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

by Oliver Horovitz

  “Okay, I think it looks clear to go now!” Mike announces to his friends.

  Fuck!

  Desperately now, I try to free myself from the ball washer. No luck. I perform a series of increasingly frantic lunges and thrusts—all unsuccessful. My golfers are oblivious to what’s happening.

  “We’re starting a new press here, boys. On that building, Ollie?”

  “Uh . . . yep!” I squeak back from the ball washer. SHIT! Why is this not coming out? I try another tug. Nothing. It’s too late. Out of hope, I turn back down the fairway and have to desperately act as if I’ve planned to stand here—ten feet in front of my golfers. The first ball whizzes by my head. The other trainees, having observed this entire scene, begin giggling.

  Not all the kinks have been worked out.

  • • •

  “Good strike, Ollie.”

  Greaves lights a cigarette, slots his Cleveland driver back in his bag. My drive’s heading slightly right, but it should be fine. The eighth hole opens up a lot down the right side. I pick up my tee, then my Guinness can, and stroll over to my blue University of St. Andrews bag. We’re on the New Course, and the setting sun is peeking out behind plush purple clouds. We’ve both done double rounds today. This is our reward.

  “How’d your exams end up?” I ask as we start heading down the cart path.

  “English and history went all right. Classics I nailed.”

  “Nice.”

  “Thank God they’re over.”

  Greaves adjusts his backward cap, takes a drag on his cig. I can’t believe he’s about to be a senior. It feels like the last time I was in St. Andrews, we were barely freshmen. Time can move so fucking fast sometimes.

  “It’s good to have you back, mate,” Greaves says. “Gonna be a great summer.”

  I nod in agreement. “Until the Rotary tournament starts up again.”

  As nice as this evening is, as much as I’ve waited for this over the winter, my mind keeps drifting to the caddie documentary. I haven’t told Greaves about it yet. Actually, I haven’t told anyone yet in the shack. If Rick thinks that I’m here for anything besides caddying, I’ll be in trouble. And by “in trouble,” I mean “fired.” So I’ve decided today to not bring up the subject of the film, at all, for my first week back. Instead, I’ll pound out the doubles and remind Rick that I’m here this summer—first and foremost—to caddie. It is, I think, the only way I can make the project work. But it’s not easy. I want to tell my friends, to recruit them for advice, especially Greaves. But for the moment, I’ll just have to continue keeping it a secret in the shack.

  “I’m thinking about journalism after uni, by the way,” Greaves says. “Maybe try to work for Sky Sports, something like that.”

  “Nice! That would be sweet.”

  “Yeah. I think so. Any ideas on your end?”

  I pause, then point to the rough. “Oh good, my ball’s sitting up. I might be able to reach the front from here . . .”

  • • •

  “Alistair Taylor. Oliver Horovitz.”

  I arrive at the window for our round assignment, followed by Alistair. Ken takes our fivers. “Nine twenty-six,” he says to us. Then as we walk away, he adds, “On the Jubilee.” Alistair recoils as if he’s been pricked by a gorse bush.

  “Fa fook’s sake! That’s four times on the Jube this week!”

  “You’re the Jubilee king, Alistair!” Sandy Bayne yells gleefully from behind us. Sandy’s wearing a woolly blue jumper with a thick turtleneck, which, combined with his set of gleaming false teeth, makes him look slightly like a crazed sea captain. This, I wish I were filming this for my documentary.

  “Aye, you’d think I’d done something to upset the golf gods!” Alistair grunts.

  “You workin’ the Boyd Quaich tomorrow?” Sandy asks, referencing a junior tournament on the Old, famous for slow rounds and stingy tips.

  “The Boyd Quaich? I’d rather push sticks inta my eyes,” Alistair responds. He motions to me. “Cummon, Horovitz. Onward to hell.”

  Caddies don’t like working the Jubilee Course. The rough is jungle-thick, so anything less than a good golfer makes life on the Jubilee distinctly unjubilant. The holes also don’t share fairways, à la the Old Course, so you won’t pass caddie friends on each hole with which to commiserate. Worst of all, there’s no food cart.

  Our golfers this morning on the Pube-ilee (as it’s sometimes referred to in the shack) are from Minneapolis. My guy is a short, pudgy man in his forties. On the first tee, he tells me that he’s an 8-handicap. On the second tee, he tells me that he reached for an Aleve last night, but confused it with his Viagra, and thus couldn’t get to sleep. “They’re both blue!” he explains. I wish I hadn’t heard this story. Alistair’s golfer appears more normal but also less skilled. He three-putts the first two holes, from distances of seven and five feet, respectively.

  “Oh no! Not again!” the golfer moans on the second occasion, and taps in the remaining two-inch putt (it lips in). “Sorry, Alistair.”

  “Nae bother, boss,” Alistair replies, and slots the putter back into the bag. “Three-puttin’s like wanking. You’re disgusted when you do it, but you know you’re gonna do it again.”

  Alistair is in his tenth year on the Old Course. He’s remarkably skinny, with graying sandy-colored hair (his nickname in the shack is “Smithers,” from The Simpsons). Alistair tends to wear plaid corduroy shirts under his caddie jacket and Top Gun–esque aviator sunglasses. A deep guttural laugh is never far from his lips. He has a kind smile. When I take a picture of him once and show him the photo, he remarks, “Christ, I didn’t know I was that ugly a bastard!” Alistair lives in Dundee, commuting each day into St. Andrews. During the winter, when caddying goes into hibernation, he has another job—delivering roses for a friend’s flower store in Dundee.

  “Valentine’s Day’s a nightmare. It’s fookin’ heavin’ from sunup to sundown,” Alistair says as we trudge to the third tee. “One of the worst days of my life.”

  “How about Mother’s Day?”

  “Worse.”

  We reach the tee box. “People must be happy to see you, though.”

  “Ach, you’d be surprised. One eighty-year-old lady ran ootside in her dressin’ goon last month and screamed to me, ‘Get those roses away, mah son never calls me!’”

  I find the idea of Alistair Taylor delivering roses to old ladies in Dundee rather comical. But also kind of cool. And it’s not exactly out of character. Alistair, along with Dave Lindsay, serves as a kind of watchdog for the younger caddies. He looks out for us. Includes us in conversation. Makes sure we’re okay. There’s a tenderness to Alistair. It makes me want him in the documentary. It also makes me wonder what he did before caddying. As I’m meeting more of the old-timers down here, I’m learning that many had long-term careers before starting at the Old Course. John Robertson was a certified public accountant. Randall Morrison worked as a manager for Compaq. David Lindsay was a career Royal Navy man, seeing action in the Falklands War. But I haven’t heard what Alistair did, until now. I’m a little surprised by his answer.

  “I was a male nurse in psychiatric wards for twenty-five years.”

  “Really?”

  “Over in Australia and in Europe. Aye.” Alistair lights a cigarette. “You had to be rotated around every two years. And you could only do a year in the anorexia unit, ’cause it was too depressin’ for the workers.”

  After twenty-five years of service, he found the stresses of the job too much; the wards were too draining, so Alistair retired. “Of course,” he says with a grin as our golfers arrive on the tee box, “this was a nice calm place to retire to, with all these other sane people in the caddie shack!”

  * * *

  I’m learning other nicknames in the shack.

  And wondering how I could insert them into my film.

  Jimmy Reid is “Hot Dog,” because of the shape of his mustache. Don Stewart is “the Dynamite Kid” (or just “the DK”) becaus
e of his propensity for “blowing up” his golfers. Dave Lindsay is “the Badger,” because his hair resembles that of a badger. Dougie Saunderson is “One One Five,” as that appears to be the only yardage he knows to give on the course. John Rimmer is “Dr. Rimmer,” because he has a PhD in philosophy. Alec Howie (also known as “Big Eck”) is “Volcano” or “Vesuvius,” because of his temper. Jim Napier is “Doctor Who,” for his resemblance to the UK show’s main character. “Caddie Longlegs” and “Top Shelf” are the same (very tall) caddie. Skinny John Henderson is “Skeletor.” Malcolm Dewer, more commonly called “Big Malky,” is the “Tay Seal,” because he claims to have once swum across the river Tay for a pint. Grant Fisher is “the General,” because of his name association with the Civil War general (a dot that I embarrassingly failed to connect until this summer—figuring for two seasons that it was because Grant owned a funny general’s hat or something). James McHugh is “Scruff.” David Coyne is “Coynie.” Jimmy Bowman is “Boozy.” David Hutchison is “Loppy.” And Kenny Brown (a very quiet caddie from Kirkcaldy) is “Cartgate.” This last nickname might be my favorite. While backing up on the third green a few years ago to give his golfer a line, Kenny back-stepped directly into Cartgate Bunker. When his golfer, unaware of this development, turned around asking, “Hey, Kenny, which way does this break?” there was no Kenny. Kenny was five feet below, lying stunned on his back at the bottom of Cartgate. The name never went away.

  Caddies love using these nicknames. They delight in them. It’s as if by using the nicknames, the caddie community is strengthened—each member of the cast of characters labeled and cataloged. Ready for easy inspection. Because of these 160 guys, you couldn’t ask for more colorful characters. Each caddie has quirks, a larger-than-life Old Course persona. And as I look around at the guys in the shack now, I imagine a sequence in my video as an homage to Scorsese introducing the wiseguys in Goodfellas . . . Fat Andy, Freddy No-nose, Pete the Killer, Nicky Eyes, Jimmy Two-times . . .

  “Horovitz, what’s your number?” Scott Bechelli calls to me from his bench.

  A lot of the nicknamed are in the shack right now, because it’s a ridiculously slow day.

  “Seventy-six,” I yell back.

  “Sandy, you’ll be oot with Horovitz,” Scott announces.

  “Me, Patrick, Scruff, and Horovitz—the da-ream team!” Sandy shouts.

  I don’t really have a nickname in the shack, but I notice that caddies have been simply calling me Horovitz. I think it could be because people in Scotland enjoy the unfamiliarity of my last name (they pronounce it different over here—like Hoh-lo-vitz, really quickly). Or maybe it’s because I’m the only Jewish caddie.

  “Duncan, where you been the last two weeks?” Willie Stewart barks at another caddie while collecting a coffee from the KLIX machine. “Ah’ve barely seen you.”

  “Ach, just the usual blur . . . grass and flags, grass and flags,” the caddie responds with a grin. He starts speaking with John White, an old caddie famous in the shack for always asking his golfers, “So, are you enjoyin’ ya-shelves then?” at precisely the wrong moments, such as during violent downpours when his golfers are clearly soaked and miserable.

  “Colin Donaldson, Neil Gibson,” the shack speaker blares. Colin and Neil stand up.

  “Watch yourself, boys—lotta danger out there,” Big Eck says, motioning toward the Old Course and her golfers.

  I settle back into my seat with a shack coffee (white, no sugar) and the Sun (naked page 3 girl). It’s fun being here, in the shack with the boys. Especially on crowded days like this one. Every ten minutes, more guys come off the course and back into the shack—each immediately launching into some version of “Fa fook’s sake!” upon reentry. A steady wave of fresh faces and wide grins and tales of terror. I know that any of these guys would make an amazing subject for a documentary. This excites me. And terrifies me. Each moment that I think of the documentary, I think of Rick firing me and of being sent home without a job . . . without money . . . without the film needed for my film degree.

  Paddy Buist enters the shack, fresh off the eighteenth green, folding up his caddie bib. He’s a former kickboxing champion and current member of Scotland’s leading AC/DC tribute band. David Coyne’s in right behind him, off the same round.

  “Ya won’t believe this one,” Coynie announces in his thick Scottish accent. “My guy asks me on the third hole what part of England ahm from!”

  All Scottish caddies within earshot moan. For Scots, this is the equivalent of tossing scalding tea into their eyes. (As legend has it, if a Scotsman was in a room with an Englishman, a German, and a Russian, and had only two bullets in his gun, he would shoot the Englishman twice.) Coynie takes off his rain pants, exposing a phrase tattooed on his left calf that is the classic caddie motto: Show up. Keep up. Shut up. He coughs loudly. “Ah says to the guy, ‘Nae part. If it were up ta me, I woulda built Hadrian’s Wall twelve feet higher!’” The Scots grin. The few English caddies in the shack shift uncomfortably.

  I look around me. Caddies often complain about having to wait in the shack for long periods between rounds. And it’s true, hour-plus waits can suck. But caddies clearly enjoy the camaraderie of this room, being here and hanging with their friends. The thing you forget is, it’s a Wednesday afternoon, and we’re here, sitting among sixty comedians, shooting the shit and talking golf. It’s a pretty good office. And sitting here now, among these guys, I realize that I’m happier than I’ve just been during the entire school year at Harvard. I only wonder if—now that I’m accepted here—I really want to jeopardize everything by trying to shoot a documentary.

  “Oliver Horovitz,” the shack intercom blares. No other caddie names follow.

  “Ach, Horovitz, you’re by yourself!” James McHugh announces with commiseration.

  I grin at McHugh, grab my bib, gulp down the last of my coffee, and shuffle toward the shack door. On my way out, I glance at the clipboard. Someone’s pinned up the headline of a newspaper article, which they’ve cut out from the television section.

  The headline reads, NEW SEASON OF HAWAII FIVE-0 BEGINS.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I’m on the Scores, with my camera.

  Specifically, I’m on the Scores, in the garden of a church. Filming a cat.

  What the hell am I doing?

  For the past week, I’ve been shooting around St. Andrews. Sunrises. Sunsets. Seagulls in the air. Buses on the street. Anything but what I’m supposed to be shooting.

  “Meeeaooowww.”

  The cat slinks across the grass, in front of my camera. It pauses, gives me a puzzled look, as if to say, “I am not going into the final version of this thing, right?”

  Enough. I sigh and, from my sprawled position on the grass, click off the record button. I peer at the time code: 47:06:31. Brilliant. I’ve just shot forty-seven minutes tonight of absolutely nothing. I stand up, wipe off my trousers, and grab my camera. This is ridiculous. I need to start shooting at the shack. Otherwise, I’m going to be showing my class twenty-nine hours of cat moves . . . and editing the world’s most boring nature documentary ever conceived.

  I head out of the garden and make a left down the road . . . in the opposite direction from the Old Course.

  The truth is, I’m terrified to get started. I mean, really started. To face the caddies and my caddie master. To endanger what I already have—my friendships with the other caddies, my place in the shack. Am I being paranoid? Maybe. I don’t know. But I do know that I don’t want to upset Rick.

  Give it a few more days, I tell myself as I head toward a row of red roses—and press record.

  • • •

  The e-mail message in my inbox is simple.

  Dear 51b Students,

  Please update me as to how the projects are progressing.

  Thanks,

  Robb Moss

  I reread the e-mail for the tenth time, my heart beating slightly faster than a cardiac version of “Flight of the Bumblebee.” How is my
project progressing? Well, let’s see . . . I haven’t shot a single frame of meaningful footage yet. My camera bag is actually, at this moment, at the back of my closet, underneath three dirty golf shirts and two cataclysmically smelly golf shoes. And worst of all, I haven’t brought up the subject of the film again to Rick.

  It’s not that I don’t want to get started. I really do. Every day, things are happening in the shack that would be so great on camera. But I know that if I upset Rick, if I anger caddies in the shack, I’ll have a problem. The thing is, though, I already have a problem. I’ve sold this idea to my academic adviser and gotten Harvard’s film department excited about it. I’ve arranged my film courses around this. If I somehow back out of this film now, I’m going to screw up my degree track for next year. I feel trapped. Perhaps I should just be honest with Robb. Tell him what’s going on. Man to man. The truth. That I haven’t shot anything. I think about this for a second, then tap “reply” on the e-mail.

  Hey Robb,

  Progressing really well.

  Ollie

  • • •

  “Over a little more! Oh yes, that one!”

  Uncle Ken points decisively up to the top of the rosebush. He’s speaking loudly . . . because he’s eight feet below me . . . because at the moment, I’m perched precariously on top of his 1940s wooden garden ladder.

  “This one?” I’m leaning out so far to the right, I’m not sure I can keep my balance much longer.

  “Let me see. Oh no, not that one. No, further right.”

  I stretch out even farther. This is becoming alarmingly acrobatic. “This one?”

  “Hang on a moment . . . Oh yes, we’ll have that off.” With a final lunge, I snip with the clippers. The deadheaded petals fall to the plant bed below. Count it. I make a frantic move back for the ladder, and safety, as I hear below me a cheery “Hee hee hee.” Uncle Ken is, as my Scottish friends would say, “loving it.”