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

by Oliver Horovitz

  I turn back to the man and stand up threateningly.

  “Sorry, mate. If you want Model Caddies at your event, you gotta go through me.”

  The man is silent a moment. He just stares me down. Then, reluctantly, he nods. “Fine.”

  I’d like to thank the Academy.

  • • •

  “What’s your number today?”

  Greaves hits his putt, draining it on the left edge.

  “Eighty-seven. You?”

  “One hundred and nine.”

  “Fuck.”

  I take the putter. We’re standing on the side putting green, located just behind the shack. It’s for golfers, but as long as no one’s there, caddies are (sort of) allowed to putt on it. I make a few practice strokes with the communal caddie shack putter, which, in typical shack form, has several pieces of hardened chewing gum stuck to its back edge.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sleepy this morning.”

  Greaves and I start moving around the putting green. We’re wearing our caddie waterproofs and caps. We play each hole as a par 2, keeping track of our over/under-par scores. Holes are played in clockwise fashion, except when cute girls pass by; then we immediately switch to the hole nearest their path. Greaves lights a cigarette, makes his putt with the cig in his mouth.

  “So I’ve been thinking.”

  “Yeah?”

  “About the Model Caddie stuff. You really gotta be careful, mate.”

  I clean up my three-footer for a par. “How so?”

  “I dunno. Rick’s been ranting about them. He kind of sees them as the enemy.”

  “Yeah, I bet.”

  Greaves continues. “Seriously though. If you get caught, you’re, you know, fucked.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  I take back the putter. Greaves is right. He’s totally right. Every day it feels like I’m closer to being caught. But for the first time in my life, I have an “in” to a world of beautiful women. And I like it. A lot. I’m not going to back out now just because I might get caught. Hell no. This is my moment.

  “I hear what you’re saying, Greavesy. I’m being careful,” I say.

  “Fine.”

  I line up my six-foot putt for the win. But I’m thinking about Emily.

  The ball stops halfway to the hole.

  “You okay, mate?” Greaves asks.

  “Yeah, fine! Why?”

  • • •

  I’m training three beautiful Model Caddies on the Jubilee’s fourth hole.

  “When you get to a tee box, use your course guide to point out the trouble off the tee. It’s easier that way.”

  I take out my course guide, and the three model caddies crowd around me like seven-year-olds at a Harry Potter book signing. Helen is carrying my golf bag, and the other girls, Lorna and Sue, hold notepads to transcribe my lesson. I begin my dictation.

  “On this hole, I’d say something to my golfer like ‘Okay, this is a par four, three hundred forty-seven yards, and left is better than right off the tee. That bunker you can see down there is a good line, since it’s out of reach for us today.’”

  Pens busily scratch away on notepads. I’m loving this. With a smile on my face, I look over from the girls to our fairway. What I see makes my smile vanish.

  Coming right up to us—in the fairway beside ours—is an Old Course caddie.

  “Shit!”

  My exclamation startles the girls, and everyone looks up. I frantically grab my golf bag back from Helen and start walking ahead, pretending to be playing golf for myself. But it’s no good. The caddie has seen everything. And anyway, let’s be real, this doesn’t exactly look like regular golf course activity. Shit! Shit! Shit! It’s nine o’clock—I can’t believe there are still guys out this late. The caddie walks up to me. He looks at me for a second, then looks at the Model Caddies, before turning back to me. Finally he speaks, quietly but firmly.

  “I didn’t see anything.”

  He starts walking away. I’m frozen in place, unable to say anything back. After a few steps, the caddie turns again.

  “And neither did Davie last week.”

  • • •

  “Morning, Dougie.”

  It’s a sunny Tuesday morning, and I’ve pitched up at the caddie shack window. Dougie passes me, holding up four fingers (“Fore!”), and walks to the Old’s first tee. I’ve got a booking on the New Course at 9:42 (small New Yorkers with large wallets) and need to pay my fiver before I head down.

  Rick comes to the window.

  I smile and hand over my admin fee. I’m thinking about whether or not to buy a cheese sandwich at the Links Clubhouse. The sandwiches there taste pretty good. And I’m a little hungry. Yeah, I’ll probably buy a sandwich. Rick clears his throat. “Oliver, I have something to talk to you about.”

  “Sure, what’s on your mind?” I ask. For some unexplainably stupid reason, I cannot imagine what Rick is getting at. The caddie master stares at me for a three count. Then he begins.

  “Oliver, I’m going to ask you a question. Are you training Model Caddies?”

  Before I can blink, Rick adds an addendum. “If you are, you’ll have to leave right now.”

  My heart seizes. Stay calm. Stay calm!

  “No, Rick, I’m not training them,” I reply as coolly as I can sound. Rick receives this information without averting his stare.

  “Your name has come up twice now in connection to them.”

  Thunderclap.

  My mind races. Shit! Shit!

  “Rick, I’m not connected to them.” Total bullshit! What do I do?

  Rick considers this statement. He slowly nods. “Okay. I’ll take your word for it. But if you are training them, it will come back to me. And if you’re passing on information from the caddie shack to others, you’ll be hearing from our lawyers!”

  I stumble away from the window. This last part of Rick’s statement, regarding the lawyers, is probably bullshit (I doubt the caddie shack is, like, litigious), but the part about firing me seems real enough. It suddenly hits me that I shouldn’t have lied outright to Rick. That sets me up for disaster. It’ll be too easy to be proven wrong, and then I’m screwed. I need a workable explanation. Suddenly I have a plan. I run back to the window.

  “Rick, there’s something I should tell you,” I hurriedly begin.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m currently dating one of the Model Caddies, and this might be why my name has come up in connection to them.”

  Rick doesn’t say anything. I decide to throw my loyalty at Rick’s feet.

  “However, I feel bad about implicating us with Model Caddies, Rick. And I’m prepared to end the relationship, if you think it’s necessary.”

  I look up at Rick. He is obviously delighted by this display of dedication. He shakes his head vigorously.

  “Oh noooooo, Ollie, that won’t be necessary!”

  I walk away from the window again, leaving a very pleased Rick. I exhale like a deflating balloon. I’ve dodged a bullet. For now, I’m in the clear. But then it hits me—and hits me hard. I can’t bear the thought of what almost just happened. I can’t possibly give up my caddie life. It’s become a part of me, a part of my life. And just as suddenly, I realize what I have to do. If I have to choose between Model Caddies and my fellow caddies—if it’s one world or the other—then my loyalties are with the shack. I will not be like Fredo in The Godfather. I’ve made up my mind. I will never take sides against the family again. Ever.

  • • •

  “Julia, I can’t do this anymore.”

  We’re walking along North Street, out toward the North Point café.

  “Oh no! Why?” Julia looks extremely upset.

  “It’s not you guys. It’s nothing you did. Really. It’s me . . .”

  I feel like I’m breaking up with twenty-five Model Caddies.

  “I don’t understand. What’s the problem?”

  I stop for a second on the street. “Wel
l, I . . . I got caught.”

  Julia’s eyes widen. “Shit! Really?”

  “Well, almost caught. Rick heard a bunch of rumors, and he pulled me into his office yesterday.”

  “Oh, Ollie! I’m so sorry!”

  “No, it’s okay. I think I talked my way out of it. But I’ve been thinking a lot about this. I just can’t risk it anymore. If I had to stop caddying here . . . I dunno . . . I’d . . . this just means too much to me.”

  Julia looks at me with understanding. “I’ll tell the girls. You’ve already helped us so much.”

  Soon we’re hugging and parting ways, and I’m walking back down the street, to change clothes for another caddie round. I know what I’m walking away from—but I know I have to do this. My caddie career depends on this. And somehow, deep down, I’m proud of my decision.

  • • •

  Emily’s leaving.

  A lot of them are. The Model Caddies haven’t been getting enough work, and many are apparently heading home—to London, Edinburgh, Manchester, Glasgow—for a few weeks with their families before school starts up again.

  It’s evening, and Emily and I are sitting at the end of the pier, down by East Sands Beach. The sun is setting, casting shimmering gold onto the waves of the outer harbor. Emily and I dangle our feet over the pier’s edge, looking out onto the North Sea. Neither of us is really addressing the inevitable conclusion.

  “I think I’m moving to London after school,” she says.

  “Oh, nice.”

  “Yes, I think I’d like it there. When do you start back at Harvard?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  There’s an easy silence. We both know it’s time to head back.

  “I’d love to see you again you know, sometime,” I say.

  Emily smiles. “I would too, Ollie.”

  And then I kiss her, and as we stand up, I know this will be the last time we’ll ever see each other.

  • • •

  “Two more spitfires came through the clouds—it was a real dogfight, you know! That’s when Neil’s plane was hit.”

  Uncle Ken takes a swallow of carrot and coriander soup. As usual, he’s ordered a “half portion,” followed by an amusing insistence to the Grill House waitress that he’ll “gladly pay for the full portion.” He’s also perused the menu, as usual, for a lengthy period of time, before settling on the exact meal he always gets—Scottish Tay salmon, then vanilla ice cream for dessert. A giggle ends his order, and our waitress leaves the table, giggling herself. Uncle Ken turns back to me.

  “It was ’44, wintertime, and we were behind enemy lines. Neil’s navigation was out, and he was losing fuel, so he really had no idea where to go.”

  Uncle Ken takes a sip of house red. It’s in his normal amazing way, throwing back his entire head, as if bracing his whole eighty-four-year-old body for the sip. Tonight is our final dinner together at the Grill House. And Uncle Ken is sharing World War II RAF stories.

  “Neil was really in trouble. He was going down. But then out of nowhere, a plane from a different squadron appeared. The pilot flew right up to Neil’s wing and stayed with him, wing to wing, guiding him all the way back to base. Saved his life.”

  “Wow!” I say.

  “After the ordeal, Neil spent ages trying to get a note to the mystery pilot, to thank him for saving his life. Weeks later, he got a reply from the pilot. And it said, ‘No need to thank me. Was only doing my duty.’”

  Uncle Ken sits back and smiles. A waiter comes to clear our bowls. The man knows to move quickly, since Uncle Ken has to be home by six thirty. That’s when his favorite TV program, Antiques Roadshow, starts.

  “How are things, Ken?” the waiter asks.

  “Oh, very well, thank you!” Uncle Ken replies, beaming.

  By now Uncle Ken and I have become firm regulars. Uncle Ken is greeted with huge smiles by the staff, who have come to adore his giggle, his happiness, his tweed jackets. They always save us the seat by the window. Uncle Ken and I have come here a startling number of times. Thus, Uncle Ken has at least twenty or so Grill House frequent-visitor cards. These give you a free bottle of wine on the fifth visit and a free meal on the sixth visit. We always manage to misplace them after the fourth visit, so by now we’d be due for many, many free meals. My uncle never seems to mind.

  “It’s all go-go-go once you’re off, Oliver,” Uncle Ken says. “The gang is going to Dunfermline this weekend, then Perthshire the weekend after.”

  I smile. And then I lean into the table. Because even amid the bustle of other diners and the noise from the kitchen, we’re in our own world, and I don’t want to leave it just yet. Because as I’ve grown to love St. Andrews, I realize I’ve also grown to love Uncle Ken. And as Uncle Ken starts telling me about an upcoming caravan trip to Loch Lomond, and how beautiful he finds the area, all I can think about is how much I’m going to miss my friend.

  • • •

  “Horovitz. Where the hell are you?”

  Patrick’s text message bleeps from my phone. There are eight more texts from other caddies just like it. I shoot back the same reply—“Packing!”—then continue feverishly throwing clothes into my suitcase with remarkable speed and disorganization. Patrick texts me back: “We’re all at the Raisin. Get involved.”

  This is my last chance to see the boys; I don’t need any more prodding. I leave my packing half finished and rush out to join my friends.

  The Raisin is located on the end of Hope Street; it’s a pub sporting the smallest pool table in St. Andrews. When I walk in, I find Iain, Rory, Swedish Olle, Jono, Ross, Chris, and Russell already there. It’s not hard to spot them; they’re the seven most sunburned people in the room. Greaves and Gordy soon arrive, and together, we order the largest bottles of Moët champagne available (with the caddie wads of twenties and fifties all stuffed into our wallets). Loudly, we begin our toasts.

  “To the shack!” Patrick yells.

  “To St. Andrews!” Jono replies.

  “To Ollie!” Greaves yells.

  “To Tiger Woods!” Iain adds.

  “To Rick Mackenzie!” Olle shouts.

  Pitchers of Tennent’s lager are bought. Patrick yells, “See these away, boys!” and as is customary, we down our pints.

  When the pub shuts at one A.M. and we all spill out into the street, someone offhandedly suggests that we play the Jubilee Course one final time. Somehow, in our inebriated states, this sounds like a great idea, and we all run to our flats, grab our clubs and caddie jackets, and charge down to the course, copious beers in hands. Using cell phones to illuminate greens just enough to grab serious and accurate putt reads, we stage a competitive, boisterous, eight-player match in the pitch-dark, making our way out impressively far into the back nine. Astonishingly, we lose only one ball the entire round.

  At four A.M., we say our good-byes in the middle of Market Street, clubs still on our backs, grins on our faces. My head is spinning, and I’ve got to be up in four hours. I’m not even close to finished packing yet. In my immediate future, I’ve got a Carnoustie-difficult wakeup, an endless trip homeward, and sophomore-year Harvard classes to choose. But for now I don’t care. For the moment, everything is perfect. Everything is glorious. Everything just feels right. A seagull screeches overhead. The traffic light changes unnecessarily in the empty street.

  “See you next summer!” I shout over my shoulder.

  “You better!” the others reply.

  And as our motley crew of caddies parts ways in Market Street, the seagulls now beginning to awaken from their roof perches, we all let out one final caddie chorus that echoes down toward North Street, reverberating back to the shack:

  “FOOOOOAAAHHHHHHHH!”

  TWENTY-NINE

  “So, Ollie, what’s your project idea?”

  Robb Moss, my Visual and Environmental Studies 50 professor, is staring across at me. His hands are tucked into his vest jacket, and behind his beard,
there’s a hopeful smile. Next to Robb sits his teaching assistant. She’s eagerly clutching a notepad and pen, poised to capture my every thought.

  “Ummmm . . .”

  She could be poised for quite a while. I have zero ideas.

  It’s April. I’m in the middle of Robb’s office, in the middle of Harvard Yard, in the middle of my interview for next year’s VES 51b: Non-fiction Video Projects. In my opinion, this is the coolest class in Harvard’s film department. Each May, fifteen students are given high-end video cameras, thirty hours of tapes, and the freedom to shoot a documentary over the summer on any subject they want. When school resumes in September, the ten best projects are chosen. If yours makes the cut, the rest of the semester runs like a buildup to the Sundance Film Festival. Professional filmmakers are brought in. Working editors drop by for one-on-one cutting sessions. Sound technicians eagerly discuss ways to improve your film’s soundscape. For a film student, it gets no better . . .

  I should have prepared better for this interview.

  “Well . . . uhhh . . .”

  Robb continues. “For example, Mishi’s heading to Jerusalem for the summer. And Sam Ellison’s going to Mexico City to follow the presidential election. And I think Stephen Black is making a film about his grandfather in Poland . . .”

  “Gotcha . . . ,” I say, nodding my head, now fairly certain that I should’ve had a project idea before showing up to this interview. I seem to be the only applicant without a fully thought-out proposal.

  “So what are you thinking?”

  I rack my brain for potential subjects. I need to throw something out here now. At least as a placeholder . . .

  “Well, I could do a thing on Old Course caddies.”

  I look for a reaction. When there isn’t one, I nervously continue.

  “Like, you know, I could maybe shoot in St. Andrews, and on the Old Course, and around the caddie shack. So, um, it’d be about the daily lives of caddies, and their rounds, and—”

  “I love this idea!”

  Robb looks thrilled. Beside him, the teaching assistant is excitedly machine-gunning notes down on her paper. “This is excellent! Are you sure you can get permission?”