* * *
It’s Friday night, and I’ve got the evening off from Model Caddie training. I’m at a dinner party that my friend Miles is hosting in his flat on Hope Street. Ten St. Andrews students are here, and I’m sitting at the dinner table next to a pretty girl I haven’t met before (and who is not exactly moving mountains to change this fact). The overcooked chicken is served, and conversation turns to our summer jobs. Most of the students are working in pubs or restaurants to earn money for the school year. It comes up that I’m caddying.
The pretty girl suddenly turns to me.
“Wait, what did you say your name was again?!”
“Oliver.”
“And you caddie on the Old Course?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Oh my God! You’re ‘Fit Ollie’!”
There’s a pause. I’m unsure that I heard this correctly.
“Excuse me?”
In a whisper, the girl continues. “I almost did Model Caddying. A lot of my friends are doing it. They’ve all been saying, ‘Ooh, we all want to go and get trained by Ollie!’” She concludes her little speech with a casual final remark, one that will in turn mark the happiest moment of my young adult life.
“That’s what they call you—‘Fit Ollie.’”
TWENTY-FIVE
I’m at Castle Sands beach. It’s the same beach where on May 1, all St. Andrews students charge into the North Sea, naked. It’s also a pretty good spot for sunbathing. Just not at this particular moment, because it’s three o’clock in the morning.
“Throw another log in!” Alistair yells.
Twenty of us are sitting in a semicircle, facing a crackling bonfire. Our group is a collection of students, locals, and a few tourists who have happened upon the bonfire. Several bottles of champagne are passed around, “borrowed” from Ma Bells by a bartending friend of mine with limited employee-establishment loyalties.
“Right.”
I chuck a medium-size log into the fire. Several burning embers dislodge and rise into the darkness. I plop back onto the sand. I’m exhausted after a late double this afternoon, and I’m happy to be off my feet. I’m happy for another reason, as well. Sitting next to me on the sand is Model Caddie Grace.
To my surprise, Grace came with me to the beach after Ma Bells closed. Her friends called it a night and went home, but Grace wanted to stay out later. Now, to my greater surprise, Grace is laughing at my jokes . . . smiling brightly at me . . . giving me her full attention. She takes a sip from the Moët bottle. She’s wearing a yellow hoodie and short shorts, and her knees are pulled into her body. Her silky dark hair falls over beautiful eyes and perfect cheekbones.
“Is New York a fun place to live?” Grace asks, looking directly at me.
“New York? Oh yeah, it’s great.”
“I really want to visit—is it true you see the Sex and the City people everywhere?”
I look at Grace. “Absolutely true.”
Alistair and a waiter from the Grill House begin wrestling in the sand. Others cheer them on. Grace and I start talking about Times Square, and the night continues like this, with the sounds of waves crashing and kids laughing and no one caring how loud we are. Our beach is one hundred feet below the road, wedged between sheer cliffs and North Sea—we can do what we like.
At four A.M., when the first rays of sunlight gasp over the North Sea and the fire begins to putter out, I walk Grace back to her flat. It’s just outside the West Port arch, opposite the Whey Pat Tavern. It’s either the champagne or the having been up all night, but I’m feeling weirdly calm.
“Thanks for walking me home,” Grace says sweetly.
“No problem.” Neither of us move.
“Can I tell you something?” I ask.
“Sure.”
“I think you’re extremely cute.”
“Can I tell you something?” Grace asks.
“Yeah.”
Grace pulls me right up to her, stands on her tiptoes so that her face is inches from mine.
“I think you’re a great trainer,” she whispers.
TWENTY-SIX
I’m finally learning the Old Course. I mean, really learning it.
Caddying out here, going around twice a day, eavesdropping on caddies like Jimmy Reid and Alec Howie and Bruce Sorley (one of only five people in the world to have caddied competitively for Tiger Woods), you start unlocking the Old’s secrets. If the pin on 2 is cut left, you must be long and left to carry the mounds. If the pin on 2 is right, you can’t be short; otherwise you’ve got a minefield of humps to negotiate. Each hole has its dangers. Each hole has its truths. On the par-3 eleventh, you have to play for the heart of the green, to the left of Strath Bunker. The eighteenth green is always one club more than you think.
There’s something about caddying for other golfers that forces me to examine the course like I never have while playing. Stripped of the attention to golf swings, I’m free to think about the humps and the hollows. When I run fifty yards ahead of my golfer to forecaddie his approaches into the fifth and thirteenth, I see bounces and incoming shots for the first time. My golfers are playing this course once, and each shot is their one chance on the hole. But for me, the shots are part of a long-running series. Patterns form; common mistakes become obvious. Every day, mini-epiphanies strike. I realize that being slightly long on almost every hole (except 11 and 17) is preferable to being short, since it gets you past the mounds protecting most green fronts. And soon I’ve learned the cardinal caddie sins that must be avoided. There are four that particularly stand out: 1) Winding up in Swilcan Burn on the first hole. (It’s the only water hazard on the course, so you have to give golfers enough club to get over.) 2) Driving into the Seven Sisters bunkers on the right of the fifth. (Sure, if your golfer slices, there’s nothing you can do, but there are miles of room left, so they have no business being right.) 3) Going long on the par-3 eleventh. (Short is fine. Long is screwed.) And 4) going long on the seventeenth hole. (Road. Wall. Death. Short right is the play.)
As the weeks pass, I find myself memorizing all the different pin locations. I catch myself excitedly perusing the morning pin sheets before rounds, analyzing which will be the easy ones (the twelfth hole cut on the lower tier) and which will be the “fookin’ crazy” ones (the thirteenth hole cut long right near the bunker, the sixteenth hole cut right up front). I can look at the third-hole pin—cut twelve yards on and nine yards left—and know that the approach shot should land five yards past the front edge, so it funnels down to the hole. I can see the pin and remember where the putts will break from similar lines on previous rounds. I’m starting to experience the same pride as the old guys in knowing my course. And the more I know, the more I want to know.
• • •
I’m meeting more of the Model Caddies.
Training is picking up, and my name seems to be spreading around the group. I pass girls on the street now who stop and introduce themselves. Girls who are Model Caddies. Girls whom I’d never have had the courage to go up to on my own. I meet new Model Caddies outside Tesco, along South Street, on the way to the Old Course. It’s like a secret society. And I’m getting initiated.
• • •
“Come on! Let’s run!”
I’m heading to a party. Actually, an after-party. Emily, one of the prettiest Model Caddies, is with me.
“It’s just around the corner, they live across from the KFB,” she announces breathlessly. Emily is wearing my blue caddie hat on her head, backward. She is skipping down the damp street—a blaze of thrillingly fitted jeans and intoxicating energy. She looks even sexier than usual. Sally, another Model Caddie, prances along behind us, holding a giant stuffed panda bear.
I run to catch up with Emily. We pass the KFB—a late-night “chippie” that is a staple among St. Andrews students, offering such delicacies as black pudding, haggis, and deep-fried Mars bars (which, famously, move through you very quickly). This area of town, just down the hill from the all-night garag
e and packed with student flats, is known as “the badlands.” Along with Hope Street and Greyfriars Garden, “the badlands” is after-party central.
“Here we go, this is Ashley’s place!”
Emily motions to a house that has music escaping from all windows. Under the orange glow of the streetlamps, I can see that the door is ajar. Emily leaps through it. I follow.
Inside the flat, it’s a typical St. Andrews student after-party. People sit on the living room sofas and floor, drinking wine from the bottle. Others are dancing in the middle of the room. A few are tipsily playing a golfing video game on what looks like a replica of the Old Course. In the hallway, an impromptu cricket game is taking place, with proper equipment and knee pads. A fish tank sits on the left side of the room, with two people standing beside it, pouring vodka into the water.
“To the kitchen!”
Emily leads me through the living room maelstrom as if leading troops on a battlefield. We reach the kitchen and uncork a bottle of white wine that’s sitting on the table.
“What a place, huh?” Emily says, offering me a glass.
“Yeah, it’s nice!” I reply.
In the background, I can see Sally dancing in the living room—alone—with the panda bear.
“I’m so glad you could come with us tonight!” Emily says. Her English accent is outrageously cute. Her low-cut top tilts casually downward. I’m in way over my head.
“To this summer!” Emily says, offering a toast.
“To this summer!” I say back, and we clink glasses.
There’s a happy pause. And then suddenly I kiss her. It’s totally not thought out, totally uncalled for. I just can’t not try to kiss her. I really like her. And I’ve missed too many moments like this before in my life. I’ve arrived home at the end of too many nights kicking myself for what might have been. Even now, I’m half expecting to strike out. But Emily melts into the kiss. It’s just us in the kitchen, and the kiss lingers, grows more passionate. She tousles my hair, brings her body up to mine. All party sounds fade out, and the world narrows, as it always does during a first kiss. Emily’s eyes, her lips, her perfume. All my senses scream. It’s the best feeling in the world; the first moment of discovery that the person you like, well, likes you back. After a length of time that I lose track of, Emily and I break from the kiss, both out of breath. We smile at each other. I have a thought: I don’t want this summer to end.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“What a fookin’ disgrace!”
Alec Howie is reading a paper in the shack and muttering disgustedly.
“Aye, mental, isn’t it?” Stevie Zamora says in agreement, holding a copy of the same paper. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”
My St. Andrews caddie peers, to put it mildly, do not like the Model Caddie program. Every day, caddies put down the venture. They call it “ridiculous,” “a fookin’ catastrophe,” “slags with bags.” This is not partial dislike. This is venomous, visceral. And it’s not a case of simple rivalry either—I think the reasons are more complicated. My shackmates seem threatened by the Model Caddies’ youth, beauty, and sexiness. They seem offended by the flippancy with which a group of female students have decided that they can do this job too, a job many St. Andrews caddies have spent their lives perfecting. The very notion of Model Caddying seems to challenge my shackmates’ identities. Obviously, a nerve has been touched here. To even side with the Model Caddies in a discussion is dangerous.
“Did you hear, Mackenzie made three of ’em cry last week?” Scott Bechelli announces. “They came down to talk to him about workin’ on the links, and he absolutely went crazy!” I heard about this. For Rick, that was probably flirting.
“Horovitz, what do you think?” Alec asks.
“Oh yeah, it’s a total joke,” I say, scoffing with sizable disgust. Alec and Stevie both nod. There have been moments of greater bravery in my life.
* * *
I’m dating Emily. The night at the flat party has turned into many more nights together, and I’m now firmly entrenched in the Model Caddie program. And I won’t soon forget my moments with Lauren or Grace before her. In short, I’m living the life of my dreams. But it’s becoming painfully clear that I have to be careful. If Old Course caddies find out about my involvement, I’ll be in danger. And if word gets back to Rick that I’m training this rival program—on the very courses from which they’re banned—I’ll be instantly fired. My St. Andrews summers, just like that, will end.
I have other worries as well. Glorious as they are, the training rounds themselves are often punctuated by moments of danger—when rangers, golfers, and other caddies suddenly appear from other fairways or along cart paths—and all semblance of training has to immediately cease (in these moments, I take back my bag and pretend that I’m playing golf).
I look over at Stevie and Alec on their bench, still reading the article with disgust. There’s no doubt—what I’m doing in this anti–Model Caddie town is illegal. It’s potential suicide for my caddie career and my caddie friendships. I sense that my heart—and other body parts—is leading me toward danger. But I’m having too much fun to give this all up. I can’t stop now. Why should I let these guys end my good fortune? As long as I keep the operation quiet, I tell myself, I should be fine. In fact, lately I’ve come to adopt a slightly heroic view of my circumstances. I am in a spy movie, leaking secrets to the enemy. Or I’m in Romeo and Juliet, caught between two warring families. I have to admit, the whole notion of this situation is kind of exciting.
Stevie Zamora keeps reading the article’s final paragraph.
“Says they’ve got some kind of trainer, too . . .”
TWENTY-EIGHT
I’ve gotten a text from Emily.
The girls need me.
Apparently, the Model Caddies are doing a deal with Golf Punk, a self-styled “urban golf” magazine. Golf Punk will be putting on several events during the British Open in the Gin House, the home pub of the University of St. Andrews golf team. The nights are going to be huge. Paul Casey and Ian Poulter—both sponsored pros—will be attending. A giant marquee and Old Course golf simulator will fill the outside beer garden. And roaming around everywhere, smiling and advertising Golf Punk magazine, will be Model Caddies, dressed as “Bunker Babes.” Sounds remarkably good.
I meet Emily outside the Gin House at eight P.M., where she explains the problem to me.
“Everything seemed fine at first, but now the Golf Punk guys are being utter assholes! They want all of us there every night, and they’re paying each girl less than they originally said! Isn’t that terrible?”
“The bastards . . . ,” I breathe.
Emily continues anxiously. “We’re meeting both Golf Punk directors here in a few minutes to go over the details. The girls want you here as well, Ollie, to represent us.” Emily looks up at me with big, adoring eyes. “Can you do that?”
I look straight ahead, catching my reflection in the glass doors of the Gin House, and lower my jaw. I’m like Bruce Willis. Only more powerful.
“Yes,” I announce dramatically. “I will help you.”
At the back of the Gin House, waiting for us, are the other Model Caddies. All of them. Together, the twenty-five girls create an image that is almost too perfect to behold. As a group, they seem even leggier, even more pouting, even more beautiful. There isn’t enough space for all of them in this room. Girls stand by the wall, girls lean on stools, girls sit on other girls’ laps to share seats. It’s like a photo shoot for Elle magazine. Or a caddie version of Playboy. As I enter, a chorus of “Hi, Ollie,” goes up.
“Uh, hey,” I say back meekly, and take a seat. Julia walks up to me.
“Thanks so much for coming, Ollie!” she says.
“I’m here for whatever you need,” I say, closing my eyes slightly so that I look cooler.
“They’ll be here soon,” Julia says. “I’ve told them you’re one of our advisers.”
I take a seat in the middle of the grou
p and await the Punks. Minutes later, they arrive. Two guys in their thirties with brown blazers and South London accents. They look like they mean business.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” the taller guy says. “I thought we had a deal.”
“We did have a deal,” Kenda replies, “and then you changed it!” Other Model Caddies voice agreement.
“Look,” the other man says gruffly, “we don’t have time for all this hassle. The terms are going to stay put, or we’ll get other girls.”
“Which won’t be hard,” the tall guy adds.
“All right, that’s it!” I am shocked by the force of my own voice. “You can’t talk to them like that.”
Both men turn to me.
“Who the hell is he?” the shorter guy says to Kenda.
“That’s Ollie. He’s one of our advisers.”
The guy looks at me. “Okay. Well, I advise you to stay the fuck out of this.”
A wave of discontent slams through the room. “Don’t talk to him like that!” Emily shouts.
Thanks, Mom. I should say something back, but I don’t know what that would be. These guys are intimidating. And I’m not good with conflict. I feel like I’m in fourth grade when Mark Lewis dumped water on my shorts and everyone thought I peed. Or in fifth grade, when I repeated a line to a bully that my dad had told me to say—“I’m not listening to you, because I know your mom dropped you on your head as a child”—and I got pummeled.
Silence now. The room is at a standstill. I look at Julia and at Emily. They expect me to do something. Everyone does. I realize I can’t wimp out. Suddenly I have an idea. I decide to channel someone I know; someone who wouldn’t back down from this. I pretend I’m Rick Mackenzie.
An American Caddie in St. Andrews: Growing Up, Girls, and Looping on the Old Course Page 12