An American Caddie in St. Andrews: Growing Up, Girls, and Looping on the Old Course

by Oliver Horovitz

  “Drinks!” Julia yells, descending the stairs with a tray of Pimm’s. The girls eagerly reassemble around our table, and Julia hands out glasses.

  “To Model Caddying!” Lauren shouts.

  “To our trainer!” Emily adds, and the girls cheer as five glasses clink in the middle. Three forty-year-old American golfers enter the bar, glance at our table, and look at me like I just won the British Open.

  “So honestly, how did we do today?” Julia asks.

  “Honestly? . . . I thought you all did amazingly.”

  A chorus of “Awwwwww”s goes up from the circle. This was a slightly biased answer, I note, but I think it was also the correct one. There’s a deafening synthesizer beat, and 50 Cent’s “In da Club” comes crashing on—causing Emily, Julia, and Lorna to jump up for more dancing. I stay at the table, talking with Lauren. It is hard not to remember that I’m the only guy here. It is also hard not to replay in my head—at a rate of roughly thirty loops a minute—a sexual fantasy involving myself and twenty-five Model Caddies. We are all naked, carrying golf bags. Sisqó is singing “Thong Song” beside the Eden Estuary. The girls each kiss me. Then Paula Creamer floats down and gives me a putting lesson. She tells me my technique is strong, but then my name is called on the caddie shack loudspeaker by Rick Mackenzie. End of fantasy.

  At the end of the night, we all gather outside Broons. As good-bye hugs and kisses are exchanged, the girls’ shouts ring down North Street.

  “See you soon for more training!” Julia says.

  “Thanks again, Ollie!” Emily shouts. The group disperses, and I’m left standing with Lauren. It’s time to say good-bye, time to go home. But I decide, in a momentary mix of bravery and stupidity, to press my luck. I mean, even if she says no, it’ll still have been a good night.

  “So, um . . . can I . . . walk you home?” I ask Lauren, implying more.

  I know exactly what she’s going to say: “Thanks, but I’m okay.”

  Lauren looks at me for a second.

  “Yeah, that would be nice.” She smiles.

  It takes me a few more seconds to realize she said yes.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Oh, this is marvelous. I’m very pleased about this, you know!”

  Uncle Ken is gunning his motor caravan along, walking cane resting alongside the clutch. He is wearing a matching tweed jacket and cap. I’m in the passenger seat.

  “It really is a super van!” my uncle continues happily.

  Uncle Ken has just replaced his old caravan with this new one. It’s green and large. Very large. Maybe too large, in fact. When we pass cars in the narrow oncoming lane, it’s usually by a matter of millimeters. Uncle Ken is clearly excited to show me his new vehicle, but he’s also eager to be testing it out. This is, after all, the maiden voyage.

  “The gang is going up to Crieff this weekend, and I think I’ll be joining them,” Uncle Ken chirps. He loves calling the motor caravan club (mainly composed of mideighty-year-olds) “the gang.” “Friday night is the big meeting. But they make you play all sorts of games.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “Oh you know, the usuals,” Uncle Ken says seriously. “Pass the Parcel. Squeak Piggy Squeak . . .”

  Uncle Ken has a full schedule of motor caravan trips. Nearly every weekend, in fact. The “gang” is always going to places in Scotland with dramatic-sounding names. Markinch. Inverkeithing. Kirkcaldy (Kir-coddy). At each site, I imagine an assemblage of eighty-four-year-olds with caravans and exterior electrical outlets.

  “What do you think of the van, Oliver?”

  Uncle Ken turns to me. He’s waiting for my response like a second grader holding up a finger painting.

  “. . . It’s really, really great, Uncle Ken,” I say with a smile.

  And it is. We’re in a movable home, a home that can whisk this eighty-four-year-old gent around Scotland, setting him down in places that he once used to fly over in jets, places that he once walked over hills and fields to get to. Even in his later years, Uncle Ken is still exploring, discovering, traveling.

  “There’s a wonderful tea place coming up that we can stop at,” Uncle Ken announces. “It’s called the Peat Inn. Their scones are rather tasty actually.”

  “Excellent.”

  “You know, I think it’s important to show you these things, Oliver.” Uncle Ken giggles.

  I look over at him. So full of life. So full of cheer. He’s become more than just an uncle to me. He’s like a grandfather. Or a godfather. Or a dear friend. Uncle Ken never had children, and it’s possible that I’m like the son, or grandson, that he never had. If that’s the case, I’m proud to be that kid.

  “Here it is, hold on tight!”

  Uncle Ken snaps on his turn indicator, and pulls us into the Peat Inn parking lot, for the rather tasty scones.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Crouch down like this and see if you can find any break.”

  I show Grace the proper putt-reading technique.

  “Oh, that does help,” she says, crouching down. The “visible panty line” reference from Annie Hall springs into my consciousness.

  “Okay, now do you see any break?”

  “Break?”

  “You know, like, side hills.”

  “Oh! Let me check.”

  Grace is now lying flat on her stomach on the green. Oh my God!

  I’m on the third hole of the Jubilee Course, and class is in session. Three new Model Caddies stand beside me: Model Caddie number one is Grace, a strikingly beautiful half-English/half-Asian brunette with piercing eyes. Model caddie number two is Sally, a stunning blonde with inappropriately sizable breasts. Model Caddie number three is Ashley, petite, tanned, with a rear end to rival J.Lo’s. All three are wearing tight yellow and pink golf shirts, plus short shorts that expose endless legs. It’s all I can do to keep my mind on the lesson, and my blood from pumping to specific outer extremities.

  “Oh, I think I see something!” Grace has now placed her hand above her eyes, as if looking out from a ship deck. It probably isn’t helping her read the putt, but it does look unbelievably cute. “Does it move to the right?” she asks.

  “Cor-rect!” I say with a level of dorkiness that frightens me. I’m having trouble containing my enthusiasm out here. “How much would you say?”

  “Um . . . let’s see . . . inside right?” Grace asks. I get down to study the putt. I can feel the girls holding their breath for my verdict.

  “Actually, that looks really good.”

  “Woohoo!”

  Grace and Sally do a jumping high five. We’re making progress.

  • • •

  “Nice beard, Horovitz.”

  John Boyne motions to his face and rubs imaginary stubble. He laughs. This is not good—I didn’t think it was so obvious. I nervously return the laugh, then, when Boyne leaves, scamper into the shack bathroom to inspect my chin. I have a problem.

  Of all the rules that Rick Mackenzie enforces in the caddie shack, the most surprisingly strict is the caddie shaving policy. Quite simply, caddies must be clean-shaven for work, every day. The consequences of breaking this rule are equally simple. If Rick catches you unshaven on three separate occasions, he will fire you. Amongst the veteran caddies, clearly defined facial hair is acceptable (one older caddie, Nick Robertson, looks exactly like “Fluff” Cowan with his handlebar mustache). For the rest of us, however, even microscopic stubble adorning our chins can bring serious trouble.

  I arrived in St. Andrews at the start of this summer armed with my shiny electric razor. It was a birthday present from my parents at age thirteen and is the only razor I’ve ever used. Four days ago, it died. Like, seriously died. No replacement batteries can revive it. Worse, I haven’t been able to find another affordable electric one, and I don’t know how to use a manual razor. So for the past three days, I’ve been cautiously avoiding Rick at the window, ducking in and out of the shack after my rounds. So far, the strategy’s been working.

 
My luck continues this morning. Ken is at the window when I pay my admin fee, and I scuttle away safely to the first tee for my round before Rick returns. At the end of the round, I collect my tip (Hawaii Five-0) and head back to the shack. I say hello to Rick at the window and ask to sign on for another. Rick stares at me for a second. His eyes tilt down to my chin. His face clouds. I suddenly realize the blunder I have just made.

  “You’re not going out again like that!” Rick screams.

  My heart leaps into my mouth.

  “Oh, uh, Rick, I’m really sor—”

  “A shave is part of the uniform that a caddie has to wear!” Rick bellows. This doesn’t seem like the clearest metaphor, but I keep the observation to myself.

  Rick continues. “You’ll have to go home and shave right now!”

  “Rick, the thing is, um, my electric razor broke, and I can’t replace it, and, um, I don’t know how to use a regular razor.”

  Rick takes in this new information. Then he dives into the shack, reappearing moments later. In his left hand, he is holding a small, antiquated bladed razor. In his right hand, he is holding a bottle of hideous-looking green liquid.

  “Shave in the next ten minutes, or you no longer work here,” he says.

  Desperately, I grab Patrick McGinley from the shack and drag him down with me to the Links Clubhouse locker room. There, I force Patrick to give me a brief demonstration in proper shaving technique before he has to leave for his own round. Alone at the mirror now, I decide to use hand soap in the absence of shaving foam and begin my first razor blade experience. Eight frantic minutes later, I reappear at the shack window. I am clean-shaven. I am also stinging. I am also dripping with blood from five different major areas on my face. I hand back the tools to Rick, who looks with interest at my countenance.

  “You’re not good with the razor,” Rick announces, and shoos me away from the window, trying hard not to laugh. I am herded back into the shack. All the caddies see me. They laugh.

  “What the fuck happened, Horovitz?!” Bob Perks, an older caddie with two artificial knees and two artificial hips, asks.

  “Must have been pretty tough out there on the Old!” Alistair Taylor shouts.

  “Jealous husband? Lion attack?” Alec says, piping up.

  I give them the Scottish equivalent of the middle finger (the universal peace sign flipped around) and search for my bib under the benches. For reasons I cannot quite explain, I am extremely proud of my war wounds. I succeed in finding my bib, and pat my face with a towel. The bleeding comes to a stop twenty-five minutes or so later.

  I’m about to leave for my second round when Rick walks into our room, holding a newspaper. He stands in the doorway, addressing us all. He looks angry.

  “This goes for all of you. If anyone hears anything about this Model Caddie shite, I want to know about it!” Rick fixes us with a stare for two seconds, then storms off. Nobody moves. The suddenness of Rick’s outburst has shaken everyone. Which is good, because at this moment, I am having a small panic episode.

  “He’s right, you know,” Perks says.

  “Fookin’ tarts,” an older caddie mutters viciously.

  “You heard about this, Eck?” Alistair asks.

  “Oh aye,” Eck replies. “You, Horovitz?”

  “Uh-uh,” I say.

  “Oh,” says Eck.

  My caddie number can’t be called soon enough.

  After my second round, I bike up to Uncle Ken’s. I feel major relief to be going there. After this week, it’s become like an island of safety, a life raft, a place where I can finally escape the Model Caddie questions.

  * * *

  “Have you heard the news, Ken?”

  Henry is at the kitchen table, holding up the Scottish Courier in both hands. Uncle Ken places down three cups of Nambarrie tea for us, followed by two rock buns from Fisher & Donaldson. My uncle is all ears. “What news is that, Henry?”

  “These lassies. They’re carryin’ golf bags. For this new business.”

  “Oh yes, I had heard that.”

  Henry points to the article. “It’s all in the papers.” Henry, as usual when reporting on anything, is speaking at about 30 percent speed, with lengthy pauses thrown in for dramatic effect. “And it’s causing quite a stir, I can tell you.”

  This is an understatement. Over the past few weeks, word of Model Caddying has been spreading faster than Facebook. And it’s becoming notorious in town. The St. Regulus Ladies Golf Club published an article in the Citizen yesterday calling the program sexist and promoting of female subservience. Letters have been written in, ranting that the program will take away work from the real St. Andrews caddies. Locals are fuming to one another in Tesco. Now, it’s clear, Model Caddying has reached the kitchen table of 4 Howard Place.

  Henry takes a sip of tea and continues his report. “Brochures with pictures and everything—by golly.”

  I’m not surprised that Model Caddies is so controversial. In such a small, traditional town as St. Andrews, Model Caddying doesn’t exactly blend into its surroundings. And it’s not surprising that the idea of young university girls taking jobs away from locals would stir resentment. The truth, however, is that this thinking is totally misguided. First of all, the Model Caddies don’t even work on any of the same courses as the St. Andrews caddies (nor, thanks to the cartwheels, on Kingsbarns). Even if they did, one could argue that the golfer who would hire a Model Caddie isn’t the kind of guy (or lady . . . but probably guy) who would want an Old Course caddie anyway. I also happen to find the idea of university students starting an international business to be pretty cool. But within this town, I have to keep such thoughts to myself.

  “Did you know any of these girls at school, Oliver?” Uncle Ken asks casually.

  I shift a little uneasily in my chair. “Oh, me? No. I wish, though.”

  Henry chuckles. “Aye, they’re beauties!”

  Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz.

  We all jump nearly a foot out of our seats. I realize it’s my cell phone vibrating (loudly) on the kitchen table. I grab it away like a murderer hiding his gun and secretly read the text message.

  “Have three more eager girls for training tonight! You free? xx. Julia”

  At knee level, I type back the response. “Yes.”

  Then I take a guilty bite of rock bun. Delicious.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I am in deep.

  Each night at eight o’clock, I am bringing girls, three or four at a time, around the Jubilee Course. They are dropped off by Julia, the queen bee of the group. There is a long list of Model Caddies who need training, so whenever possible, the girls want to go out on the course with me. I’m only too happy to oblige. When my friends and I decide to go and play golf in the evenings, I call up and “reserve” some trainee models to carry our bags. They are all extremely “fit” (British slang for “attractive”).

  Tonight Greaves and I have decided to squeeze in a quick post-supper nine holes on the Jubilee Course. Greaves has been away for a week, visiting family, and is unaware of the latest Model Caddie updates. “I’m totally shattered,” Greaves complains, clearing his plate in our kitchen. “My Swede didn’t hit more than two fairways the whole way round today.”

  I yell back from the living room, “Yeah, Gordy told me it was pretty rough.”

  Greaves comes in, stretching his legs. “I definitely have to pull a trolley on the Jube tonight.”

  Not looking up from my bowl of pasta and cheese, I respond. “Maybe not.”

  Greaves seems to sense implication behind my overly cocky comment.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Before I can answer, there’s a honk from the street. We go to the window and spy two extremely pretty Model Caddies getting out of Julia’s car. They walk toward our flat.

  “They’re gonna caddie for us.”

  Greaves’s mouth drops opens.

  “They need training.”

  Dazedly, Greaves hurries out of the
living room to collect his clubs and apply hair gel. I hear him murmur from the hallway, “Somebody fucking pinch me.”

  * * *

  The great tragedy of American boyhood was not knowing that nine-year-old girls also wanted to be kissed.

  At least that’s my excuse.

  In truth, my natural ease around girls can be nicely illustrated by a few key moments.

  Second grade. Her name was Christine Azzizodon—an adorable brunette with red hair clips. She was amazing. During class, I would stare at her endlessly (fortunately this was the second grade, before the phrase “pervert” had entered our vocabulary). Toward the end of the year, I decided that I would give Christine a present. Without telling my parents, I bought a purple silk scarf from a local clothing store with my allowance, put it in a small box, and added a note, written in my large block handwriting, with the following message: “I love you so much, Christine, I really do.”

  The next day, at the end of class, I handed Christine the box. Fourteen minutes later, on PS 41’s asphalt playground, Christine tracked me down.

  “I don’t love you, I only like you!” Christine announced. Then she tossed back my present. “And I don’t like the scarf.”

  Boyhood continued, and a few years later, in fifth grade, I was ecstatic to go to PS 41’s Spring Fling Dance with my crush, Jennifer Baumstein. The dance went well—four fast dances, one slow dance—and I considered the whole night a big success. This outlook was altered slightly a few days later, when my twin sister, Hannah, informed me that “Jennifer said she only went to the dance with you because she felt sorry for you.”

  Mine was an adolescence of lean romantic success. High school wasn’t much better. So when I shipped off to St. Andrews (still answering, “Yeah, of course!” a little too insistently when anyone asked if I’d gotten laid before), I was hoping desperately that something was going to change. That my luck with girls would get more, well, lucky.