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

by Oliver Horovitz

  “I see a couple more behind this branch, Uncle Ken. Shall I cut them off?”

  “Okay . . . Okay,” Uncle Ken answers in a funny, resigned way, as if I’ve just asked him for an ice cream cone before finishing the roses. I pull myself in for my next deadheading target as below me, my great-uncle potters about the lawn, inspecting the pansies, pulling back the pink daisies, digging out a dandelion here and there. Doing his bit.

  “Be careful, you know, Oliver,” Uncle Ken calls out. “I don’t want you falling into those rose thorns!”

  “I’ll be okay!” I mumble back from the midst of the thicket, which prompts another giggle from my gardening partner. We’ve been out here for an hour now, working away together as the wind dies down and sunlight streams in lazily over the lawn. It’s Scottish summer at its best—not steamy, but perfectly pleasant, sunny, still. Sparrows chatter overhead. Bees dart between flower petals. The outside world doesn’t matter. This garden doesn’t know old age, or sickness, or digital videotapes. It’s just flowers, and green beans, and standing beside your great-uncle.

  “Now then,” Uncle Ken announces, looking at his wristwatch, “do one more deadhead, then I want to see the weather program quickly, and we’ll shoot off for the Grill House.”

  “Sounds good.” I look over at my eighty-five-year-old great-uncle, once a much-feared RAF squadron leader, gunning down Nazi plane after Nazi plane. Now he’s leading a crew of one (me) deadheading roses. I think about what’s important in life—about spending time with the people who matter. Your dad on a golf course. Your great-uncle and his green beans. But I also think about courage. And how facing my fear of this film project is nothing if Uncle Ken can bravely face old age, and face it with a giggle. I’ve made a decision.

  I reach up and snip off the last rosebud. Then I call out.

  “Hey, Uncle Ken?”

  “Yes, Ollie?”

  “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  Uncle Ken walks over. “Yes, what is it?”

  “This summer, I’m going to be shooting a documentary about caddying. For my film class.”

  Uncle Ken considers what I’ve said, then puts in his twopence. “Oh, that sounds exciting.”

  “Yeah, I’m going to ask Rick about it tomorrow. But later in the summer, could I maybe film you and Henry?”

  Uncle Ken picks up a garden spade. “Yes, yes, of course. That would be super.” I feel better. I’ve got one subject at least. Although my mentors in the film department will probably notice if my caddie documentary features only Uncle Ken and Henry eating rock buns, and no caddies. Uncle Ken starts walking for the house and calls back to me, putting things in perspective.

  “Come along, though, we’ve got a six fifteen reservation at the Grill House, and we cannot be late.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  “Uh, Rick, can I speak to you for a second?”

  I hover nervously by the window. The shack phone is ringing off the hook, and Rick looks angry. This might not be the best time. Actually, this might really not be the best time.

  “Yes . . . what is it?” Rick responds with a frown deeper than the Atlantic. It’s too late to back out now. I glance around and see that there are twenty caddies near the window. I don’t particularly want to have this conversation out in the open.

  “Actually, Rick, can I speak to you for a second, in your office?”

  Rick looks me up and down. “No. Not right now. No! We’re too busy.” Rick closes the window and leaves me standing outside. A little embarrassed, I back-step to the fence, as Rick now reopens the window. Three and a half seconds have passed. Perhaps fewer.

  “Okay. Now I can see you.”

  I troop into the shack, but instead of turning left for the caddie room, I make a right, into the office. It always feels wrong to be in here. Illegal. This is Rick’s territory. And as a caddie, you’re usually inside only when you’re in trouble. When you’re in danger.

  Rick closes the door. “Yes? What is it?”

  I take a seat, determined to not let my voice tremble.

  “So, um, Rick . . .” My voice is definitely trembling. “I know that I mentioned to you . . . earlier . . . that I’d be shooting a documentary for my film class. About caddying . . .”

  Rick isn’t saying anything. I take this to be a good sign.

  “And I just wanted you to know that I was hoping to start filming a little bit around—”

  Rick cuts me off. “Mmmmmm. See, this is what I was afraid of . . .” He sits up. Oh shit. “You’re not here to caddie. When I agreed to take you back this year, I agreed to take you back as a caddie . . .” Rick’s voice is growing louder, angrier. “I expected a bit of commitment, but see, this is too much . . .”

  My eyes are Battle of the Bulge bulging. Am I about to get sent up the road? “No, Rick, I am—”

  “No, you’re always trying to interrupt me, mate, and talk around everything, but I don’t like where you’re—”

  “Rick, you don’t understand—”

  “Oh, I do understand! I thought long and hard before I agreed to take you back, mate! After your affair with the blonde who tried to caddie illegally, it was clear . . .”

  I have to say something. Anything. This is crazy.

  “Wait, Rick, please let me finish. I was about to say that I wanted to film you, first of all. To show how much you’ve done here. You’re an important part of this documentary.”

  There is silence. My whole body is shaking now. I’m terrified. Finally my caddie master breaks the silence, and speaks.

  “Well, I might be able to do Tuesday.”

  • • •

  I’m getting more respect from other caddies in the shack. When I ride my bike down on some mornings, a whole bench of seated guys will nod. Even the more veteran caddies have begun taking an interest in me. Using me as a resource for various questions about America or other cultural issues (yesterday, I got a text from caddie Craig Robertson, with the message “hey ollie what does mozzletoff mean in jewish?”).

  Like anyplace, perhaps, the caddie shack rewards experience. Not that being on my third caddie season is anything to give out prizes for. But it ain’t nothing. I’m realizing, too, that no matter how good a caddie you are, being in your first or second season means that guys will be less friendly to you. Even for older guys, age on its own isn’t enough down here. Sixty-year-old guys will be called out in the shack by twenty-one-year-olds, for mistakes like yelling, “Get up!” to a ball that then airmails the eighteenth green (this happened).

  For any caddie, actually, mistakes made on the course are remembered, and discussed endlessly. Famous misclubs don’t die easily in the shack. People are still talking about how “Big Malcky gave his golfer a three-wood on eleven, doon-wind, and the ball was still rising as it went over the green!” Such airmails are referred to in the shack as “cuckoos,” as in, “You should’ve seen Dougie’s golfer cuckoo the fookin’ sixth green yesterday!” For his part, whenever Nathan Gardner witnesses a “cuckoo” on the course, he will just keep walking, silently flapping his arms like wings.

  It’s always amazing to me that here, among grown men and women, clubbing and putt reading are the currency by which you win respect. In a theater troop, you get jeered for forgetting lines. In an orchestra, you’re in trouble for missing the high notes. In the Old Course caddie shack, simply put, you get shit for misclubbing. Even yesterday, I gave my golfer too much club into the second green. He thinned it slightly, and also pulled it (I swear to God), but it was still way too much club. As we walked beyond the green, to our ball—twenty yards away—I prayed that no one on the back nine would spot us. My prayer didn’t work. Up walked Jimmy Reid and David Coyne, on the sixteenth green. “Great clubbing, Horovitz!” Coynie yelled. “Keep that seven-iron out, sir, ya’ll need it agin!” Jimmy sang to my golfer. I knew that this story would get back to the shack. I wanted to bury my head in Hell Bunker.

  • • •

  I look over my camera equipment.
It’s time to shoot my first subject: Rick Mackenzie.

  Since I haven’t brought up the documentary to the other caddies, filming Rick first seems like the obvious way to start. Even if I don’t use his footage, filming Rick first will still be a good way, I think, to calm him. To maybe even get him on my team. So now I’m down at the shack, with Harvard’s Sony PD-170 video camera, headphones, and a fresh box of mini-DV tapes. And now, the thought that I’m actually going to be alone with Rick, filming him for a caddie documentary, is hitting me for the first time. What the fuck am I doing?

  “Um, Rick, are you ready?” I ask at the window.

  Rick sees me. “Oh yes! Yes. Just give me a second!” I haven’t seen this side of my caddie master before.

  Rick comes striding out of the shack office, in a fresh blue vest. He looks very happy.

  “Where shall we shoot? Did you have a spot in mind?”

  “Umm . . .” I trot behind Rick, catching my reflection in the shack window as I pass. I notice (with sizable pride) that my headphones, plus the external microphone on my camera, make me look kind of professional.

  “Well, over here might be nice, beside the putting green.”

  Rick surveys the spot. “With the R & A in the background. Good thought. The lighting will be strong there.”

  I notice that other caddies have begun staring at me and my camera equipment, wondering what the hell is going on. I still haven’t told anyone yet that I’m shooting the documentary. I didn’t want to until I first filmed Rick, until it was safe to let the secret out. Other caddies are coming out of the shack now—staring, motioning for others to join them. Yeah. It’s definitely out now.

  “Um, can we do a . . . levels check?” I ask nervously, framing Rick in my viewfinder, totally aware of how conspicuous we look to everyone around the shack. But Rick is in a different world—his own—and he is rolling.

  “Sure . . . Okay! . . . One . . . two . . . three . . . testing testing testing . . . one . . . two . . . these workin’ for you?”

  “Uh, yup, those are good,” I reply uneasily. Where did he learn all this shit?

  “All right then, just cue me in—I’m ready when you’re ready.”

  I take a huge breath to calm myself, to slow everything down. Because it’s almost too much. The caddies glaring at us confusedly; Rick in front of me, waiting for his cue; American golfers staring from the putting green. All attention is on me. I’ve just opened Pandora’s box. I’ve started something I won’t be able to stop. To these guys, I’m no longer just a caddie in the shack. I’ve got a fancy camera, and our boss out in front of me, and whatever the hell this all means, I have the unmistakable feeling that the rules down here have just changed. I swallow hard and click the red button. We’re rolling.

  * * *

  “Okay, so what’s your favorite part of the job, Rick?” I ask, feeling faint.

  “Mmmmm . . . well, I suppose it would have to be satisfying the caddies, believe it or not, rather than the golfers,” Rick replies. He’s still rolling. So are the eyes of several stunned caddies, who are watching this entire spectacle unfold from the benches. Rick sees them and loses his train of thought.

  “And they all think it . . . at the um . . . hold on, can I start again? They’ve just been giving me the ole . . .” He mimics their backward “peace” sign, the Scottish symbol for “fuck off.”

  “Sure, Rick, let me just refocus,” I reply as Rick lets out a little grunt at having to wait. “Okay, go for it,” I say.

  “Well, okay, well, I’ll change that last bit—what I love about the job . . . what I love about the job, is meeting new people. I’ve always been interested in people; I’m a kind of people’s person, you see.”

  “What would you say is your greatest achievement as caddie master?” I ask. I’m not exactly serving the hardest-hitting questions.

  “Wow . . . my greatest achievement . . .” Rick takes this in. “That’s actually a difficult question. It’s a very good question, but it’s a difficult one, because there is so much . . .”

  * * *

  An hour later, Rick and I walk back into the shack. The interview went really well, I think, apart from when I accidentally stopped the sound during an important part of Rick’s achievement speech.

  “Got everything you needed from that?” Ricks asks. He seems very pleased.

  “Absolutely, you were great,” I say, swooning. “We got a lot of good stuff.”

  Rick nods. “Mmmmm . . . I just tell the story how it is, and people seem to like it.”

  Caddies are still staring at us as Rick opens the door to his office and starts walking inside. It’s clear that filming Rick first has done the trick. I’ve gotten him excited about the project. Now it’s time to ask my big question. “So, Rick, as we were discussing earlier, I’ll be filming around the shack, with the other guys too, between rounds and everything . . .”

  Rick turns, faces me. “Absolutely, Ollie. Whatever you need.”

  My caddie master smiles, closes the office door. I feel relief. And I feel anxiety. Rick’s on my team. I just wonder if I’m still on the caddies’ team.

  THIRTY-THREE

  “Can I help?”

  The lady in the striped hat motions at me. I’ve just entered Fisher & Donaldson bakery on sunny Church Street, for a yum-yum. And I’m immediately in a world of delicious smells, funny ladies in funnier striped hats behind the counter, and rather odd prices. Forty-six pence for the apple tart, fifty-three pence for the potato scone, thirty-seven pence for the “supper pie.” It’s as if some lady in a back room (wearing a funny striped hat) actually calculated out all these prices on the basis of sugar content or how many raspberries were used.

  “Yeah, hi. Can I have a yum-yum, please?’

  To adopt a Scottish brogue for a second, yum-yums are what ahm all aboot. It’s a small pastry with glazing on top. A delicacy that melts in your mouth and makes you quite sure that the icing is infused with liquid ecstasy. For sixty seconds after each yum-yum bite, I’m in a trance—minus the glow sticks.

  “That’s fine. One yum-yum. Anything else?”

  I have a thought. “Oh, can I also have a rock bun, please?”

  Striped Hat Lady looks distressed. “Ooh, ahm not sure if we’ve got any left. I’ll just have a wee hunt.” She pops off into a back-room pastry netherworld, on her wee hunt. As I wait, an elderly lady behind me talks to her elderly friend. “Ah made a wee quiche yestahday, so ahm joost gonna have tha for ma lunch.” “Oh ayeeeee!” her friend replies enthusiastically. I’m at a meeting of the Funny Old Scottish Ladies Association.

  There’s a noise. Striped Hat Lady emerges from the back room, looking forlorn.

  “I’m sorry, we’re all out for today. I can put you on the rock bun reserve list, though, if you’d like.” Somewhere out there, a war is being fought, a health care bill is being debated in Congress, and here I’m about to go on Wednesday’s rock bun reserve list. “Yeah, that would be great,” I say with a smile. I’m about to give my name when the lady stares at me.

  “Say, are you Ken Hayward’s nephew, by any chance?”

  I nod. “Yeah, I am.”

  The lady beams. “Oh, I thought you were! That’s lovely! He speaks about you all the time!” I half expect her to hand me a secret rock bun stash from under the counter.

  I leave the bakery to smiles from all the old ladies. I take a bite of yum-yum and head up Church Street to grab my golf clubs. Away from the shack, I’ve forgotten about the implications of my filming Rick, about what this all might mean. Instead, I’m just happy to be in St. Andrews.

  • • •

  “Hey, guys!”

  I stroll up to a group of caddies, all sipping shack coffee by the fence. It’s a beautiful morning down at the links. Sunshine and (thank God) zero wind.

  “How’s it going, boys?” I arrive at the caddie group and offer up a smile. None of the caddies acknowledge me. I’m a little confused by this. I figure they haven’t heard me, so I
try again. “Everything going good?”

  Joe McParland turns to me viciously. “What the fook was up with that camera?!”

  Shit.

  “Oh yeah, that. I was about to tell everyone.” My heart starts to pound. “I’m doing a small thing for my film class, and I was hoping to shoot around the shack a little bit.”

  “What, of Mackenzie?” Neil Gibson growls.

  “No! No . . . that was just so, you know, so Rick wouldn’t be—”

  Joe cuts me off. “I’ll tell ya one thing, that fookin’ camera better not be pointed at me.”

  Neil elaborates on this point. “Or me. If I see that pointed at me, I’m knockin’ it outta your fookin’ hands.”

  My morning is changing. What’s going wrong? Did filming Rick first send the wrong message? Should I have told people first? Am I about to get into a gang fight? As my mind races, I try to calm the situation.

  “Okay! That’s fine, that’s totally cool! I won’t film you guys. No problem!”

  “Yeah, it better not be a problem. You see what I’m saying?” another caddie barks.

  And with that, the entire group of older caddies turn their backs to me. It is a stunning, definitive move. I try to think of something else to say. But I’ve got nothing. Instead, I turn and stumble away.

  * * *

  It’s scary when the shack turns on you. It can happen light-speed fast. Especially with the velocity at which news spreads down here. One altercation on the course, one bad decision to not check above the sixth tee before driving, and it’ll get back to the shack faster than caddies to the food cart before its seven P.M. departure. My hope, though, is that if I start filming in the shack, with different caddies, and just get people used to the camera, then I’ll be okay. But I need to start soon. Right now, the caddies who’ve heard about my project seem to view it the same way they saw Model Caddies—worthy of scorn, of scoffing, but also somehow threatening.