Ken is calling to me from the shack. I look up.
“Nine ten. On the tee right now.”
Everyone freezes in silence as the full meaning of this news hits our bench. Then Bill suddenly explodes with . . .
“Fook me . . . You’re in her group!”
All at once, there’s an upheaval around me.
“Yes!” I scream, doing an uncontrolled fist pump. Then, even louder, “YES!”
I dash toward the window, rummaging around awkwardly in my inner trouser pockets for my fiver, while the other caddies’ voices trail me.
“You lucky bastard!” Jim yells after me.
“I don’t believe it . . . how did Horovitz get in there!” Grant shouts, holding his head in his hands.
I dash to the tee now, frantically throwing on my bib. Midway there, I realize I’ve left my caddie cap on the bench and do a rapid about-face, sprinting back to retrieve it, while the other caddies explode with laughter.
“Nine ten game?”
I stride out onto the tee box. The girl is there (!), doing some practice swings. So are her parents. So is another guy, a short, kind of runty-looking sixty-year-old with a Pine Valley golf cap on, who now turns to me.
“Yeah, uh, hi. You’re with me. Name’s Bob.”
“Oliver. Nice to meet you.”
We shake hands, my eyes not leaving the girl the entire time.
“This is Fritz and, uh, I think Helen,” Bob says in an American accent, motioning to the parents.
“Nice to meet you guys,” I say to the couple, heart kabooming inside. The mother smiles and speaks to me in a thick German accent.
“And dis is awr dott-ah, Barbara.”
Barbara turns her bright blue eyes up to me for the first time. And does . . . I don’t believe it . . . a small double take . . . Did that just happen?? Did she just do that?? I think she did! Oh my God!
“Hello,” Barbara says shyly, and meets my eyes in a smile. She has “the smile,” the one that I’m pretty sure exists only in a total of seven girls in the world . . . the one that convinces you that at this moment, only you matter to her . . . that suddenly makes you quite certain that the only thing you want in this entire world is for this girl to just keep smiling at you like this, forever . . .
“Hi,” I say back.
Not my wittiest reply. But it’ll have to do.
Our group exchanges pleasantries, and I point out our opening tee shot to Bob.
“Let’s start this on that yellow house down there . . . we’re only looking for two thirty or so with this wind.”
I’m kind of playing it cool at the moment, only talking to Bob, basking in the delicious knowledge that I have the entire round with this girl. Then the Old Course starter cuts into our chatter from his starter’s-hut loudspeaker.
“Nine ten game, play away, please.”
We’re off.
* * *
“One twenty-eight front, one thirty-six pin. I like our nine-iron here.”
I hand Bob his Callaway X-series 9-iron. We’re on the third hole. And by now I’ve gathered a few facts about our group.
First, Bob doesn’t actually know this family; he was randomly assigned to their group as a single.
Second, Bob is not a very good golfer. We’ve lost four balls in the first two holes.
Third, and most evident, everywhere we go, every single person is staring at Barbara. Caddies, rangers, greenskeepers, middle-aged golfers. Everyone. On each double green, in each double fairway, all conversations cease, and eight pairs of eyes lock squarely in disbelief on those royal-blue corduroys. So completely does Barbara cut into this world that entire games come to a standstill. And then the men see me trotting alongside Barbara, and their mouths drop open. It is Cleopatra’s bedroom. And I’m fluffing the pillows.
“Ah. Shit.”
Bob has completely knifed his 9-iron approach. The ball skids mercilessly over the green and plugs into deep rough, behind. The lob shot reached, at its absolute apex, a total of three inches in height. This is one of the best shots Bob has hit today.
“Yeah, that’ll be all right, we’ll get it,” I say, and give Bob a pitching wedge.
“These fairways are so damn tight!”
“I know, they’re very difficult.” I pat Bob on the back, feigning support.
Bob is turning sixty next week. He’s a lawyer, divorced, with a girlfriend who’s flying over next week for his birthday. He’s also got a daughter, who’s a junior at the University of St. Andrews.
Bob is a nice guy, but . . . how do I put this delicately . . . I literally do not care about him. The only thing I want to do in this round—in this world—is to be near Barbara. Because Barbara is not just stunningly beautiful. She is not just in possession of a jaw-dropping smile and breasts to die for. She is also, perhaps, the best golfer I have ever seen.
“Gude shot.”
Barbara has just crushed another perfect drive, 265 yards down the middle. Her swing is effortless, flawless, thrillingly perfect.
“Thank you.” Barbara smiles modestly. The family is used to these drives.
“Nice shot!” I chirp, running loudly with Bob’s golf clubs clanging on my back to catch up to Barbara. I should be helping Bob look for his ball embedded in the gorse jungle off 6 tee, but I’m going AWOL.
“There is gorse every-vere!” Barbara is amazed.
“Uh, yeah. There’s a lot of it.”
“I vas so nervous off tee one.” She giggles.
“Really? I totally couldn’t tell!” I giggle back excitedly. I’m her mobile cheering section.
Barbara, I’ve coaxed out of her mom, is studying law in Zurich. The family is Swiss, and Barbara and her mom have bought this trip as a surprise for her father, who, like Bob, turns sixty next week. He seems very happy. Although not as happy as me—because right now, Barbara and I are on the cart path that winds through the gorse, and for the moment we’re alone.
“You play in tournaments, right?”
“Yah, I used to. On the Swiss girls’ tour.”
“Oh wow!”
“Noooooo. It doesn’t mean much. You know.”
So modest. So perfect. I could marry this girl at the ninth hole.
“Actually, back in America, Barbara, I played on this junior tour thing in Massachusetts. It was called—”
“Barbara!”
The mother has caught up to us. “Deed you pack those sandwiches for Dad in the bag?”
Barbara turns obediently to her mother. “Yes, I deed, muzzah.”
“I think he’s hungry for them now.”
Barbara’s muzzah, I am observing, does not seem pleased that I am flirting with her daughter. In fact, Muzzah’s been decidedly frosty around me all day. I wouldn’t particularly care about this, except for the fact that Bob hasn’t been talking to either her or her husband, which means I’m never able to be alone with Barbara. Speaking of which . . . SHIT. Bob. I spin around and dash back seventy-five yards to my golfer, who is waiting helplessly for me on the other side of the hill, club-less and ball-less.
* * *
The holes fly by. On each green, different caddies come up to me, smile brightly at the parents, then whisper throatily in my ear, “Cannae fookin’ believe it, Horovitz!” I’m the envy of the caddie shack.
But I don’t feel like it.
Instead, I feel the round dwindling down, and with it the invincible, magical feeling that I had when all eighteen holes stretched before us. In a few hours, the round with Barbara will be over. It’s like the caddie gods wanted me to meet this girl. But I’m not getting enough time to talk to her. My frustration grows. I never get women in my group, let alone girls my age, girls like Barbara. This is a comet sighting. And it won’t happen again. I need to do something drastic. Something to impress her.
“Oh no!”
Both parents groan as Barbara’s pulled 3-wood shot gallops into the Road Hole Bunker on 17. Not surprising; golfers always get suckered out left here. Barbar
a sighs, drops to her knees. She knows her next shot will be brutal.
Bob is floundering in the right-hand rough, but I march pointedly in the opposite direction, straight for the Road Hole Bunker. This could be my chance.
“Nat so good?” Barbara asks, walking up to the bunker.
“You know, not terrible,” I say. But it is. The ball is right up near the front lip of the trap. Barbara arrives, and laughs when she sees her ball.
“Oh, deee-ah,” she says.
Barbara grabs a sand wedge and sets up to hit out sideways. But I’ve got an idea.
“No, no. You can go straight at it,” I tell her.
“Vaaat?” Barbara exclaims, as if I’ve just suggested playing this shot naked.
“Yeah, you can. Just swing really steeply, straight up and down, like this.” I demonstrate with her club. “That’s the secret to getting out of these traps.”
“Nooooooo!” Barbara says, and gives me a doubtful smile.
“Seriously. Trust me.”
There’s a pause. Barbara totally doesn’t believe that it’s possible. But finally she nods.
“Okay . . . I veel try it.”
As Barbara sets up, I watch nervously from behind. This is a huge gamble—I’d call it 20/80 odds, but I need to take the chance. Barbara takes the club back, blasts steeply down, just like I told her. The ball pops straight up, clears the lip, rolls to three feet. She spins around to me, a dazzling smile on her face. Five people standing behind the green, who witnessed all proceedings, applaud. One yells out, “Great caddying!” I nod back modestly, rake the sand trap for Barbara. Count it.
“Thank you for a great round, Oliver.”
We’re behind the eighteenth green. Bob hands me fifty pounds. I’ve already been given a ten-pound tip by Barbara’s parents (“Only because of the Road Hole Bunker shot!” the mother laughs, only half joking).
“It was fun, Bob.”
“Can I give you a lift back into town?”
I glance over at the Swiss Family Robinson, packing up their golf bags. “Uh, no, thanks, I’ve got my bike.”
“Oh, okay. Well, take care.” Bob walks away with his clubs. I’m left standing on the pavement. Suddenly, I see Barbara running back to put away her trolley. This is the moment.
“Barbara . . . one more thing,” I say, jogging up to her.
She turns to me, smiles. “Vat?”
In the towering sunset, she looks even more beautiful than before. The moment is perfect.
“Well . . . some caddies and I are heading out tonight, later, and I’d love for you to come out with us.”
Barbara looks at me. There’s a pause. She opens her mouth to say something but stops. And then she says . . .
“I . . . I’m sorry, I can’t. I vish I could, but I can’t.”
She gives me a hug and runs to catch up with her parents. I’m left standing in front of the R & A Clubhouse, alone. I shuffle to my bike, unchain it, and walk it slowly back behind the eighteenth green. Down on the green, Frasier Riddler and his golfers are putting out. Frasier calls to me.
“D’you get her number?”
All the middle-aged men in the group look up, eagerly awaiting my answer. They’ve been following us all afternoon.
I shake my head. “No.”
There are audible sighs of disappointment from the green. Three golfers exchange money. I trudge back to the caddie shack, step inside to get my bag. Two caddies are already there.
“Well?! Did you get her—”
“No.”
“Ah shit.” One reaches into his pocket and pays the other guy.
In every game there are winners and losers. This does not feel like a win.
THIRTEEN
“I’m terribly sorry, but I have to cancel our gardening this afternoon.”
Uncle Ken is deeply apologetic. “It’s nothing serious, but I have to bring Bonnie over to the vet.”
“No problem at all,” I tell Uncle Ken, and sign on for a second spin. I haven’t heard him sound this worried before . . . and this worries me.
During the past few weeks, Bonnie’s real age has begun to overtake her apparent age. Unlike Uncle Ken, Bonnie is living in dog years. And suddenly it begins to show. Suddenly Bonnie is blind. Suddenly she is frightened to travel in the caravan. Suddenly she is unable to take walks. Uncle Ken has rolled with these particular punches. His gen changes drastically: He cancels caravan club trips, walks alone, spoon-feeds Bonnie her meals. It is beyond sad to see.
That evening, after finishing up my caddie round on the Old Course, I turn on my cell phone and find a message to call my parents in America. They’ve heard upsetting news from my aunt in Manchester. After talking to the doctors, Uncle Ken has finally had to have Bonnie put down, that afternoon. I call Uncle Ken immediately and ask if I can come by. Instead of expressing his true emotions, Uncle Ken, always the stiff-upper-lipped Englishman, invents a more “logical” reason for having me come over. “Oh, super! Do drop by. I’ve got a newspaper clipping you’ll want to take a look at!”
“Sure, I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I reply warmly, not fooled for a second. As soon as I see Uncle Ken’s face, it’s obvious that he needs someone to talk with. I sit with him for a few hours as he recounts story after story of his bonny Bonnie.
I think that surviving those we love must be among life’s worst experiences. My uncle Ken Hayward—a man of wisdom and courage who, in his eighty-three-year lifetime, led squadrons of men through countless air battles and city councils through difficult change—has just buried an aged five-pound dog. And he is distraught beyond belief.
• • •
“What do you think, Ollie?”
I snap to attention. Kenny is motioning for me to read his golfer’s putt. We’re on the fifth green of the Old Course, the largest green on the course (and in the world—it measures ninety-eight yards from front to back). I’m in a foursome, with three other “licensed” caddies. Among them is Kenny, the one whom I shadowed at the start of my career. Kenny’s now giving me a caddie “exam.”
I look at the putt. What do I think? I think I better not fuck this up.
The putt is a tricky sixty-foot downhill double breaker. I can’t study it too long; everyone’s waiting on my decision, including Kenny’s golfer. My window of opportunity for study is about eight seconds. I survey the putt, look at the ridge that cuts in about halfway down, try to feel the line of the putt. “I like two cups out on the right,” I say to Kenny.
“Okay,” my former shadow responds in a tone that says, “Let’s see how you do.” Kenny relays my read to his golfer. “Two cups out on the right, sir.” The exam is on.
Kenny’s player goes with that read and knocks it a foot short of the hole, dead on line. I’ve nailed it. The caddie nods, gives me the thumbs-up sign. I nod back as casually as possible. No sweat.
* * *
August has come to the Old Course. Rain is less frequent, and the summer sun and year-round wind have begun baking the course, turning fairways and thick rough into stately shades of tan and coffee-brown. The turf is now granite-hard; the course is running like true links golf. Low, drawing drives can run out well over 320 yards; 9-irons can cover 190 yards downwind. Approach shots have to land well short of the green. Breezes off the North Sea now carry a tingle of coldness, hinting at the approaching autumn. The Thistle Golf Club has its “autumn meeting”—a tournament held over the Old Course. The New Golf Club and St. Andrews club stage their own medals. The R & A begins their preferential times.
I’ve been in St. Andrews for eleven consecutive months. With just a few weeks left before my return to America and my freshman year at Harvard, this unexpected “freeze” of my life is about to come to a close. The interlude of this gap year, of my caddie summer, is winding down. The curtain is falling. Life, in a sense, is about to restart.
I’m sitting on the bench at the eleventh tee right now, beside an old veteran caddie. I look out over the massive tenth green, past the
eighth hole. I’m in a weird mood. I’m stoked to get to Harvard, to begin my new life. But it hits me that this summer will be hard to give up. When the sun breaks through a black rain cloud on 7 of the Old and the whole course is bathed in dramatic, glistening sunshine; when my seventy-five-year-old golfer giggles like a ten-year-old and confesses that this is the best four hours of his life—at these moments, I know this isn’t just a job. At these moments, something deep inside the human psyche is tapped, something hardwired into happiness. A knowledge that I might very well be in one of the prettiest places in the world. A knowledge that I’m part of something important. At these moments on the Old, it gets no better.
Twenty feet from our bench, two trainee caddies stand up on the tee box with our four players. We hear one golfer say to the other, “You know, this is the highest point on the golf course!” The veteran caddie turns to me in disgust, leans in. “That’s rubbish, he’s totally wrong! Must’ve been some stupid trainee told him that!” I am secretly thrilled to be included in this insider complaint. Although I’ve been a licensed caddie for only a few weeks, the badge somehow moves me into this elite inner circle. “Yeah,” I reply with equal contempt, “probably some stupid trainee!”
It is Captains Courageous. I am Harvey. And I have conquered the sea.
FOURTEEN
“Horovitz!”
I look up from page 3 of The Scottish Sun, in which today’s naked girl is sharing her views on British foreign policy. Colin Gerard is standing in front of me. He’s a skinny forty-year-old veteran caddie who farts a lot.
“What’re yoo doin’ tomorra aft’e’noon?” (Fart.)
Obviously, I’ll be caddying. But I wonder where Colin’s headed with this.
“Nothing much. Why?”
Colin slams his foot up on the bench next to me (farts) and starts lacing up his shoes. “A bunch of us caddies are playin’ the Old tomorrow. We need a fourth. You wanna come?”
Does a bear shit in the gorse? “Yeah . . . I . . . Yes! Definitely!” I respond, failing at nonchalance.
“It-ull be a real caddie oot-ing,” Colin laughs, and walks away to put on his rain pants and allow a blockbuster fart. I pretend to look at my pin sheet, to seem busy. But really, I’m just thinking about tomorrow. I haven’t played the Old since I began caddying (one gets a weird guilt trip about skipping out on work to play golf, in front of the other caddies). This is perfect. While I swoon, a large-nosed caddie next to me coughs and peers over at page 3’s naked Jen. “If she was up for it, I wouldn’t say no,” he remarks huskily, ending my daydream. I’m glad he’s mentioned this to me.
An American Caddie in St. Andrews: Growing Up, Girls, and Looping on the Old Course Page 7