Days later, I am told the following story by an elderly caddie: He was looping for a middle-aged golfer who obviously used to be a below-scratch player. The golfer started to cross Swilcan Bridge, stopped, began to cry. The caddie gently asked him, “What’s the matter?” The man answered softly, “I used to have dreams about walking over this bridge and thousands of fans screaming my name.” I think about all the times, while caddying, I’ve walked over that same bridge with the same thought in my head.
SEVEN
“Tom Greaves. Ollie Horovitz.”
The shack intercom booms its caddie call to duty.
Greaves and I laugh and exchange a fist-pound. This’ll be a fun one.
Greaves is my age and has just finished his first year at the University of St. Andrews. We were in the same English section together, spending two hours each week tackling Frankenstein, Wuthering Heights, and Beowulf. Greaves is Scottish but sounds absolutely English, as do most Scottish kids who went to private school. He’s also in his first year of caddying, also still a trainee. Days before beginning his summer caddie career, he inexplicably dyed his hair bleach-blond to “get ready for caddying.” A few sun-drenched rounds, and it’s begun to turn green. Greaves and I head outside, passing another young trainee, Kevin Fogarty (Foggy!), at the door. We all smile as we pass. It’s nice knowing you’re not the only wretch out on the mountain.
A month has passed since I started at the shack, and I’ve begun making friends with many of the other caddies my age. Most of these kids attend or have just graduated from the University of St. Andrews, although quite a few others come from all over the world, just staying for the summer to earn some spending money (or attempting to do so). As we are all climbing the figurative “caddie ladder” together, I grow to know all fellow trainee scrubs well. There are some definite characters, including Patrick, a cheery Irish kid who’s been staying in the youth hostel in St. Andrews for the last five months (he’s the only full-time boarder), uses the terms “Mighty!” and “Grand!” frequently, and keeps a comb in his back pocket for midround touch-ups; a Swedish kid named Olle, whose occupation before being a caddie was soldier in the Swedish army; and Melissa, a stunningly attractive blond English girl who is unceremoniously hit on by every male golfer for whom she caddies (and on whom I develop an instant crush, before receiving the tragic news that she has a boyfriend—one of Prince William’s flatmates).
Altogether, there are about fifteen of us in our caddie circle. I’m the lone American. Although we’ve come to St. Andrews from totally different parts of the world, we have a ton in common. At night, our group heads to the livelier pubs in St. Andrews, like Ma Bells, the Lizard, the Raisin, or the West Port (where Prince William often hung out during the school year). After the pubs shut at one A.M., my friends and I head to various flat parties that run into the wee hours of the morning. After working so hard during the week, one comes to feel like Saturday night/Sunday morning out has been, in a word, earned.
As luck would have it, most of my caddie mates, like me, are also obsessive golfers. Most, like me, have schlepped their clubs to Scotland with them. All, like me, soon happily realize that it stays light in St. Andrews, during the summer, until eleven P.M. As most loops end for the day at around seven or eight P.M., there is still ample time for the especially devoted (or mildly insane) of the lot to head home, grab their clubs, and return to the course for a quick nine holes of their own. Counting ourselves among those of the latter category, my group does this frequently. It’s worth the effort. There is nothing quite like playing golf in St. Andrews in the evening. All wind dies down. Stillness settles over the landscape. Hares dart out from the gorse. Birds hunker down for the night. As the sun dips lower in the Scottish sky, greens and fairways are brilliantly lit at a striking angle. It all resembles a movie set. And it’s ours. A secret world of no wind and beautiful oak-red light, a private privilege for the ones who work the course. Against this backdrop, my caddie friends and I stage brutally competitive nine-hole matches, some extending until the very last rays of the sun sink below the North Sea and darkness ends our match. At this point, we usually head straight from the course into town, to meet other caddies at the pubs. It’s not a bad life.
Greaves and I are out this afternoon with two cool guys from South Africa. It is freezing cold, and they look miserable. “Is it always this cold?” my golfer asks me as we walk up the third hole. Apparently, it’s fifty degrees warmer in Johannesburg at the very same moment—and it’s winter there.
My golfer tells me that he owns a bank in Johannesburg, and his friend owns an insurance company. They are both decked out in top-of-the-line DryJoy waterproofs, play high-end Callaway clubs, and hit nothing but Pro V1s. They’re rich but also incredibly stingy. My player spends two to three minutes looking for his tee on every tee box, even if it’s broken. On 7, we discover that I’ve lost his putter cover. He looks as if he might cry. Or strangle me. At the end of the round, I receive all 3’s on my assessment card, except for the category “equipment service,” where a 2 is filled in. I figure “2” is a euphemism for “He lost my goddamn putter cover.”
I’m starting to carve out a place for myself in the shack. I’m still not accepted by the top caddies, but I also don’t feel like I’m on my own anymore. The caddie world is a slightly friendlier place now. I’m starting to feel like I can handle it. In fact, I’m starting to have fun down here. Maybe, just maybe, this summer won’t break my heart.
EIGHT
“You know, this will be absolutely super for the garden.”
Uncle Ken is driving and looking very pleased. He and I are heading to Cupar. Specifically, he and I are heading to Cupar to buy garden pebbles.
I have the afternoon off from caddying (Rick informed me of this after my morning round, in typical Rick fashion, by simply screaming out “No!” at me from fifty feet as I walked back toward the shack). Instead, I’m along for the ride as Uncle Ken grips the steering wheel tightly, navigating us as if in one of the Lancaster bombers he flew during World War II. The red ’82 Vauxhall we’re in has no power steering (or power anything for that matter), and I can’t imagine how an eighty-three-year-old can handle this thing. But handle it Uncle Ken does, gunning us along at speeds that make me incredibly uneasy.
“Now we’ll have to pull up here a minute,” Uncle Ken remarks, turning us (sharply) left onto Tom Morris Drive. Soon I see a familiar figure walking toward our car. Henry climbs in.
“Golly, I just had to get out of the house,” Henry breathes, stretching out dramatically in the front passenger seat. “Grace and our daughter Louise are having the carpets redone. Made me stay in with them all morning!” Henry, it’s safe to say, doesn’t do well indoors.
After a few minutes, the Old Course passes by on our right-hand side. Henry quickly relaxes, now that he’s out on the road with the boys. He removes three sweets from his right-hand pocket, offers two to us. Henry always has sweets in his right-hand pocket.
“A lad down at the shops, he told me that they’re gonna be renovating the bus station soon. Said it’ll take foive weeks.”
The gen has begun.
“Oh yes, I’d heard that too,” Uncle Ken replies.
“He said to me, ‘Harry, mark my words, things are changing around ’ere!’”
The St. Andrews skyline slowly sinks away in the background. We drive along the edges of the more distant links courses—the Eden (ironically nicknamed “the Garden of Eden” by caddies, since it’s annoyingly far from the shack) and the Strathtyrum—then it’s just farmland.
“The Leuchars flower show is coming up, you know,” Henry says, turning around to me.
“Yes, Oliver might be coming with us, if he can get a caddie round in before!” Uncle Ken replies.
“Oh aye.”
Uncle Ken looks at me in the mirror. “You know, I think it would be a good idea for you to see it!” Uncle Ken loves the idea of educating me in Scottish life. Apparently, the Leuchars flower show
is a part of it.
“I’d love to go,” I reply, and both men in the front seat nod. We continue toward Cupar, passing through Guardbridge and Dairsie. These towns are still as foreign to me as the pebble-centric lives of my carmates. But I’m learning.
NINE
Caddies like having good golfers. With a good golfer, rounds are easier. Balls do not have to be scrounged for in the rough, swing and chipping lessons do not have to be constantly administered. In fact, most St. Andrews caddies who have looped on tour will tell you that tour rounds are much easier. “You just basically have to give yardages and babysit,” one tour caddie tells me, on the benches outside the shack. Out on the Old, a good straight driver of the ball does make rounds much more pleasant. “Steady ball makes all the difference,” old Jimmy Bowman adds, sitting next to us.
As might be expected by applying the same logic, caddies do not like having bad golfers. Rounds are harder, more frustrating, more demanding. You cannot exercise the “top tier” of your talents—picking dangerous but rewarding lines off the thirteenth tee, being tested on controversial club choices and putt reads—because your golfer simply won’t give you this opportunity. Plus you have to walk more. When caddies find out their golfers are bad, they become angry. One extreme example of this involves a minuscule caddie known as Switchy. Switchy will ask his golfers what their handicaps are on the first tee. If their handicap is over 4, he will promptly “switch off” for the round. Tempting fate, Switchy even has the phrase SWITCH OFF emblazoned on his caddie golf cap, subtly alerting his golfers to this practice. Incidentally, Switchy (whose moniker is also inscribed on his own cart bag) used to caddie for Samuel L. Jackson each year in the Dunhill Links Championship—a pro-am event similar to the AT&T Pebble Beach pro-am. While appearing on The Late Show with David Letterman one night promoting a new film, Jackson told Letterman, “The only thing I’m afraid of in life is my caddie at St. Andrews.” Somehow this comment got back to the shack three thousand miles away, and Switchy was pulled into the office and screamed at by Rick. Samuel L. Jackson had tattled on Switchy.
I’m thinking about this story as I walk along Market Street after my round. I love to see the veteran caddies impersonate Rick in the shack. Almost every caddie can bust out a hilarious rendition on the spot. Most involve some version of the long low “mmmmm,” which expresses Rick’s displeasure at something, followed by a low-pitched declaration of “What’s going on here?” or “You’re not doing enough rounds for me,” or “Have a shave.” I’ve been developing my own Rick impersonation, spending time to get the “mmmmm” at the exact pitch.
I do a little “mmmmmm” practice to myself now (“Mmmmm . . . I’ll need your fiver now”) as I pass the Student Union, then the Electoral Roll office. On the opposite side of the street, near Jim Farmer’s golf shop, I look over at the bus stop. It’s packed with “ancients,” all waiting for their three P.M. bus. There are old men with baby-blue coats and argyle sweaters, older women with light bonnets and heavy shopping. And in the middle of this hubbub, I spot Henry. He’s sitting on the bench and (of course) chatting with five fellow ancients. I can only hear a murmur of thick Scottish accents, but I know that everyone is trading gen. I stare at this group, all between the ages of eighty-one and ninety-four, and keep walking. I’m proud to know their ringleader.
• • •
“Can you fookin’ believe it?”
Nathan Gardner is taking off his waterproofs, still in disbelief. It’s the next day, and Nathan is sharing his latest misery story with the rest of the shack. I’m eagerly listening in. Apparently, Nathan’s just had an American 13-handicapper who questioned everything that Nathan told him.
“Lines off tees . . . reads . . . everything. But here’s the kicker.” Nathan is getting excited now. “We’re on fifteen, right? I hand him a five-iron for his second shot. He tells me he doesn’t think it’s the right club. And I tell him, ‘Just hit it.’ The guy hits, holes it out for an eagle.”
Both of Nathan’s hands are now raised in the air.
“And then this arsehole turns to me and says, ‘I still don’t think that was the right club!’”
The rest of the shack howls with laughter. Nathan continues. “I take the guy aside, and I say to him, ‘Look, what’s the problem here? You’ve just holed out, you can’t get better than that. What the fuck’s the problem?’ The guy gives me no more lip after that.”
Nathan’s story makes it clear: Questioning your caddie is the worst thing a golfer can do. Not buying him a snack at the turn, having a heavy bag, forgetting his name—they all pale in comparison to questioning his advice. Because for all the expertise of the caddies, for all the high stakes that are attached to a round at St. Andrews, the ultimate responsibility for the shot is with the golfer.
Many people seem to forget this. Alec Howie, a veteran caddie who’s looped for Arnold Palmer, and whom I have never once seen misclub a golfer, was caddying for a guy from Detroit last year. After hitting a shot on 7, the man turned to Alec, pointed his finger at him, and said, “That was the wrong yardage!” Instantly, Alec grabbed the man’s finger, pulled him in violently. “Don’t you ever point your finger at me again,” Alec breathed murderously. I’ve heard this story repeated by caddies a hundred times, and with biblical respect.
As Nathan continues his rant, it strikes me how much pride caddies take in their work, and how insulted they are by disrespectful golfers. For caddies, forging routes for golfers around the Old Course’s 112 bunkers isn’t just a lark—it’s their art. It’s their expertise. It’s why, for four hours, the president of Xerox, or Amazon.com, or the United States of America, absolutely depends on them—
“Ollie Horovitz.”
The shack intercom snaps me out of my daydream. I go to wet my caddie towel in the shack’s bathroom, and have a wee pee. This’ll be my fifth double since Monday. It’s kind of shocking when I think about it—I’ll have done ten rounds in five days. But the doubles are starting to come easier now. My calves and hamstrings are less sore after loops; I’m acting less like a zombie in front of my roommates at night. Even the five thirty A.M. wakeups are starting to seem almost pleasant. My body’s getting into the flow, getting used to the new normal. I guess this is a good thing.
TEN
I’m out with a sixty-year-old nerdy American lawyer, who is playing with three other nerdy American lawyers, who I assume are his friends. On 3, however, after waiting twenty-five minutes for the other three players to hole out, my golfer takes me aside, just past the green, and tells me, “I fuckin’ hate these guys.” The lawyer has mood swings that vary from the highest of highs, with childish giggles, to kicking his clubs into pot bunkers. These fluctuations can occur at any second, caused by a missed putt or a (frequently) skulled chip. He is quite possibly the most annoying golfer I’ve met to date. He tells embarrassingly corny jokes and uses several catchphrases, like “You’re gonna give me the teach here.” Nonetheless, I suck up like crazy, laugh at his jokes, and make fifty pounds for the round.
And then it happens.
I’m back at the shack window and about to hand in my forty-first assessment card to Rick Mackenzie. It’s been seven weeks since I began the caddie training program. Suddenly Rick grabs me by the bib and wordlessly pulls me toward the window. I have zero clue what’s happening. It occurs to me that Rick is either going to kiss me, or kill me. Instead, in one deft act, Rick removes my trainee caddie badge from my caddie bib and slips in a blank badge. He nods. In the background, I can see Ken beaming. I realize what’s happened. Rick shakes my hand.
“Mmmmmm, you’ve done well,” he says, almost reluctantly. “Now don’t fook everything up.”
The other trainees crowd around the window. They all start clapping me on the back, congratulating me. More than a few look envious. Greaves gives me a high five. I can’t think of what to say, and I can’t wipe the gigantic grin from my face. It’s a new and wonderful feeling. No more assessment cards. No more stupid trainee bad
ge that I have to work to overcome. I’ve done this totally by myself, off my own back and legs and putt reads. I’m an official Old Course caddie. I’ve started at the bottom, gotten no shortcuts from anyone—I’ve earned this. I’m three thousand miles from home, and it’s starting to rain, and a little piece of plastic has just been removed from my caddie bib—and this might be the proudest moment of my eighteen-year-old life.
* * *
I have to complete one final task before it’s official. Rick’s told me to bring him two passport-sized photos for my new caddie badge. He wants me to bring him the photos right away. I’m now sitting in the instant-photo machine in the back of Woolworths, having used all the change in my pockets to cover the exorbitant three-pounds-fifty-pence charge. I’m getting myself ready for a winning photo, gloriously happy, when suddenly the curtain is pulled back. I jump a foot out of my seat and look left. A cute three-year-old girl stares up at me. As I’m wondering what the hell she’s doing in here, the first of four flashes goes off. The machine’s rolling. I instantly pull the curtain back while forcing the fakest, most strained, dorky smile for—pop!—the second flash. Can’t use that one, I tell myself, I look like Davis Love III! Suddenly, the curtain is pulled back again, and the same pair of innocent eyes looks up at me. I try to push her out of the booth, when—pop!—the third flash goes off, catching the right side of my ear. I manage to shove the kid out of the booth, slam the curtain closed, and turn to the camera for the last time. The flash captures a hideous scowl on my face as I realize I’ve just wasted three pounds fifty. I rush back to the caddie shack. Photo number two, with the strained, dorky smile, is pasted onto my badge. I cover up the picture when among other caddies.
An American Caddie in St. Andrews: Growing Up, Girls, and Looping on the Old Course Page 5