes and the same hair, even the new shoes that Jeanie had bought him; but the kid Ray now found himself looking at was like seeing a ghost from the past. A kid he hadn’t seen since that very first evening when he came across him hitting balls up at the range. A kid who he’d tracked back to the LaFleur Cabin and then had threaten him with a tire-iron because he wanted his 5-iron back. A kid who, simply, looked lost.
“Hey, man, it’s alright,” said Ray, trying to sound encouraging as he could see Mustang seemed a little ‘off’. “They know where your ball is, it’s all good – we’re still in this.”
“Yeah, listen to Woody, Bullseye,” sneered Byron, just quietly enough that no one else could hear him as he walked towards Mustang. “You’re still in this – I mean, after all, every match does need a loser, right?”
With that, despite having all the room in the world, Byron – to sprinkle just a little more salt in the wound -“accidentally-on-purpose” bumped his far larger frame into Mustang’s shoulder as he walked past him, causing him to stagger ever-so-slightly backwards.
“Oh, sorry, man,” said Byron, putting on an obviously fake – but, nonetheless, convincing – apologetic tone and looking concernedly back at Mustang for the sake of those still gathered around the tee-box. “My bad.”
After then popping the slyest of sly winks off at Ray in an effort to try and rile him up as well, a grinning Byron turned back around and continued on his way, striding confidently through the increasingly damp grass to catch up to his caddie who’d already marched purposefully ahead.
“You alright?” asked Ray, choosing to focus on Mustang as opposed to letting Byron get to him any more than what he already had.
“No …” replied Mustang, quietly. “I’m not.”
“He didn’t hurt you there, did he?!” said Ray, his concern going from a mild ‘two’ to a full-blown ‘ten’ in the space of a second.
“No, I don’t mean like that …” answered Mustang, suddenly looking incredibly uncomfortable as he felt more and more of those left around the tee-box were now staring at him. “It’s just … I … I …”
“Kid, look, it’s ok,” reassured Ray, taking a cautious step forward as he could tell that whatever was up with Mustang, he, clearly, wasn’t feeling right because of it. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
Still appearing as if the eyes of the world were boring a hole straight through his chest, Mustang looked up at Ray, the same ‘lost’ expression on his face now mixed with a discernible degree of genuine panic.
“I can’t do this …” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”
Before Ray knew what was happening, Mustang let his driver fall to the ground and ran off the tee-box, dashing back up along the roped-off path and out of sight.
“MUSTANG!” called Ray, desperately. “WAIT!”
But, again, he was too late.
Because Mustang was gone. And he wasn’t coming back.
*
After hurriedly gathering up his clubs and rushing off the tee-box to give chase, Ray, much to his relief, had found Jeanie and Bill sitting in the – once again working – golf cart just beyond the exit to the roped-off path. And, after a brief inquiry as to where Mustang had run off to had seen them point him in the direction of the ‘Port-a-Johns’ that had been erected for the weekend in the small clearing just beyond the trees on the other side of the cart path, that’s where Ray – after leaving Mustang’s bag with Jeanie and Bill – now found himself walking.
“Come on, kiddo,” said Travis, pleading through the door of one of the port-a-johns up ahead where Mustang had, obviously, holed-up. “Ya can’t just stay in there.”
As had been the case since he’d followed him here, however, Travis received no answer from Mustang as he was, clearly, after adopting a strict policy of ‘radio silence’. Hearing the bark mulch which covered the ground of the clearing now crunching under his boots as he approached, an exasperated Travis turned around from the door of the port-a-john and took in the sight of Ray walking towards him.
“Not talkin’, no?” said Ray, lowering his voice on the off-chance Mustang would hear him and possibly get spooked.
“Naw, not a peep,” confirmed Travis, letting out a tired sigh as he, too, lowered his voice. “Is this all still ‘cause of how he’s playin’? I mean, we heard everyone shoutin’ ‘fore’ after his drive there, so I know it can’t have been great, but … well, was it really ‘lock yourself in a port-a-john’ bad?”
“Well, no, it wasn’t a great tee-shot … but this?” replied Ray, gesturing off at the port-a-john. “I mean, yeah, it is to do with how he’s playin’, but it’s a little more complicated than just that.”
“Alright …” said Travis, not sounding entirely sure that he followed what Ray was saying, but willing to trust him, nonetheless. “So, what do we need to do to get him to come outta there?”
“Well, I’m thinkin’ I just go talk to him,” answered Ray. “You know, like I was plannin’ on doin’ before he teed-off.”
“Ok, and are you thinkin’ of doin’ that alone?” queried Travis, bluntly. “Or do you want me to go with you?”
“Would you mind if I gave it a shot solo?” asked Ray, eager to make sure Travis was fully ok with it. “Cause I’ve already asked Bill and Jeanie to drop the kid’s bag up to wherever his ball is and to try to buy me some time with Stan, the referee, but I said I’d have you go with ‘em – you know, to back ‘em up, if needed. Only if you’re up for it, though?”
“No, of course, I am,” said Travis, without a second’s hesitation. “Whatever you think is best, consider it done.”
“Thanks, Travis,” replied Ray, sincerely, as Travis moved past him and began to shuffle hurriedly back through the mulch in the direction of where Bill and Jeanie were parked beyond the trees.
“No need to thank me!” said Travis, calling back over his shoulder as he pointed his cane off in the rough direction of the 18th green. “Just make sure my grandson gets to that hole!”
With Travis’ orders received, Ray looked back towards the port-a-john where said ‘grandson’ was stowing away and took a deep breath in before walking up to it.
“Hey, kid, it’s me,” he said, rapping his knuckle against the white, plastic door of the port-a-john before leaning his shoulder up against the side of it. “Don’t suppose there’s any chance you wanna open the door, no? Unless, of course, you are actually using this thing, in which case you just … you know … take your time or whatever.”
Having fully expected to be speaking to the faded blue side of it for the next few minutes, Ray was shocked to, suddenly, hear Mustang’s slightly echoing voice ringing out from inside the port-a-john. “I’m not going back out there, Ray.”
“Well, that certainly is one option,” replied Ray, endeavouring to sound relaxed despite the fact every sentence now felt as if it carried the same pressure as dismantling a live bomb. “Though, just so we’re on the same page, can I ask why?”
“Because if I go back out there, I’m gonna lose,” said Mustang, stating his case with resigned-sounding hopelessness in his voice. “And then, despite what everyone’s gonna say, they’re gonna be disappointed in me, and I’ll only have myself to blame ‘cause I’ll be the one who blew it.”
“Ok, well, first and foremost,” replied Ray, just beginning to dissect Mustang’s point. “You can forget this whole ‘disappointin’ everyone’ thing ‘cause – even though I can guarantee you they wouldn’t be disappointed in you – this ain’t about them, alright? Instead, why don’t you walk me through how you losing this match is, apparently, already a foregone conclusion?”
“Well, you saw where my ball went,” said Mustang, as if it should be obvious why he felt the match was already done and dusted.
“Yeah, I did,” replied Ray, matter-of-factly. “But I also saw that they’d found it – so, whatever way you look at it, you’ve still got a shot.”
“But Byron’s in the middle of the fai-…”
“No, nevermind where Byron is,” said Ray, firmly cutting across Mustang. “Ok, you can’t control what he does, so there’s no point thinkin’ ‘bout him. You can only control what you do. And, right now, your choices for what that looks like are either stay in there and forfeit the match, which would guarantee you lose; or you can come outta there, go find your ball, and at least go out shootin’. But whichever one you choose? I just want you to know that I meant it when I said I have your back – no matter what. So, it’s up to you.”
After a moment or two of tense silence wherein, he was, clearly, thinking over what Ray had said – and making him worry that he’d possibly taken the wrong approach – the sound of Mustang turning the lock inside the port-a-john filled the air before he opened the door and stepped back outside.
“Should I take it this means you’ve made up your mind?” asked Ray, not allowing himself to get too carried away with what Mustang’s re-emergence might possibly mean.
“Yeah …” answered Mustang, staring up at Ray with a certain laser-like look now after returning to his face. “And we’ve a shootout to get to.”