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

by Oliver Horovitz

  • • •

  “When can you come visit in Paris?”

  Sylvie’s French accent, when she speaks English, is almost too cute to handle. Especially this evening, when I spent all afternoon in Dundee. Outside Sylvie’s window, I can overhear the high-pitched peeps of Vespa horns and Paris traffic. Outside my window, that R & A guy is hitting bunker shots from his garden.

  “Hopefully in a few weeks. I just have to save a little more money for the trip.”

  “I want to see you soon! I miss you! My friend and I were speaking about you today. Everyone wants to see you!”

  “I miss you too, so much!”

  And I do. When I speak to Sylvie on the phone, I wonder what I’m really doing here, in Scotland. Sure, I’m not exactly, like, living in a Dumpster, but the five months I just spent in Paris were so amazingly different—as if my life had actually begun. And I met a girl, who is now my French girlfriend, and who is begging me to come back and see her in Paris. So, like, isn’t this what you’re supposed to do when you’re twenty-one? Aren’t these exactly the things you’re not supposed to let slip away? I miss Sylvie, and I miss being with her in Paris. And right now, when I think of her from my room, St. Andrews feels tiny, totally isolated. Of course I’m happy to be back. But suddenly I’m realizing that St. Andrews isn’t the only place I want to be. Maybe I’ve changed—maybe I’m growing up, or my horizons are expanding, or maybe I’ve just got this girl on my mind. It’s clear to me that there are two kinds of love: the love you feel for your eighty-six-year-old great-uncle, and the love you feel for your French girlfriend. Two very different types of haggis.

  “I’ll start looking at flights—I think I can get over in two weeks,” I say to Sylvie, as I hear another bunker shot being struck in the R & A practice bunker and a marbles-in-the-mouth R & A voice scream, “Oh, jolly good shot!” I wonder if I can head to the airport right now.

  • • •

  It’s the next day. I’m on the New Course, caddying for an American guy. On the first tee, he tells me loudly, “Oliver, we’re going to have a lot of fun today!” which, I’ve come to understand, is a sure sign that we will not be having a lot of fun today. Sure enough, the man begins by pulling his approach shot into a green-side bunker, flubbing the bunker shot, then throwing his club violently into the bag and screaming, “FUUUCKKKK!” at the top of his lungs. This transitions into what I would term a “storm cloud of immense anger.” He begins scolding me for infractions as serious as 1) not telling him a putt was downhill, 2) not adequately drying his golf ball after wiping it with my towel, 3) giving him “too much club” when our approach shot from 156 yards ends up 10 feet past the pin, for birdie. By hole 3, he has thrown three different clubs. By hole 5, I hate him. On the ninth hole, as we walk toward the green, the man turns to me and asks casually, “So, do you ever have to caddie for any real assholes out here?”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  I’ve booked a flight to Paris!

  It’s all set. I’m flying on Ryanair—the dirt-cheap UK airline that offers 99 p fares around Europe, minuscule seats, and flights that land in distant, inconvenient airports around Europe. Ryanair is so low on frills, they’re actually debating whether to charge for onboard toilet use. None of it matters. In less than two weeks, I’ll be heading from Glasgow Prestwick (a smallish airport outside Glasgow) to Paris Beauvais (a smallish airport wayyy outside Paris). For one delicious weekend, I’ll be in Paris, spending every minute with Sylvie. I’ll be trading the Eden Estuary for the Seine, haggis for crêpes, Paul Lawrie for Jean van de Velde. I’ve even got my excuse for missing weekend work lined up for Rick—stomach flu, a bad one, potentially flaring up exactly two weeks from now.

  I gave Sylvie the good news last night, and she’s already arranged a whole weekend’s worth of parties, dinners, and barhopping. I’m mesmerized by this girl. I miss her like crazy. I can’t wait for that weekend to get here.

  * * *

  It’s now Thursday afternoon, and I’m on the Old, caddying for a banker from Philadelphia who plays slowly and unsteadily. He’s here with three buddies from college, all from Philly as well. The other caddies in my group are Alistair Taylor, Colin Gerard, and Neil Gibson—an actorly-looking sixty-year-old St. Andrean with a thick head of cotton-white hair, who’s banned from almost every single pub in St. Andrews . . . as well as from Tesco supermarket. Neil’s a top-thirty list guy. And he can be a tough caddie. He’s reputed to have walked off the course on the fifth hole when his golfer hit into one of the Seven Sisters bunkers, then couldn’t get out in four swings. “Fook me, I thought you said you could fookin’ play!” Neil said.

  “I can!” the guy replied, three feet below from the sand.

  “Well, get the fook outta the bunker then!” Neil snapped, and walked off the course.

  Today, though, everyone is getting on splendidly, and Neil’s guy loves him. We’re on the sixth hole, and after a short wait (Dougie Saunderson has come walking across our path, carrying, for some reason, an entire pull-cart over his shoulder like a mining pickaxe), one of our golfers pulls his tee shot left into the thirteenth fairway. “Abraham Lincoln,” Colin announces.

  “Huh?” the guy asks.

  Colin explains. “Dead Yank.”

  This round is my initiation into the on-course caddie one-liners. I’ve been hearing them occasionally over the summers, but out in this group today, my three caddie-mates are on fire. “That’s a South America,” Neil announces when his golfer’s putt stops one inch in front of the cup. “One more revolution needed.” On the next green, Alistair Taylor can’t figure out the break on their tricky putt. “Fook me, we’ve got a Salman Rushdie,” he says, referencing the rather impenetrable writer.

  “What’s that?” his golfer asks.

  “Impossible read,” Alistair replies.

  On the seventh hole, Colin’s golfer crushes a drive down the middle, setting up an easy approach shot. “Titty licker, sir,” Colin says with a grin.

  His golfer turns to him, still smiling brightly after his drive, and says confusedly, “Huh?”

  “Opens up the hole.”

  The golfer, grossed out, doesn’t comment.

  I’m noticing that these jokes are said more for the benefit of the other caddies than for their golfers. Colin and Alistair and Neil aren’t trying to make their golfers laugh—they’re just trying to crack each other up. And even though I find most “golf jokes” bone-jarringly corny, the ones from these cool Scottish caddies are somehow different. They’re better. Funnier. Less PG-13.

  On the back nine, there are more.

  As a badly struck shot bounces up the fairway: “That’s a sister-in-law.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re up the middle, but you know you shouldn’t be.”

  And others.

  As a tee shot on a par-3 is duffed fifty yards: “That’s a Bon Jovi.”

  “Huh?”

  “Halfway there.”

  There are sports ones . . .

  Upon reading a putt: “Okay, we’ve got a Lance Armstrong.”

  “A Lance Armstrong?”

  “One ball left.”

  Movie ones . . .

  After a badly read putt: “Fookin’ hell, that was a Rock Hudson. Thought it was straight, but then it wasn’t.”

  Political ones . . .

  After a putt lips out: “Ach, fookin’ Monica Lewinsky! All lip and no hole.”

  And subjective ones . . .

  “That’s a Kate Winslet.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A little fat.”

  A lot of Old Course caddies out here could moonlight as stand-up comedians. I remember once being out with Nathan Gardner on the twelfth hole—a tricky par-4 with five hidden bunkers in the middle of the fairway. On the tee box, Nathan described these hidden bunkers to his golfer, who doubtfully replied, “Really? Are you sure?” To which Nathan responded, without missing a beat, “Well they were there this morning . . .”


  As the round continues, I grow happier and happier. I love being out here with these guys. They’re so funny. So cool. And they’re treating me like an equal. On the sixteenth hole, another caddie one-liner is delivered when Alistair’s golfer hits a low, skulled drive that runs forever.

  “Mmmm . . . that’s a Sally Gunnell,” Alistair announces, referencing a female British Olympic track star, famous in Scotland for being, well, not their greatest beauty.

  “What’s a Sally Gunnell?” Alistair’s golfer asks earnestly, eating it up like it’s sticky toffee pudding.

  “She’s ugly, but she’s running,” Alistair replies.

  I smile. This is my favorite caddie one-liner, for a very specific reason. There’s a rumor that several summers ago, a man on the Old Course was playing the fifteenth hole when he hit a similar skulled drive. “Sally Gunnell!” the guy’s yellow-toothed caddie proudly proclaimed. “She’s ugly, but she’s runnin’!”

  “That’s great,” the man replied. “I’m her husband.”

  The caddie’s tip at the end of this particular round was—shockingly—not high.

  • • •

  “I think I’m getting in at six o’clock!”

  “Oh wow! That is so great!” Sylvie is excited. I am too.

  “Yeah, I’ll just jump on the metro when I get there and meet you at your apartment.”

  My Paris trip is a week away, and I’m having trouble thinking about anything else but Sylvie. I think I’ve rechecked my flight details about 150 times.

  “I’ll call you later, Sylvie, before I go to bed. Okay?”

  “D’accord! Bon après-midi!”

  I hang up with Sylvie, but I’m still thinking about her as I walk from number 12 to number 4 Howard Place, with my computer. It’s five o’clock in the afternoon, and I’ve got another big appointment. One that I’ve been waiting a long time to schedule.

  * * *

  “Blimey! Do ya have the whole picture on this?”

  Henry is sitting with Uncle Ken on the couch. My laptop is on his lap. And Henry is in a state of amazement.

  “Yep, the film’s all on this computer,” I say.

  “By golly, well I’m blowed,” Henry murmurs, shaking his head.

  I’ve assembled the gents here this afternoon for an official viewing of the caddie documentary. I’ve already been giving out DVDs at the shack, and the caddies so far have been loving it (I think Rick liked it too, although he still pulled me into his office to yell at me for various moments he was “unenthusiastic” about). Today, though, it’s the big 4 Howard Place screening, and I wanted to be here in person when Uncle Ken and Henry finally saw the film . . . and themselves.

  “All ready?” I ask.

  “Yes yes . . . ,” Uncle Ken replies a little impatiently (Antiques Roadshow is on in twenty minutes, after all). I check the volume, make sure it’s all the way up, then press play. The film fades up from black.

  “Well, look at that! There’s the caddie shack. And all the caddies . . .”

  Henry is narrating from the sofa.

  “And there’s the eighteenth green of the Old Course . . .”

  Henry is still narrating, pointing each location out to us, as if this were a slide show. “And there’s Hope Street . . .” From my perch behind the gents, I wait eagerly—because I know what’s coming next . . .

  “And there’s . . . By golly . . .”

  For the first time, maybe ever, Henry goes quiet. Because right now, Henry and Uncle Ken are watching, well, Henry and Uncle Ken.

  “Aye, this is what I like . . . ,” video Henry says. He and Uncle Ken are wearing exactly the same outfits that they now wear on this sofa.

  “Now, careful, Henry, this’ll be very hot,” video Uncle Ken says.

  “Hee hee hee,” real-life Uncle Ken giggles.

  “All right,” video Henry replies.

  “Well I’m blowed,” real-life Henry exclaims. He turns to Uncle Ken. “He’s got us on sound and everything!”

  “I know!” Uncle Ken giggles again. And now Henry begins laughing, and laughing loudly. The smile on his face is bigger than I’ve ever seen. He looks back at me for a second like I’ve invented electricity. And as I stand behind the sofa, watching my uncle and his best friend watching themselves, I know that all the hours I logged on this film in Sever House were worth something. Because now I’m here, in this living room, making Uncle Ken giggle his giggle, and Henry laugh his laugh, and whatever this all means, whatever it is that’s making my heart race—it feels cool. It feels right. It feels like maybe, just maybe, I’ve discovered what I want to do with my life. Still another kind of love.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  It’s Tuesday morning—only a few days left before Paris!

  I’m sending Sylvie e-mails. I’m calling her nonstop. I’m searching around shops for gifts to bring her from St. Andrews. I am so excited for this trip.

  I’m still thinking about Sylvie as I walk into my flat after a late double round. Both my flatmates are home.

  “Jizzie Pants was at the party.”

  Will Skjott is nursing a White Russian from the green couch. Hilly is sitting beside him.

  “Oh yeah, he came with the Shire Horse. God, he got absolutely hooned,” Hilly says. “Sock was there too.”

  “Why was he called ‘Sock’ again?”

  “Someone caught him wanking into a sock.”

  “Oh yeah, right.”

  Will sees me and, without asking, pours me a White Russian—then continues his reminiscing.

  “Raisin Weekend was brilliant in the flat that year, Ollie. We had a three-story-high plastic pipe, and all our academic children had to drink from it at street level. Mate, they got involved.”

  Hilly nods. “Big style. Then our academic brother started pouring vodka down the pipe while they were drinking.”

  “Also I think someone peed in the pipe too . . . ,” Will adds reasonably.

  If the University of St. Andrews had a Mafia family, Will Skjott and Chris Hill would be the godfathers. The lads met freshman year as dormmates in John Burnet Hall—located ten seconds from the Old Course’s seventeenth green. After terrorizing John Burnet together (friends of mine living in John Burnet years after Will and Hilly would still hear stories of their antics), the pair became flatmates at 12 Howard Street. Five years later, they’re both still here, marching semidecidedly toward master’s degrees in modern history.

  As far as best mates go, they’re an unlikely pairing.

  Will was born in Denmark but from the age of twelve went to a fancy English boarding school called Abingdon. It’s the kind of school that rivals Eton, the kind filled with sons of lords, the kind that ensures you will spend your early adolescence wearing tuxedos.

  Chris Hill, by contrast, is a Northern boy. He’s from Yorkshire, where he went to state school. Hilly is a seriously talented football player—he plays on several semiprofessional teams around Fife. Hilly’s reputation in football at the University of St. Andrews was eclipsed only by his reputation with the female student population at the University of St. Andrews. Chris, to put it mildly, got “stuck in” while at university.

  The friendship of a UK “public school” boy and a state-school boy wouldn’t be a big deal in America, but in Britain it definitely is. Hilly and Will spent the first few days of St. Andrews sizing each other up, not really knowing what to make of each other. What drew the two together though, ultimately, seems to be their shared love of adventure—and of “banter.”

  The two boys speak in code—using nicknames for everyone they know. Pinkie. Beastie. The Spaniel. Gonetta. Beaver. Sleazie. Rambo. Horsie. Teflon. Gonno Green (GG for short). Poison Dwarf. Meningitis. Jizzie Pants One. Jizzie Pants Two. Shrew Face. Chopper. Redders. The Chatten Wenches. Trotsky. Shovel. Trow. Dump Truck. Wee Beastie. The Atholl Ax. Singaporno (from Singapore; acts like a male porn star). And so on. For Hilly and Will, each character exists within a rich framework of pranks, Scottish university high jinks, and (extrem
ely intertwined) romantic liaisons. Almost everyone I’ve ever met at the University of St. Andrews is known to Will and Hilly. Remembered. Cataloged. It’s an anthropological study of British university lore, but with more lager.

  “The Grad Ball’s coming up, Ollie,” Will says. “We’ll have to get you a ticket.”

  “Cool,” I say. Frankly, I’m in awe of Hilly and Will. They’re so much cooler than any American college students that I’ve met.

  “Is the Paris trip all sorted?” Hilly asks.

  “Yup! I can’t wait. It’s gonna be awesome!” I reply.

  “What day do you leave?” Will asks, sipping his White Russian.

  “Friday morning.”

  “Fucking loving it!” Hilly says.

  I am too.

  FORTY-NINE

  The final few days pass by in a blur of grass and flags. Until, at last, it’s the morning of my Ryanair flight out of Scotland and back to Paris. In six short hours, I can kiss Sylvie again, and smell her perfume, and try to make her laugh with my laughable French. I’m proud of this coming weekend. I set this trip up myself. I made this happen. The American kid is on his way back to France.

  The preflight journey is not exactly easy. On the bus ride to Glasgow Prestwick Airport, feeling extremely fragile after a caddie night out, I ask the bus driver if we can pull over for a second, for some fresh air. The heavily tattooed bus driver (doing a bouncy eighty) stares at me in his rearview mirror.

  “No fookin’ way.”

  I gulp really hard, make an admission.

  “I think I’m about to throw up.”

  This gets his attention. Bus driver slams on his breaks, swerves us into the breakdown lane beside a field, and, wild-eyed, wrenches open the doors. “Go go go!” he shouts. I tumble off the bus into a beautiful field of poppies. And here, as forty Scottish passengers look out through the windows, I drop to my knees; take several deep, shaky breaths; and . . . nothing. Actually, I feel slightly better. I reboard the bus, having not thrown up, and nod weakly to the driver. This is not the result he was looking for. The rest of the ride in, he eyes me anxiously in the mirror, as if I’m Mount Saint Helens.