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

by Oliver Horovitz

  Hustling now to beat the cold, I swipe into the back entrance of Sever Hall and arrive inside the dusty basement corridor that is Harvard’s Film Department. I walk down the empty corridor, each cupboard-sized room I pass holding a Steenbeck editing table. Banging my fingers to warm them up, I open the inner-basement door, then room B-22, and arrive at the back of the room. I take off my coat, switch on the far computer monitor. With a momentary buzz, the screen flickers to life. It’s Jimmy Bowman, on the fifth green of the Old. I grin. Then I get to work.

  * * *

  The last three months have been a blur. I’m back in school mode, studying French literature, since I’ve decided to study abroad in Paris this spring. I’m also shooting a film for my fiction film class called The Bar Mitzvah. It’s about a boy who drops the Torah during his bar mitzvah, causing everyone in the synagogue to have to fast for twenty-four hours.

  But most of all, I’m editing my caddie documentary. It was accepted into VES 51b back in September, and each week now, I get to present clips to nine other students, all working on their own documentaries. Then the whole class discusses, in total seriousness, how much Rick Mackenzie should be in the film . . . if there’s enough time on Jimmy . . . which caddies have the best screen presence. Each week, we talk about Uncle Ken, and Henry, and where the tea sessions should be placed. It’s as if I’m sharing another world with my friends. As if seven of my peers are suddenly as invested in the Seven Sisters bunkers as I am. Plus, hearing my Harvard professor remark, “Well, the Uncle Ken giggle is my favorite part of this scene”—well, that’s kind of awesome.

  * * *

  The caddie documentary screens in January, as part of the Harvard Film Department fall screenings. It’s a packed house, and as the lights go down, I’m more nervous than on my first day of caddying. The room goes silent. The title credits go up. And then suddenly two hundred audience members are inside the caddie shack as Grant Fisher tells Willie Stewart, “He was a good player, like, but the fucking Canadians can’t tip.” There’s a pause. Then the audience laughs. (Thank God.) I sit in the middle of the theater and watch everyone as they watch the caddies. Slowly my terror begins to subside. Slowly I realize that I am loving this.

  “Come on, hook!” Jimmy Bowman is barking at his 19-handicap golfer’s ball, midair, as if they’ve got the back-nine lead at the Open. “Hook round, ya bastard!” A collective grin goes up in the audience. From my seat, I keep watch over my film as intently as Jimmy his ball, silently mouthing every word of dialogue, silently cueing every character and moment out onto the screen. I watch and I listen, and I know, without a doubt, that I’ve stumbled onto something I love.

  Twenty-five minutes later, as the end credits roll and applause fills the theater, classmates arrive at my seat. “Awesome, Ollie!” “Uncle Ken’s the man!” “I love that you had to subtitle everything . . .” From across the room, in the professor’s section, Robb Moss gives me a big thumbs-up. Pete and John, the head equipment guys who rigged up my camera gear, both bellow, “Olliiiiiie!” I nod back as casually as possible, once again. No sweat.

  * * *

  Mid-January arrives, and I arrive in Paris for my junior semester abroad. I’m living in the Sixth Arrondissement, with a funny French family called the Brochots. Bénédicte, my host mother, is the quintessential French mother. She wears colorful scarves, plays tennis in the Jardin du Luxembourg, and loves asking me questions about my favorite foods. If I give the “correct” answers, she clucks contentedly. Bénédicte and her husband, Dominique, share their city with me, as well as their mutual obsession with the American TV show 24 (despite not understanding any of the English dialogue).

  I enroll directly in Paris university classes, via my study-abroad program, CUPA. CUPA has forty-nine students . . . forty-one of them girls. Excitingly, this is a normal ratio for Paris study-abroad programs (my friend Richard Ross’s program is made up of thirty-one girls . . . and Richard).

  Outside of class, I bag an internship at a French TV show, On n’est pas couché, the French equivalent of Letterman. I cram into late-night film screenings at the seemingly hundreds of cinemas in my neighborhood and explore Paris one baguette after the other. And midway through the year, I shoot a short film about an American boy studying abroad who meets a French girl and screws everything up. I title my film How to Blow a (French) Kiss. And this is how I meet Sylvie.

  Sylvie is an actress. She’s nineteen years old, French, studying at Le Cours Florent. She’s funny. And beautiful. As soon as I meet her, I instantly forget every word of French that I’ve learned. Sylvie plays the female lead in my film, and I direct her, while simultaneously trying not to think about how I’m falling for her. A week after the shooting’s done, I invite her out for dinner. I tell her that I like her. She tells me that she likes me too. And we start dating. If only life were always this simple.

  * * *

  The rest of the semester plays out like a dream with French subtitles. I show the film at Action Christine, a movie theater near my apartment, and invite all my friends. I go to picnics on the Pont des Arts. I ride on friends’ Vespas. But mostly I spend as much time as I can with Sylvie . . .

  • • •

  “Will you be in St. Andrews all summer?”

  Sylvie and I are sitting in a café on boulevard Saint-Michele. It’s a late night in early June. The night before my flight back to New York.

  “Yeah, until August. You’ll be here, right? In Paris?”

  Sylvie giggles. “Of course. You have to come visit this summer!”

  “I know. Definitely! Scotland’s only like two hours away.” I can’t believe I have to leave this girl now. This feels too soon. This feels like a mistake.

  “I’m so sad you’re going,” Sylvie says as I lean in toward her.

  “Me too.”

  We kiss. And this makes it official: I do not want to leave Paris.

  • • •

  I fly to Newark Airport, train it back to Manhattan. I lug my suitcases down Sixth Avenue as around me, businessmen flock from offices to Starbucks, and Starbucks to subways. Carefully caffeinated routes of a New York evening.

  It’s my twin sister Hannah’s graduation ceremony at Vassar College. That night we all drive up to Poughkeepsie, in upstate New York. The next morning Hannah walks to the stage, gets her diploma. I cheer loudly, trying to drown out Paris-related thoughts. And then I’m back in New York City, packing for Scotland, and packing for my final caddie summer. I’m heading back toward Sylvie.

  FORTY-FOUR

  I’ve sorted out my St. Andrews digs early this year. Greaves already has a full flat, as do John Williams and his family on Market Street, but after some frantic transatlantic Facebook messaging, I’ve managed to bag a room through my friend Miles Glickman. Miles is a graduating U of St. Andrews fourth-year from Philadelphia who is five foot seven, Jewish, and has slept with more girls at the University of St. Andrews than any other guy I know. Miles is headed home this summer, but he has a friend, a half-English/half-Danish graduate student named Will. According to Miles, Will is 1) a hunting enthusiast, 2) very tall, 3) the owner of a flat with spare rooms this summer. It’s because of 3 that I’m now standing in Will’s living room, panting slightly from the stair climb.

  * * *

  “God, the fish are absolutely loving it.”

  Will Skjott is in his red plaid flannel pajamas. His six-foot-three-inch Nordic-looking frame is reclined out on the sofa, where he is perusing The Economist through thin-framed spectacles and directing my attention to the nearby fish tank.

  “I just ordered this floating kelp jungle. Look—they’re totally getting involved!”

  I’m on the top floor of 12 Howard Place—eight doors away from Uncle Ken. It’s a student flat, and a large one, with enough bedrooms to qualify it as an Ikea showroom. Will and his parents bought the flat (and the fish tank) when Will was a second-year at the University of St. Andrews. That was back in 2004, but he’s still here, doing a master’s d
egree. Perhaps because he realizes that my golf clubs and suitcase are still in my arms, or that I haven’t slept in nineteen hours, Will presses himself off the couch and moves toward the living room door.

  “Your bedroom is over here. I think I’ve moved out all my shotguns already.”

  “Okay . . . thanks.”

  I follow Will to my bedroom. It’s huge. Easily twice the size of my dorm room this past year. There’s a large bed. Large closets. And a large window, looking out onto the large garden, in the middle of which is a . . .

  “Wait, is that real?” I say to Will in disbelief.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s exactly to scale.”

  In the middle of the lawn, complete with golf balls and a rake, is a perfect Road Hole Bunker replica. “The R & A member downstairs had it built. You can probably hit out of it at some point, if we ask nicely.” If I needed proof that St. Andrews was a golf-obsessed town, I’ve just helped my case.

  There’s a shout from upstairs now as someone bounds down the staircase and into my room. Will points toward the bounder. “Ollie, this is Chris Hill. Hilly’s living here this summer too.” Hilly is a shade over six feet, marathon-runner skinny, with blond hair and a friendly Northern English voice.

  “So you’re our new flatmate!” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “Fucking loving it!”

  And with that, Hilly jumps up, grabs on to the bedroom doorway paneling with his fingers, and does several pull-ups in quick succession. He comes back to earth with an ear-to-ear grin and shakes my hand. “I hear you’re a keen golfer,” he says. “I play off six, we’ll have to get a game soon!” I nod, still a little flustered by all this activity. Will looks excited. “I know, we’ll all go to the driving range tomorrow. Then we can make fajitas and get some beers in after!”

  I’ve just met my two flatmates.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Uncle Ken looks older.

  I don’t want to notice it, but I do. His fall on the sidewalk, back in November, has taken its toll. My best friend looks frail, tired. As Uncle Ken closes the door behind me, I see that he now owns a cane.

  “I have to use this wretched thing now whenever I’m up. Doctor’s orders!” Uncle Ken says as he motions me down the hallway. “This getting-old business is horrid, you know!” he adds with a giggle.

  I follow my great-uncle down the hallway, past the living room, and past the bathroom—where inside I spot a newly installed handicapped safety bar, plus an extra-high toilet seat. It’s the same house, but the modifications are mounting.

  “I’ve had my cleaner, Joan in, and her son, young Michael, has been around,” Uncle Ken adds over his shoulder. We arrive in the kitchen, where there are several newspaper clippings ready for handover.

  “Now, these are for you,” Uncle Ken says, as if handing me supplies and a uniform for military training. He passes me an article on the Modern History Department; an article about the town driving range; an article about my old dorm, St. Regulus Hall. All cut out by my uncle, all loyally stored for me. “I’m not sure if these will be useful, but I thought you might want to see them!”

  I smile. “No, this is great, I’ll definitely check these out.” Next to the clippings, I spot a certificate from Dundee Medical School. Uncle Ken’s been a volunteer “patient” there during student exams for years. He still goes—even though, at eighty-six, he’s well past their age limit.

  “What’s this certificate for?”

  “Oh, that’s for the last one I did, back in April.” Uncle Ken speaks brightly. “It’s all very strict, you see. You go in, and get briefed on what role you’re going to play, and then a medical student comes into the room, for their exam. They poke you and prod you, and ask, ‘Does this hurt?’ or ‘Does that hurt?’ and you have to yelp and moan and play your part!” He looks at the certificate for a moment, rather proudly. “I think I was ‘Stomach Ulcer’ last time.”

  “Oh, nice.”

  “Cup of tea?” my uncle asks.

  “Sure, that would be—”

  Before I’ve even finished answering, the kettle has been switched on. Over here, tea questions are rhetorical.

  “I’ve got a rock bun for you too,” Uncle Ken says happily, carefully unfolding his Fisher & Donaldson paper bag. “I had one reserved for you specially.” He takes out two tea mugs from his cupboard as he hums contentedly. “Henry phoned earlier, to see if you’d arrived yet. He said he hopes you weren’t affected by all the brushfires in America last month.”

  I take my rock bun. In front of me, behind Uncle Ken, the garden stretches out in a brilliant sea of yellows, greens, and reds. The upstairs grandfather clock chimes. Suddenly it doesn’t matter that Uncle Ken looks older. It doesn’t matter that he has a cane. He’s still here, and now so am I, and now we’ve got our whole summer together. And as I stand in the kitchen, eating my rock bun, with the seagulls squawking outside, my new flat eight doors away and the summer stretching out before me full of possibility—life at this moment makes perfect sense.

  FORTY-SIX

  Alistair Taylor is the first one to see me.

  “Fa fook’s sake! Horovitz is back!” he shouts at me as I walk down the path toward the shack. Alec Howie comes outside now too and yells, “Ollie!” Dougie sees me. “The King of Bad Reads returns!”

  It’s a normal day in shack land. Everywhere I look, I see guys I haven’t actually spoken to all winter, but whose images I’ve edited and reedited a thousand times on my computer, dissected and analyzed in Harvard’s Sever B-41 classroom every Tuesday and Thursday. It’s weird to think that a whole winter has passed here. I think we all have some inner belief, deep down, that whenever we leave a place, everything just kind of stops until we return. That when we leave a small town, or a country, life just . . . pauses. It’s a nice thought, but of course, it isn’t true. Life keeps moving. People get older. At least the eighteenth green’s in the same place.

  More caddies spot me now. Charlie Little and Gordon Smith both grin at me from the bench. Nick Robertson waves. Colin Donaldson smiles. Jimmy Bowman nods to me as he cruises past on his bike, coasting the last few yards with both legs on one side like always. And now Rick comes to the window . . .

  “Mmmmm . . . Oliver . . . a blast from the past . . . ,” he murmurs.

  What is it with Rick and warm welcomes?

  “Hi, Rick, I’m here to caddie,” I say, and hand him two passport photos.

  Rick takes them, looks at me. “I didn’t expect you to come back,” he adds.

  There’s a pause. How do you respond to this? “Well . . . I’m back,” I say. Apparently, this is a good enough answer, because Rick has me fill out several forms, then makes me buy the new caddie waterproofs. I’m filling out the forms, listing my name, address, and passport number (why do I have to give my passport number?), when Rick leans out the window and calls the next caddie up. “Jordan Douglas . . . ,” he says. Jordan, a twenty-year-old caddie from Cupar, is already near the window, leaning by the fence. When he hears his name, Jordan jokingly staggers from the fence over to the window while emitting a low groan. Rick glares. He is not impressed. “Mmmmmm . . . Jordan, that’s not good enough. Go back to where you were,” Rick growls through the glare. “When I call your name again, I want you to come up here with a bit more enthusiasm.” Stunned, Jordan returns to his fence post. Rick allows thirty seconds to pass, then calls out, “Jordan Douglas?” as if for the first time. This go-around, Jordan walks properly to the window.

  • • •

  “I’m just gonna do some pervin’ with the Bushnell.”

  And with that, the twenty-four-year-old caddie takes his golfer’s rangefinder from his bag and stands on the eighteenth tee, both hands cupped around the device as if it were a pirate’s telescope. He does actually look like a sketchy pirate as he scans his rangefinder down Links Road, on the hunt for passing women. His white sunglasses (Dolce & Gabbana knockoffs) are pushed high onto his head, over his caddie cap. His back is to our entire g
roup. For the moment, the scouting is unsuccessful. Until . . .

  “Oh shit! I forgot about the Himalayas!” he exclaims, and swings his Bushnell wide and left, over toward the putting green.

  “Oh mannnn . . . there it is!” he yells, honing in on an unsuspecting voluptuous blonde. “I’m beamin’ her ass at a hundred and eighteen yards,” the caddie reports breathlessly.

  I’m on my first round back at the Old Course. Joining me are two young trainees (from nearby Cupar, home to the pub chant “Ya think you’re tough, ya think you’re super, but you ain’t nothing till you’ve walked through Cupar”), plus Bushnell Kid. And on every hole, I’m welcomed back by the other caddies. Dawn Hinds lifts her club in the air. Gary Easson gives me a thumbs-up. Colin Gerard—out by himself with four Vietnamese golfers in matching green shirts—waves to me, then signs the letters “SOS” in the air.

  As we stand on the eighteenth tee now, Nathan Gardner approaches us on his way to the first green. He’s carrying a little pink golf bag ahead of his Japanese lady, a huge sarcastic grin splashed on his face. His shades are on, and his knit caddie hat is fully unfolded so that it stretches above his head like a chimney pot. “This is classic switch-off stuff,” Nathan says through his grin, and walks away, holding the pink bag with just a few fingers, as if it were a trash bag with a dead rat inside.

  As Gardner leaves, Bushnell Kid turns to me. “This your second year caddying?”

  “No, fourth,” I reply.

  The guy whistles. “Woo! Big number.” He seems impressed.

  “Yeah, I guess.” I’m playing it cool. But I’m a little surprised by the number too. It seems huge. Still, I feel proud of it, because I’m starting to realize that it means something. I’m starting to see how returning to a place year after year can pay you back. As my years at the shack keep growing, they’re becoming a firmer part of my identity, a larger part of my life. Now, at the beginning of year number four, I’m glad to be back. Well, sort of . . .