Written by Stephen F. Moloney
With another powerful swing of his shoulders, Mustang sent the head of his driver crunching into the back of the ball, launching it high out over the range so that the white of the ball stood out perfectly against the crystal clear blue sky overhead.
“274 carry …” noted Ray aloud, his eyes still carefully tracking the ball Mustang had just swatted away as it returned from orbit. “And probably another 9-10 yards of run-out.” He looked back at Travis, who was sitting in the passenger seat of the golf cart they’d used to drive up to the range after the draw had finished being made at the clubhouse.
That was how things worked every year at the Memorial. The draw would start at 8 a.m. sharp, be finished by 8:15 – as long as Mr. Denby kept his waffling to a minimum – and then a fleet of golf carts would be standing by to ferry the players and their caddies up to the range to warm-up ahead of the first round matches starting at 9. It was like a well-oiled machine. And though he’d been both a cog in that machine and a caddie making use of it – when he caddied for Felix Warner, who, ironically, was not only playing again this year but was actually on Mustang’s side of the draw – this time around the whole process felt oddly alien to Ray.
Because he was nervous.
“What ya think, Scout?” asked Ray, referencing Travis’ military past.
“I’d say 275 carry and runnin’ out an extra 11, max,” replied Travis, peering out from underneath the brim of his cowboy hat.
“Then 275 carry, 11 yards of run-out is what it’ll be,” said Ray, jotting down the numbers Travis had just given him into the fresh yardage book he and the other caddies had been given after the draw, along with the pin sheet for the day as well.
Just as Ray looked up from his yardage book to go about asking Mustang what kind of shot he wanted to see next, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bill zipping across the range in his UTV on a direct beeline for their hitting bay.
“Alright, kid, I’m gonna go talk to Bill for a sec,” said Ray, looking over at Mustang, who was already in the process of loading another ball up onto a tee. “So, just repeat the same thing we’ve been doin’, yeah? Take five shots; note the carry distance and how far it runs out; then get a rough average of each of them.” He looked over at Travis. “And then if you could write them down in here?” he asked, holding up the yardage book.
“Yessir,” replied Travis, punctuating his assent with a relaxed salute.
“What kind of shot should I hit?” asked Mustang, drawing Ray’s attention back onto him. “Full-send draws again or …?”
“Nah, you crushed them right off the bat,” answered Ray, trying to think what other shots Mustang might need to call upon against Kretschko. “Give me some of those low ones with the driver; you know those flighted-down bullets you do that come out hot and run a mile once they land? They’ll probably come in handy at some point.”
“Yeah, ok, cool,” replied a relaxed Mustang, as he leaned down and lowered the tee underneath the ball he’d already gotten ready to send on a one-way trip to join the rest of his buddies already dotted around the range.
With Mustang taken care of, Ray – after handing over his yardage book and pencil to Travis – walked out of their hitting bay and went to meet Bill, who was just beginning to bring his UTV to a stop after speeding across the range.
“Hey, sorry ‘bout the delay,” said a slightly flustered-sounding Bill once he’d brought the UTV to a complete stop and switched off the engine. “The pro-shop, like everythin’ else this mornin’, was crazy; like, honestly, I’ve been in Black Friday sales more civilized than what I just witnessed.”
“Did you get the stuff, at least?” asked Ray, rather bluntly.
“Oh, well that sounds very traumatic …” said Bill, jokingly mocking Ray’s complete lack of empathy as he grabbed the small bag sitting on the passenger seat of the UTV. “I sure do appreciate you almost gettin’ into a fight over the last bag of trail mix for me, though – that was really nice of you.”
“Yeah, you’re right – sorry,” said Ray, genuinely apologizing, as he took the bag from Bill’s outstretched hand. “I’ve had, like, four hours of sleep in the last two days, so the fuse is a little shorter than usual; thank you, though – really.”
“Ah, don’t worry about it,” smiled Bill, stepping out of the UTV and setting foot onto the neatly trimmed grass he’d been out mowing before sunup. “You’ve a lot on your plate; speaking of which – how’s the kid?”
Ray and Bill both looked in Mustang’s direction as he clipped away another ball, sawing off the finish just enough to generate the low ball flight he was looking for – and, by the looks of it, he’d succeeded in doing just that.
“Yeah, he’s fine,” answered Ray, turning back to look at Bill as Mustang popped another ball out from the pile sitting alongside him with his driver. “Just seems to be excited more than anythin’ else – which is a relief.”
“And how are you doin’?” asked Bill, smiling excitedly. “Freakin’ out yet?!”
“You know what? I thought I’d be freakin’ out …” said Ray. “But I’m actually good, man.”
“Are you lyin’?” asked Bill, dryly, after pausing for a second.
“Ok, well I’m freakin’ out a little!” replied Ray quietly, though near laughing.
“Ha! I knew it!” said Bill, laughing as well, but trying to keep the volume down. “And I guess it doesn’t help gettin’ Kretschko first out either, huh?”
“Well, the thing with Kretschko is you know what you’re gettin’, right? Like, he’s good, but you know what he’s good at; same goes for pretty much everyone else – the likes of Devereaux, Felix, the Ballas’. What’s makin’ me twitchy are the dudes I ain’t seen before.”
“I take it you mean Blackridge and the Nakamura kid, yeah?” queried Bill, figuring he knew whom Ray was referring to.
“Yeah, you got anythin’ on ‘em?” confirmed Ray, casting his eyes down the line of hitting bays and switching his focus between the aforementioned Horton Blackridge and Hiro Nakamura.
“Well …” began Bill, letting out something of a sigh as he, too, looked down the length of the hitting bays.“Blackridge is who I know most about, really.”
“That’s fine,” replied Ray, sounding eager to hear any intel Bill had at his disposal. “If Mustang gets past Kretschko, he’s who’ll he be playin’ if he beats Felix – Nakamura is on the other side of the draw.”
“Well, he played college golf with Georgia Tech in the early 00s,” said Bill, lowering his voice slightly as he began to divulge what he knew about Horton. “Made a few deep runs in the U.S. Amateur, both in college and after he graduated. Plus, he qualified for the U.S. Open three times – making the cut twice.”
“With a résumé like that I’m assumin’ he tried to turn pro then, yeah?” probed Ray, trying to find some source of weakness in Horton’s substantial reputation.
“You’d think so, right? But, surprisingly, no,” replied Bill after being, momentarily, distracted by tracking the ball Mustang had just hit because of the particularly sweet-sounding strike he’d produced in sending it flying out over the range. “Apparently, after graduating from Georgia Tech, he used his finance degree to land some big, fancy job with a stockbroking company before, eventually, transitioning over into running his own hedge fund – basically, the dude is probably one of the richest guys here.”
“And why put yourself through the wringer of tryna’ make it in the big leagues if you’re already rollin’ in it, right?” said Ray flatly, as he watched Horton get another ball ready to hit.
From what he’d seen in the minute or two they’d been watching him, Ray could tell Horton was as good a player as Bill’s description had painted him as being. He’d been hitting all iron shots – with some gorgeous-looking chrome blades his caddie would fastidiously clean with a towel after they’d finished being used – and he looked to be a quality ball-striker, even if his unconventional-looking swing made it seem like that shouldn’t be the case. His takeaway was very outside the line on the way back and up to the top of his swing, before a dramatic rerouting of the club around his lanky frame would see him, ultimately, conjure a neat – if a little flat -draw rather than a severe over-the-top slice the beginning of his swing seemed all-but-destined to produce. Like all good players, though, Horton had clearly honed his particular motion to such a degree that whenever he stepped up to the ball he wasn’t thinking about swing mechanics – and any player with an unclouded mind was always a dangerous one.
“Exactly,” agreed Bill, as he, too, watched Horton pure another iron shot. “Now, as for Nakamura, on the other hand? From what I’ve heard he definitely has eyes on turnin’ pro.”
With the topic of conversation now changed onto Mustang’s other potential opponent – though, with the way the bracket had been filled, they’d only meet if both of them managed to make it to Sunday’s final – Ray turned his attention to the hitting bay at the very end of the range and focused on Hiro Nakamura.
Accompanied by the biggest entourage of all the players on the range – including, even, those after setting up camp at the bays of Byron and Truman – Hiro already looked every bit a professional, even if he, himself, still looked incredibly young. For instance, there was a stone-faced Asian gentleman standing directly behind him, carefully scrutinizing Hiro’s every move as he struck what looked like a wedge of some description – his swing coach, Ray figured. There was his caddie, of course, who had just finished cleaning the wedge Hiro had been using prior to the one he was currently clipping balls away with, and he was chatting to, who appeared to be, a rather jacked-looking physical trainer. A few paces back from the hitting bay, near where the two golf carts they’d needed were parked, two women dressed in expensive-looking leisurewear – one who looked no older than Mustang, the other an older lady – were standing alongside one another, the pair of them armed with masks, wide-brimmed sun hats, and parasols to ensure maximum protection from the sun. And then, most peculiarly, positioned at either corner of the entrance into the hitting bay were two intimidatingly large gentlemen standing with their backs to Hiro as he warmed-up.
“Are those security guards?!” asked a quietly astonished Ray.
“That they are,” replied Bill, smiling. “And wherever Hiro goes? They go – even out on the course.”
“Seriously?!” said Ray, the disbelief continuing. “Why?! What’s his deal?!”
“Well, from what I heard from the dude who’s drivin’ them around while they’re over here, his father is loaded,” answered Bill, eagerly spilling the gossip he’d heard about the mysterious Hiro. “As in, makes whatever money the likes of Horton and Truman have look like pocket money.”
“Wait a minute, hold on a sec,” interrupted Ray. “Who’s ‘they’? The two women?”
“Yeah, they’re his mom and sister,” replied Bill. “The mother’s called Ikumi – not to be messed with, apparently – and the sister’s called … Kiko, I think the guy said.”
“He seems a bit old to need a chaperone, though, right?” said Ray, putting the thought out there to see what Bill would think. “Hiro, I mean? Like, what age is he? Eighteen? Nineteen?”
“Nineteen, I think, yeah,” answered Bill. “And, funnily enough, I actually said the same thing to their driver, but goin’ on what he said? Hiro’s father is extremely protective over him – as in, was totally against the idea of him comin’ over here.”
“Meanin’ the mother comin’ with him, and the private security detail was a compromise on the father’s part – got it,” said Ray, knowingly, as the pieces of the puzzle fell neatly into place. “And, by the way, so much for you knowin’ more about Blackridge than Hiro! Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if you knew what the kid had for breakfast this mornin’ with the amount of diggin’ you’ve been doin’!”
“Well, first of all, I haven’t been diggin’ – I just happen to have what they call an ‘inquisitive personality’,” joked Bill, assuming the air of a haughty behavioral psychologist gifting some knowledge to the masses. “And, secondly, I meant I knew more ‘bout Blackridge from a golf perspective; I ain’t got no idea what kinda player the kid is!”
At that exact moment, both Ray and Bill looked down the line just in time to see Hiro, now with a 9-iron in hand, properly opening up his shoulders for the first time before then whipping through a ball with an awe-inspiring amount of speed and effortless power. Not only that, but the strike produced in the process was so clean and aurally pleasing, Nick Ramsay – the guy Hiro was going to be playing in the first round – couldn’t help but stop and stare from where he was positioned in the hitting bay right alongside his soon-to-be opponent’s. He turned to his caddie once the ball landed and silently mouthed in a panic, “Did you see that?!” – suddenly, Nick didn’t feel so confident about his chances of making it through to that afternoon’s second round.
“Though, if I had to take a guess?” said Bill, dryly, before turning back to look at Ray. “I’d say he’s pretty decent.”
As Ray just shook his head despairingly and quietly laughed, the radio in Bill’s pocket began to bleep – he was being summoned. “Go for Duggart,” he said, answering the call after fishing it out of his pocket.
“Duggart! Where the hell are you?!” spat the unmistakable voice of Mr. Denby through the speaker of the radio – with his opening speech made he could now drop the act of actually being a somewhat pleasant individual and return to his default setting of ‘perennially cranky about something’.
“Just up at the range,” replied Bill flatly, rolling his eyes humorously at Ray. “There was a problem needed seein’ to – over.”
“Well, nevermind the blasted range!” barked Mr. Denby in reply. “I’ve just seen the job one of your crew did raking the bunkers at the 1st and they’re a goddamn mess!”
“Alright, Sir,” said Bill, attempting to placate the, clearly, irate Mr.Denby. “I’ll head over there right now – over.”
“Well be quick about it!” replied Mr. Denby, not sounding any less furious. “The first match heads out in fifteen minutes! So get it done!”
With that, the sound of Mr. Denby’s channel fell silent on the other end of Bill’s radio. He was gone – undoubtedly, off to shout at someone else over another trivial matter.
“You think I should have told him that I was the one who raked the bunkers at the 1st?” asked Bill, completely deadpan, before letting a devilish smile spread across his face.
“Nah, I think you’re good, man,” answered Ray, himself smiling.
“Yeah, see, that’s what I thought!” smiled Bill, before turning around and hopping back into his UTV. He turned the key in the ignition and, after one or two spluttery coughs, the engine sparked into life.
“Good luck against Kretschko,” he said, raising his voice enough to be heard over the engine as he got himself comfortably situated in his seat. “Go get ‘im, yeah?”
“Thanks, Bill,” replied Ray with a nod of his head. “We’ll try.”
With nothing more needing to be said, Bill popped a friendly wink at Ray before performing a tight U-turn with the UTV and speeding back off across the range to go deal with the bunkers at the 1st – the hole where, in less than fifteen minutes, Mustang would be teeing off on. And with that sobering thought making the knot that had been sitting in his gut since the draw even tighter, Ray began to make his way back over to Mustang and Travis.
It was go time.
*
“Absolutely not; no way,” said Mr. Denby, shaking his head defiantly.
“Aw come on, Mr. Denby, be reasonable!” argued Ray, not willing to let this go without a fight. “He’s the kid’s grandfather and he just wants to see him play! I mean, what difference does it make if there’s one golf cart out there?!”
“Well, as I’ve already said, Thackett, seeing as golf carts aren’t allowed on the course during the Memorial …” sneered Mr. Denby sarcastically. “I should think quite a big difference.”
“But that doesn’t ma-…”
“No, you asked me a question and I gave you my answer – no carts on the course, and that’s the end of it,” sniped Mr. Denby, interrupting Ray before he could get his rebuttal out and then turning to look at Travis. “Look, I empathize with your condition, Mr. Peyton – I really do. But rules are rules, I’m afraid. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have places to be …”. He looked down at the gold watch strapped tightly around his wrist. “And, going on my watch, so do you, Thackett,” he said, sounding as if he was trying to goad a reaction out of Ray, who was still quietly fuming over his decision to not allow Travis to drive around after him and Mustang. “And goodness knows we wouldn’t want you to be late for your tee-time, now would we? Risk disqualification like that? I mean, talk about a costly mistake, am I right?”
Knowing full well he was referring to their bet, Travis quickly intervened before Ray – who he could tell was running close to boiling over – did something he regretted. “You’re exactly right, Mr. Denby,” he said, placing his hand on Ray’s shoulder as a means of silently communicating for him to calm down. “And you know what? We’re gonna go head over to the 1st tee right now – thank you for your time, though.”
With one final irritating grin aimed in Ray’s direction – as he knew he’d achieved his goal in getting under his skin – Mr. Denby slithered away from the edge of the practice putting green and disappeared in through the rear door of the clubhouse.
“Thanks,” grunted Ray, forcing himself to get his temper back under control. “That could’ve gotten ugly. It’s just that he’s so -…”
“I know, I know …” said Travis, again feeling it prudent to step in as he could sense the train of thought Ray had begun riding would only lead to him getting worked up again. “But the best way you can wipe that grin off his face? Help Oscar beat Kretschko – ‘cause you know as well as I do that hittin’ him in the wallet is gonna hurt him a lot more than any punch into the jaw would.”
“Yeah, I know,” sighed Ray, feeling the red mist clearing with each passing breath. “Though, for the record, I still think punchin’ him in the jaw could be just as satisfyin’.”
“Well, let’s leave testin’ that particular hypothesis for another day, shall we?” said Travis, dryly, as his attention got drawn to Mustang making his way back across the putting green towards them. “Now, Oscar’s comin’ this way, so just follow my lead, alright?”
Ray nodded his head and focused on pulling the upper half of his white caddie overalls up around his shoulders just as Mustang reached the edge of the putting green.
“So? How’d it go with Denby?” he asked, eagerly, after popping his putter back into his golf bag which was standing on the ground next to the green. “Did he say you can follow me in the cart?”
“I’m afraid it was a ‘no-go’, kiddo,” said Travis, beginning the delicate task of managing Mustang’s reaction to the news he wouldn’t be able to watch the entirety of his round.
“What?! Are you serious?!” exclaimed Mustang, his disappointment palpable. “Why not?!”
“He just said it was against the rules and that was that.”
“But that sucks!” said Mustang, before turning to look desperately up at Ray. “Is there anything you can do to get him to change his mind, Ray?!”
Ray glanced quickly over at Travis. He’d been told to follow his lead, but right now he was feeling very much like going off-script and telling Mustang that maybe he could have one more crack off trying to change Mr. Denby’s mind – as treacherous a situation as that, invariably, would be to his employment status. When all he got back from Travis was a stern facial expression designed to ward him off from doing exactly that, however, Ray turned back to Mustang and said, “Sorry, kid, I did everythin’ I could – he wouldn’t budge.”
Recognizing that hearing Ray say that was, effectively, the final nail in the coffin for his hopes of mounting one final last-ditch effort to have Travis be able to watch him play Kretschko, a disheartened Mustang just let his head drop down into his chest.
“Hey, come on now,” said an upbeat-sounding Travis, interjecting quickly to raise Mustang’s spirits before he became engulfed by his disappointment. “Lift that chin, soldier! I’ll still be able to watch you tee off. And as you’re playin’ the first few holes I might use that time to get ahead to one of the other holes and see you come through.”
“I’m sure Bill would even drive you over to the 9th if you asked him,” suggested Ray, seeing what Travis was trying to do. “That way you’d get to see that hole, but also him teein’ off on 10.”
“See?!” said Travis, continuing to keep his energy levels as perky as possible. “I’ll be able to see you play plenty! I can even whoop and holler if ya want? When I see ya come through? Maybe get a little sign together that says, ‘That’s my Grandson!’ on it?”
“No, that’s alright,” said Mustang quietly, though unable to prevent a smile from curling his mouth at the thought of imagining Travis cheering him making a birdie in the same way he’d celebrate hearing the Texans scoring a touchdown on the radio.
“Alright then, it’s your call,” replied Travis, dryly, as he smiled warmly down at Mustang and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Now, come on – let’s get you that 1st tee, huh?”
“Yeah, ok,” said Mustang, not sounding anywhere near as disappointed as he had done just a few moments earlier. “Let’s do it.”
At that, Mustang made a move to go about grabbing up his golf bag. Before he could get it even so much as an inch off the ground, however, Ray reached out his shovel of a hand and placed it on top of the bag, thereby keeping it firmly rooted in place. “Woah, what do you think you’re doin’?” he asked, as if Mustang had just committed quite the faux pas.
“Picking up my bag …?” replied Mustang, confused as to what exactly Ray was talking about.
“Pickin’ up your bag?!” repeated Ray, affecting a comically outraged air. “No, no, no! In a tournament like this?!” he continued, gesturing wildly at the surrounds of the clubhouse and practice putting green. “Golfers don’t carry their own bags, that’s their caddie’s job – or, in your particular case, the job of your devilishly handsome caddie. So, hands-off.”
“Alright, have it your way,” relented a smiling Mustang, taking his hands off the bag and holding them up in front of himself. “Though, just so I know, what are the rules for ‘golfers’ running to the bathroom before their tee-time?”
“Uh, there’s just two, actually” replied Ray, flatly, as he lifted up two of his fingers in order to count them off. “Be quick, and wash your hands. Other than those? It’s all you, kid.”
With a wry shake of his head, a smiling Mustang jogged off and disappeared in through the same door Mr. Denby had used earlier to enter the bustling interior of the clubhouse.
“Nicely handled,” said Ray, once he was sure Mustang was sufficiently out of earshot. “He was on the brink there and you just pulled him right back from the edge.”
“Thanks,” replied Travis, continuing to look off towards the door into the clubhouse which now had a queue of guys – all of whom were wearing a matching uniform of quarter-zip sweatshirts, shorts, and golf shoes – streaming out through it with takeaway cups of coffee in hand.
“I just hope I can figure out how to do it,” sighed Ray, sounding almost overwhelmed at the prospect, as he picked up Mustang’s bag and slung it over his shoulder.
“Don’t worry, you will …” said Travis confidently, as he turned around and began to move past Ray in order to go stretch his legs. “After the first hundred or so times of makin’ a complete and utter mess of it, you really start to get a feel for how it works.”
“Oh, well that’s reassurin’, ain’t it?!” laughed Ray.
“Hey, I’d take it if I were you!” said Travis, himself also laughing as he turned back around to look at Ray. “Cause you’re in charge of a teenager now – hopin’ you’ll get slightly better at it while failin’ repeatedly to do just that is about as reassurin’ as it gets!”
“Sounds like playin’ golf,” thought Ray to himself as he left Travis to continue on his way to the wall that overlooked the 18th green.
With no sign of Mustang returning from the bathroom – and knowing he had everything they’d be needing for the match prepped and safely stowed inside the golf bag – Ray, with what had become a rare moment completely to himself, allowed his gaze to just aimlessly wander around the clubhouse and drink in the atmosphere. The vast majority of the crowd who’d been gathered there earlier for the draw had long since dispersed, either into the clubhouse to get some food or out onto the course in order to secure a spot at their favourite vantage point from which to watch all the matches come through, so everything was far closer now to how quiet it would be if it were just a regular Saturday at the Creek.
What quickly served as a reminder that this, in fact, wasn’t a regular Saturday, however, was the level of intensity with which some of the golfers who were going out in the matches immediately after Mustang’s were attempting to warm up their flat sticks on the practice putting green. Felix Warner, Horton Blackridge, Herman Lucas – who’d be up against Truman Ballas in the third match out – they were all grinding hard with their preferred putting aids of choice in order to dial in their feel for the greens as best they could.
Just as he settled in to do a little bit of extra scouting on how well Horton wielded his putter, though, an agitated, lengthy beep coming from a golf cart somewhere off behind him proved too much for Ray to ignore. When he turned around to glare at who seemed to think they were stuck in a traffic jam on the I-610 in the middle of New Orleans as opposed to a golf course, however, Ray found himself looking at the one-and-only, Wilford Kretschko, parked directly outside the open door of the pro-shop.
“MARVIN! LET’S GO!” bellowed Wilford impatiently, taking his lit cigar out of his mouth in order to unleash the full effect of his gruff, gravel-like voice on his brother, who was, obviously, inside the pro-shop.
He’d changed shirts since his warm-up on the range, Ray noticed – though, truth be told, this wasn’t an anomaly for Wilford. He tended to sweat a lot anyway – as anyone who’d ever seen him eating would attest to – but when he was out on the golf course? He was known to make more outfit changes than a supermodel at New York Fashion Week – often going through as many as six shirts in a single round when it was particularly humid. To further offset the inevitable ‘overheating’ problems he’d be facing, Wilford had also squeezed himself into a fresh pair of black shorts – beige ones, as he’d come to discover, had a habit of forming rather unfortunate-looking sweat patches for someone with his ‘perspiration issues’ – and, therefore, his ginormous calf muscles were on full display; the same calf muscles which, from May until the end of September, were such a deep shade of red from being continually sunburnt that they resembled literal pieces of beef.
With another irritated blast of the horn signalling his growing discontent at being kept waiting, Marvin, eventually, came scuttling out through the door of the pro-shop with his arms cupped in front of himself like a makeshift basket to hold the bevy of soda cans and candy bars he’d, clearly, been sent to retrieve in order to keep Wilford sufficiently fuelled for his match with Mustang.
“Where are the Almond Joys?!” barked Wilford, sounding like a petulant child after quickly scanning over what Marvin had bought. “You know I’m trying to eat healthier!”
“They were all out!” whimpered Marvin, cowering slightly under the furious gaze of his older brother.
Looking as though this were the greatest tragedy befalling anyone on the planet at that exact moment, Wilford, after mumbling an inaudible string of profanities under his breath, grunted, “Fine, let’s just go.”
With that, Wilford dropped his foot down onto the gas pedal and their cart lurched forward, causing an unsuspecting Marvin to quickly scramble in order to make sure he didn’t risk stoking Wilford’s wrath any further by losing any of his sugary cargo.
As soon as they’d sped away from the pro-shop and around the other side of the clubhouse – the 1st tee their obvious destination – Mustang came bouncing back outside.
“What are you looking at?” he asked, glancing off over his shoulder to try and see where Ray’s eyes were aiming.
“Huh?” muttered Ray, suddenly noticing that Mustang was standing in front of him.
“I just asked what you were looking at,” said Mustang, confused at what could be distracting Ray to such a degree.
“Oh, yeah, sorry … it was nothin’,” replied Ray, shaking his head as he realized he’d just been staring off into the now empty space where Wilford had disappeared from view. “Just zoned-out for a sec – that’s all.”
“Really?” questioned Mustang skeptically.
“Yeah, no, I’m all good – really,” said Ray, painting as reassuring a smile as he could muster across his face before attempting to change the subject. “We better get goin’, though, yeah? Don’t wanna be late.”
Ray turned his head and looked over at where Travis was still standing. He lifted his fingers up to his mouth and used them to let out a short, sharp whistle to get Travis’ attention. As soon as he then turned around, Ray shouted, “We’re rollin’ out!”, as he gestured off in the rough direction of where the 1st tee was located.
“Roger that!” replied Travis, setting his cane out in front of him to begin making the journey back over to where Ray and Mustang were standing.
Knowing they’d be waiting a second or two for Travis to return, Ray looked back down at Mustang. “What about you, kid?” he asked, smiling encouragingly. “You ready for Kretschko?”
“I think a better question …” smiled Mustang confidently. “Is whether or not Kretschko’s ready for me?”