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

by Oliver Horovitz

  Just remember that.

  I nod at Rick silently. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.

  FORTY

  I’ve got only two days left in St. Andrews before I have to head home. Once again, time has flown by with frightening speed. I’ve now shot twenty-nine hours of footage for my documentary, and I’m confident that I’ve got enough to edit into a film. But today, there’s one more event I want to shoot before I hang up my camera case. An event that I couldn’t possibly miss . . .

  * * *

  “Where the fook’s the bus?”

  A caddie named Big Jezzer, sporting a bushy blond goatee, is standing outside the British Golf Museum. He’s got a Ping visor on backward, Oakley shades, bright red shorts, knee-high white socks, and a huge red hiking pack stuffed with enough alcohol to kill a sperm whale.

  “On its way. Nice oootfit!” Switchy remarks, striding up. Switchy has iPod earbuds in both ears and a TaylorMade R7 cart bag with the name SWITCH OFF stitched into the bag’s front.

  “Anyone see Williams last night?” Mark Eglinton asks from behind Switchy.

  “Uh-uh,” Colin Donaldson says, pitching up in bright pink shorts.

  Eglinton looks pissed. “I’m supposed to caddie for him, but he’s not answering his fucking mobile,” he explains. Tom Murdoch turns to Eglinton while sucking a cig.

  “I saw him last night.”

  “What sort of state was he in?”

  “Fucked.”

  “Fucked?”

  “Fucked.”

  Eglinton considers this.

  “Fuck.”

  It’s the annual St. Andrews Caddie Outing. A caddie tradition dating back to the 1980s, which caddies look forward to the entire summer. The tournament is eighteen holes, net stableford, and is typically held at a different course each year—usually because we’re not invited back by the club for a second time.

  It’s a stormy morning down by the links, with fresh gusts blowing off the North Sea—cloudy, chilly, but no rain . . . yet. We’re on the curb beside Links Road, tucked behind the R & A Clubhouse, a flop shot over the building from the Old Course first tee. It’s like no-man’s-land down here, totally empty. But all around us, the caddies are starting to assemble. Trudging in from every side. Caddies who are playing. Caddies who are caddying for other caddies. And me, with my camera. This is the first summer I’ve been in St. Andrews late enough to take part. So I’m filming—and kind of wishing I were playing.

  “Bechelli was trying to get Magoo to caddie for him,” Jezzer says to Switchy as he uncorks a bottle of wine. It is eight o’clock in the morning.

  “Class. He could’a filled him up with drink.”

  “I don’t think he drinks, does he?”

  “No, he drinks—he drinks the cheapest whiskey ever in the history of the planet.”

  Irish James McHugh (“Scruff”) shows up now, looking worse for wear. In fact, he looks like he’s had zero sleep. I’m starting to see the drawbacks of holding a caddie outing on a Sunday morning. “Spanners!” McHugh manages weakly—a classic Irish insult—as the others laugh. Loppy shows up now, with a big smile and a bigger bottle of gin. “This is just for the first two holes, Switchy!” he sings. Everywhere I point my camera, there are caddies and golf bags. Guys taking practice swings with their wedges. Others inspecting each other’s iron grooves. The mood is upbeat, cheery, and children-on-Christmas-Eve excited. The caddies are about to finally play, ourselves.

  * * *

  “Everybody off!”

  Our semi-luxurious River Tay coach travel bus stamps to a stop and unloads caddies dressed for battle into the Alyth Golf Club clubhouse. The first tee time is 10:10, and caddies move to the putting green for some preround putts. I follow with my camera, recording it all. Sandy Bayne has brought along a fake golf ball, which he is tricking other caddies into using, then laughing uproariously. Switchy is off to the green’s far end, sternly stroking Slazengers through a 3-iron and 4-iron laid down to create railway tracks. He holes every one.

  “Everyone get in for a picture, eh, boys?”

  It’s photo time. Everyone lines up for a picture on the first tee. And, for perhaps the first time all summer, I witness a group of caddies smiling. Everyone’s happy. Today we’re the main event. Our swings are the ones that matter. As I film, and as the group waits, a caddie nicknamed Canada struggles with the camera. He tries to take the photo but switches the camera off instead. The caddie crowd erupts into jeers. “Cummon, ya spanner!” McHugh bellows, looking more fragile by the second. Finally Canada sorts out the camera, and the caddie picture is snapped. Fittingly, it’s with every caddie holding his club in the air.

  * * *

  Several hours later, I’m on the porch overlooking the eighteenth green. I’ve been filming all over the course, moving between groups. A few groups have now finished, and those caddies sit porch-side with pints of Magners cider, watching the final pairings arrive. It’s time for perhaps the most important part of the day.

  “Heeeeeere’s Scotty!” Eglinton shouts from the porch, channeling Jack Nicholson in The Shining, as Scott Bechelli and his group appear in the distance on 18. Scott Bechelli is wearing a bright baby-blue and yellow Old Course golf shirt, bright white trousers with baby-blue back-pocket flaps, and a striped belt and visor. He looks ridiculous.

  “Bechelli looks like Jesper Parnevik,” Coynie says.

  “He’s playing like Parnevik too—he’s all over the place,” McHugh adds.

  “What d’ya reckon?” Switchy says, getting down to business.

  “I’ll go for four blows,” Eglinton says.

  “Right, then, I’ll take a pound that he gets three or less in,” Switch says.

  “I’m in too,” says McHugh.

  “And me,” Sandy Bayne shouts.

  The betting has begun.

  Everyone now turns his attention onto Scott Bechelli as he plays from the bunker, completely unaware that anyone (everyone) is betting on him. “Come on, skull it!” McHugh shouts supportively. “Chunk it!” Sandy adds. Scotty hits and leaves it in the bunker. Cheers go up from the Magners gallery.

  “This one coming out?” Eglinton asks the group as Scotty sets up for his second attempt.

  “It’s coming out, but where it goes, nobody knows,” McHugh answers. These guys are like sports commentators. Scott tries again and leaves it in the bunker once more, prompting more shouts. “Five was a good bet here, Switchy!” Coynie yells.

  “The Boyne getting up and down from here,” Jezzer announces, creating a new bet on John Boyne, who’s about to play a forty-yard pitch shot into 18 green, from the left rough.

  “There’s no way he’ll get up and down from here!” Eglinton says disgustedly, as if someone’s just offered him money to shoot his own puppy.

  “Ten to one, two pounds on,” McHugh replies, meaning if Boyne gets up and down, McHugh would win twenty pounds; otherwise Jezzer wins two. He and Jezzer shake hands.

  “Ten to one, that’s a good price!” Coynie says.

  “I’ll take a pound on that as well,” Sandy announces.

  “I’ll put in three,” says Eglinton, and suddenly there’s sixty quid (120 dollars) riding on this up-and-down.

  “Come on, Boyne, we got a bet on ya!” Coynie calls from the railing. Clearly trying to block out this distracting commentary, Boyne hits, and slams a low-running pitch shot up to six feet from the hole. Then he makes the putt, dead center. Everyone cheers. Boyne simply bows for the gallery. John Wayne should be this cool.

  * * *

  After lunch (in which I receive groans for requesting a vegetarian option), everyone assembles in the clubhouse function room, for the prize-giving ceremony. Scott Bechelli has been around to all the different golf shops in St. Andrews and has gotten most to donate prizes for the caddie outing. He’s done well. The table is literally overflowing with prizes—bags, balls, clubs, head covers, golf towels, a tartan wallet from the Links Clubhouse, and, of course, a cornucopia of different type
s of alcohol, capstoned by a corpulent bottle of R & A whiskey, donated by the Royal and Ancient themselves.

  I set myself up to film as, standing behind the table, Switchy and Scotty serve as co-MCs.

  “We’d like to thank everyone for coming out and supporting this,” Switchy says, to big applause from the room.

  “It’s been great to see some new faces too,” Scotty adds. I pan around the room, realizing with delight how comfortable the caddies seem in front of the camera. It’s taken all summer, but they’ve accepted this now. They like it.

  Neil Gibson wins first place and gets first pick from the prize table (he grabs a golf bag). He also receives the 2006 Caddie Tournament Trophy, which he promptly drops and breaks, eliciting a chorus of “Way-hayyyyyy”s from the crowd. The prizes keep coming, going further and further down the list, until everyone, it seems, will win a prize. There’s a closest-to-the-pin prize. There’s a shortest-drive prize. A jar of jam for the jammiest (Scot-speak for “luckiest”) shot prize. And a drunkest-caddie prize (going to an old guy who can barely stand up). And now, Switchy looks directly at me from behind the table. He throws me an Old Course bag tag.

  “And this is for Spielberg, for being the cameraman,” he announces with a grin. Everyone cheers and claps. I hold up the prize in front of the camera, then wave back to the crowd while filming. I have a thought: I’m going to miss it here.

  FORTY-ONE

  “We’re making very good time, you know!”

  Uncle Ken pulls the old red Vauxhall into the new M8 fast lane. We overtake a station wagon as if it were going backward, even though the station wagon’s doing seventy miles per hour. It’s seven thirty A.M. Tuesday. We’re heading to Edinburgh Airport. And Uncle Ken is not taking any chances with tardiness.

  “I just want to make sure that you get there in time, so that you can have something to eat,” Uncle Ken continues happily, veering sharply around a corner. He’s wearing a plaid green button-down, red tie, red sweater vest, tweed coat, and tweed cap. The driving outfit.

  “Yeah, that sounds like a, uh, good plan,” I say, terrified about our current speed.

  “If we’re lucky, we should be there before eight.” If we’re lucky, I’ll make it to the airport alive.

  Uncle Ken volunteered last week to drive me for this final trip. We’d agreed to meet outside my flat at seven this morning, to leave enough time for my eleven o’clock flight. When I came downstairs at six A.M. though, for some Fruit n’ Fibre cereal, Uncle Ken was already waiting in the car outside, tweed cap and all. He’d been waiting since five thirty A.M. Operation: Oliver Drop-off is clearly a serious mission.

  “Henry sends his best regards, by the way.”

  “Oh great, thank him for me.”

  “He said that he hopes you won’t be affected by the droughts they’ve been having in Nevada.”

  “That’s very nice of him.”

  Henry had apparently wanted to come along as well this morning, to scout out the gen at the airport, but Uncle Ken wouldn’t let him (“He’d be too much of a distraction,” my uncle explained as we left St. Andrews).

  Outside our window, the miles between us and the home of golf are building. It feels weird to be leaving. It feels too soon.

  “The gang’s going up to Kelso this weekend, by the way,” my uncle says. “It should be a super turnout, I think.” Always looking ahead. Always optimistic.

  The sign for the airport approaches, and after a few (sharp) turns, we pull up outside the departures terminal. I unload my bursting suitcase, golf clubs, backpack, and camera bag onto the curb. Uncle Ken climbs out of the car. He’s not one for showy displays.

  “Well, all the best on the journey!” Uncle Ken says.

  “I’ll give you a call when I land . . . so you know I’ve gotten home safely,” I say.

  “Super. I’ve got some newspaper clippings that I’ll need to send you,” my uncle replies. Then he does the giggle. I smile at him.

  “Thanks for everything this summer, Uncle Ken.”

  “Oh, pleasure! It’s been super, you know.”

  “It really has.”

  We do a big hug.

  “I’ll be back next year, I promise,” I say.

  “I hope so. That would be excellent.”

  And, for the first time that I can remember, I notice that my uncle’s eighty-five-year-old eyes are wet. Suddenly all I want to do is hug Uncle Ken again. All I want to do is jump back into his car and plant green beans with him in his garden until the sun sets in the sky. All I want to do is tell him how much he means to me, and how much I love him, and how much I’m going to miss him this year. But I don’t. Instead, I watch as Uncle Ken climbs into his car, and wave as the little red Vauxhall putters away, off into the distance toward St. Andrews. Then I turn and pick up my golf clubs and head into the departures terminal for my flight.

  Another St. Andrews summer has come and gone . . . and so have I.

  FORTY-TWO

  “Paging passengers Lewis and Harper. Lewis and Harper. Last call . . .”

  Around me, in the departures lounge, people are racing to their gates, to flights that are moments from leaving. I’m slumped down on the floor, camera on my lap, camera bag to my left, and box of thirty-two full tapes beside me. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this yet, but I’m thinking about St. Andrews, and missing it already, and fuck it, how can I not? At random, I choose tape number seven, slot it into the camera. The door mechanism retracts shut. I open the LCD screen. Rewind to the middle of the tape. And now, for the first time all summer, hands trembling, I examine what I shot.

  Tape seven begins playing.

  . . . There’s Dawn, giving her golfer a line on the sixth tee. Her golfer looks terrified.

  I watch for ten seconds. Then I pop in another tape.

  . . . There’s Rick, speaking in front of the Royal and Ancient Clubhouse. Looking very happy.

  Another tape.

  . . . Here’s Jimmy with his Arkansas golfer on the third fairway. The golfer swings, skulls into the gorse.

  Another. I keep going . . . changing tapes and fast-forwarding with an increasingly feverish pace. Even now—in Edinburgh Airport alongside American tourists, barely an hour out of St. Andrews—the scenes I’m watching seem pulled from a different planet. A different era. Already, they seem like lost artifacts.

  Another tape.

  . . . The shack, early morning. Caddies are playing cards.

  Another.

  . . . The caddie outing. A picture is being taken on the first tee. All the caddies are lining up.

  Another.

  . . . Uncle Ken and Henry, drinking tea in the kitchen. A perfect Sunday morning. Two best mates, whom I now pray can just weather the winter.

  I keep watching . . . switching . . . the sounds of the airport fading into the distance. As I watch, I feel proud. I shot all this—I did this. All these moments, all these St. Andreans’ lives—they’ve been captured. I’m bringing them back with me. I switch to another tape. Press “play.” Another. And another. I’ve started now, and I can’t stop. It’s addictive.

  It’s wonderful.

  • • •

  Outside my window, Scotland is getting smaller and smaller. New York is drawing closer—563 miles every bumpy hour. I settle back into my seat. I’m happy. I’m exhausted. I should get some sleep. I close my eyes, thinking about what just happened this summer . . . and what’s changed since the last time I was on this plane . . . and where this is all headed . . . as a flight attendant’s voice comes on the intercom . . .

  * * *

  “The use of approved portable electronic devices is now permitted.”

  FORTY-THREE

  The party in Kirkland House is wicked good.

  Everywhere that there could be people drinking, there are people drinking. Bedrooms. Common room. The bathroom. Wu-Tang Clan blasts from dorm-room speakers, slamming into a competitive game of beer pong being staged in the middle of the common room. Two floors abo
ve this, in the same entryway, is the dorm room in which Facebook was invented.

  I zigzag through the hallway, finding my coat, saying good-byes to friends.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Daniel Ross-Rieder yells. He’s a junior from New York City, an English major and ardent Knicks fan, who’s currently wobbling like a dreidel.

  “I gotta go somewhere.”

  Daniel takes my exit as a personal affront. “What!? It’s only three A.M.!”

  I look at my watch. “It’s ten P.M.”

  Daniel stares at my watch, clearly seeing three of them. He processes this updated information, realizes that it helps his argument. “Right! Exactly!”

  I head for the door.

  Outside, the weather’s turned sour again. Whoever said April is the cruelest month didn’t spend December in Boston. Zipping up my jacket, I turn left out of Kirkland House and start walking up past the MAC Quad.

  I pass muddy Mount Auburn Street, then Au Bon Pain—where scenes from the movie Good Will Hunting were shot. I cross Mass Ave, make my way through Johnston Gate into Harvard Yard. In the dark, Widener Library looks down on me like a sleeping giant. It has huge white columns, imposing white steps—the kind of building that says, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but better people were here before you.”