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

by Oliver Horovitz

  “Are you Ollie?” she asks.

  Lydia is tiny. She would be five-foot-two-ish in high heels, maybe. Short blond hair pokes out from under her white Welsh Golf cap. Although her bio says she’s nineteen years old, she immediately seems serious beyond her years. Serious, yet at the same time casual—a combination that somehow strikes me as very “pro.”

  “Yeah, hi, nice to meet you!” I say, still flustered from the run but trying to exude tournament-caddie confidence. I grab Lydia’s clubs, and we set off for the first tee. En route, Lydia hands me a small notebook, in which she’s written (rather exact) carry yardages for her entire bag: 228 for a driver . . . 98 for a pitching wedge . . . 92 for a pitching wedge mid-grip . . . I’m reminded of Bernhard Langer, whose caddie once supposedly told him, “Okay, we’ve got one sixteen from that sprinkler head,” to which Langer replied, “Is that from the middle of the sprinkler head or the back of it?”

  On the first tee, Lydia does some funny little warm-up exercises—short plyometrics squats and jumps—as I intro the hole. “Okay, so we only want two twenty or two twenty-five off this box,” I say, trying to lean against our golf bag like Burt Lancaster would a wall. “Any more than that, we’ll get into that light rough up there. Ideal line’s on that green bush.”

  “Got it,” Lydia says simply. She’s in the zone already. As I look on, Lydia pulls her rescue club, makes two practice half swings, then absolutely bombs one up the middle.

  “That work?” she asks. Would that ever not work?

  “Yup,” I grunt in as world-weary a tone as I can muster. I’ve got a player.

  * * *

  Our opening practice round is, to put it in technical caddie terms, sexy and thrilling. Despite Lydia’s size, she bombs it 260 off every tee box. Her swing is short, compact, grooved. And deadly accurate. Everywhere I tell Lydia to hit, she hits it there. She chips in three times—once for eagle. I’m at the controls of a powerful machine. Throughout the round, I show Lydia ideal lines off every tee. I give her my best guesses for where the tournament pins will be cut. We hit multiple balls to different spots on the fourth green, hit practice putts from tricky areas of the seventh. We discuss run-outs from the eighth tee and where the trouble spots are on the par-3 ninth. This is a different type of caddying—tournament caddying—and I’m loving it. It suddenly feels like its own sport. It feels competitive, athletic. Important.

  * * *

  “That where you want it?”

  Lydia is holding her finish, watching as our Pro V1 rockets toward the par-5 twelfth green in two.

  “Yeah, good strike,” I say understatedly as our ball skips up onto the green, to ten feet. I’m trying to act like all the other tournament caddies I’ve seen—feigning just a touch of disinterest, mixed with unwavering self-confidence. In reality, I’m just trying not to trip over our golf bag.

  It’s a quiet summer evening. The wind has dropped, and the light is beginning to fade, the sun settling into purple clouds overhead. Across the estuary, past Tentsmuir Forest, the clouds are darker. It seems to be raining over by Carnoustie. We start heading up to the green. As we walk, I notice Lydia continually glancing over at the empty grandstands on the Old Course. It’s hard not to. The Old Course now looks like a fully rigged movie set, waiting for the crew to arrive. In four days, this place is going to be mobbed. The show is coming. But seeing it empty like it is now, I’m reminded just how close we are to getting in. Lydia must be thinking the same thing.

  “Which hole is that over there?”

  Lydia is pointing over past the eighth fairway of the New, toward the Old.

  “Oh, that. That’s nine green on the Old. It’s an easy par-four.”

  “Cool,” Lydia says. She’s quiet a moment before she says simply, “Eighteen holes.”

  “Yeah,” I say back. Because, really, what else can you say? It couldn’t be more clear-cut. Eighteen solid holes, and we’re there.

  * * *

  Lydia started playing golf at age twelve. Her family, all obsessed with rugby, didn’t play golf (and still doesn’t). But they quickly saw that their daughter was serious. Lydia began taking lessons with her local pro at age thirteen. Six years later, he’s still her coach.

  “I’ll check in with him from time to time, to make sure my swing’s still sharp.”

  Lydia is sitting across from me at Marmaris, a Turkish food joint at the quiet end of Market Street. We’re finished with our practice round, and since Lydia doesn’t really know anyone in St. Andrews, I suggested that we grab dinner. Already, I feel kind of like a big brother to her.

  “So your family didn’t make the trip over?” I ask, sipping my Sprite.

  “No, they have to run the store back in Wales. Plus, you know, the trip’s kind of expensive. I’m trying to get some sponsors, but, yeah, we have to be careful with costs.”

  “Yeah.”

  It must be lonely, being here by herself. Especially before the biggest tournament of her career. Lydia starts tucking into her chicken kebab.

  “So what are your plans for this fall?” I ask. “Got any other tournaments coming up?”

  “Well, I’m actually going to try for Tour School this November. For the Ladies European Tour. It’s in Spain.”

  “Oh wow. Nice!”

  “Yeah, so I’ll hopefully be playing some other comps before then. A lot of people, like, don’t think I’m ready. But, you know, why not, right?”

  As I watch Lydia sitting here, eating her dinner, I think of how, I dunno, real this all is. She’s nineteen, and she’s finished with school; she’s not going to college. This is her moment now. She’s going after her dream. I’m pumped to be in her corner.

  The owner of Marmaris comes over to our table.

  “Lee-dia, is everything good, my friend?”

  He’s found out that Lydia’s playing in final qualifying. And he’s loving it.

  “Oh yeah, it’s delicious. Thank you!” Lydia says, looking up from under her golf cap. She looks like she’s twelve. The owner beams.

  “If you win on Monday, I throw you beeg partee here at shop. Everything free!” He motions at me. “For your caddie too.”

  “Thanks,” Lydia says.

  “Thanks,” I say. I imagine him running down to meet us on the eighteenth green Monday afternoon, with a giant chunk of lamb doner.

  • • •

  The night before a big tournament, it’s standard practice to have a quiet night, go to bed early, and get plenty of sleep.

  The night before final qualifying, a huge bumblebee flies into my bedroom.

  Groggily, I grab a Golf in Scotland brochure and fling it at the bee. It’s a good fling, and Colin Montgomery’s face strikes the bee. The bee does not die. If anything, the bee becomes more alive with rage. As it begins making aerial moves in my direction that resemble those of a Star Wars TIE fighter, I retreat to the living room couch, slamming the door closed behind me. For hours, I lie beside the fish tank (and the kelp jungle) in the dark, staring up at the dead leopard on Will’s wall.

  * * *

  It’s 5:10 A.M. when my cell phone alarm goes off. It’s 5:10 A.M. and ten seconds when my bedside-clock alarm, digital-watch alarm, and laptop alarm all also go off. I wasn’t taking any chances with oversleeping. The bumblebee is now gone (or asleep) when I wander back into my room. I make some quick deliberations about what caddie outfit will look most professional and calming for Lydia during her round. I try on an outfit in total Tiger Sunday red, then discard it . . . too dorky. An old gray sweater and black golf cap . . . too bummy. I’m deliberating where to hang my caddie towel from (my belt? My jacket zipper? Do people even hang it?) when I realize it’s now 5:35 A.M. I’m late.

  “You heading off?”

  Will has wandered out into the living room, where I’m doing final pocket checks for yardage books. Will’s been eagerly listening to my qualifier updates the last few days and wanted to see me off this morning.

  “Yeah, we’ve got the seven o’clock
tee time,” I reply hurriedly.

  “Ace. Best of luck, mate! I’ve got something for you, by the way.”

  Will removes an enormous hunting rifle from behind the couch (directly under where I slept last night). It looks loaded. Excitedly, Will flicks some levers and removes the sight.

  “Here, you can use this for today, to grab distances.”

  Will is now holding out the Danish sight toward me proudly. It looks as if I’m about to sniper-kill a moose.

  “Uh, Will, I don’t really think—”

  “It has a twenty-seven-hundred-yard range.”

  I look at my caddie groupie. “Um, I’m pretty sure this is illegal for tournaments . . .”

  Will considers this for a second, his feelings hurt.

  “Okay, whatever. I’m going back to fucking bed.”

  * * *

  Lydia and I are first off.

  In our group is a twenty-three-year-old Spanish amateur with a ponytail and braces and a beautiful, chain-smoking, too-cool-for-school Italian pro from Rome. The Italian pro is about thirty-five and has just flown in this morning, hasn’t yet seen the course. Her tour caddie is apparently back in Italy, so she’s taken a randomly assigned caddie this morning—whom I soon see walking up with the bag. It’s Matt Fouchek, my caddie friend. He got the call-up from Rick twenty minutes ago. He looks unbelievably nervous.

  “You’re in the seven o’clock game too?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, thank you, God.”

  We do a brief, private fist-pound behind our golfers. It’s nice to have a shackmate in the group.

  The mood is weirdly quiet down by the first tee. Most of the 120 golfers are still on the range, or at the chipping green, or doing whatever intimidating preround rituals they do. A stern female Ladies’ Golf Union starter calls up our three-ball, to hand out golf tees and pin sheets and to begin explaining the rules. “Welcome to the seven o’clock starting time . . . ,” she says. I suddenly have to pee. Really bad. On a scale of one to ten, like maybe a seven.

  Italian Pro is up first. She crushes one down the middle. Spanish Braces Girl is up second, does the same thing. (Now I have to pee at, like, an eleven.) Next it’s Lydia’s turn. At this moment, I can barely breathe. Lydia does a little waggle, looks at the hole. She suddenly seems so small up there, so young. I think about the weeks of buildup to get here—the finishing eleventh out of 150 players in local qualifying just to make this event; the trip to St. Andrews without any of her family; the pressure of competing against ninety professionals. Everything about this moment makes her seem vulnerable.

  Lydia takes a deep breath, starts her short backswing . . . and absolutely bombs it right down the middle. Perfect drive.

  I have a new hero.

  Bags and clubs clang as our group strides off the box. I want to sound as sturdy and understated as possible and rack my brains for what a veteran pro caddie might say to his golfer after the opening tee shot. “Good move through the ball,” I settle on.

  Lydia smiles. “Thanks, Ollie.”

  I take out my pin sheet that I’ve scribbled notes on, as well as my yardage book, and begin preparations for our approach shot into the first green. There’s fiery determination in my eyes. Eighteen holes and we’re in the Women’s British Open. Let’s get it on.

  * * *

  There are a few observations that I make over this front nine.

  First of all, Spanish Braces Girl is really annoying. She lets out shrieks of delight whenever she holes putts (which is often, like on the first hole from thirty feet, for birdie), and she screams and slaps her thigh even more loudly if she is disappointed. She also takes forever. Her green reading involves a bizarre three-pronged move in which she stands, then crouches, then kicks into a Camilo Villegas sniper position. Her caddie, a young Scottish kid from Kingsbarns, seems inspired by this and begins doing the same sniper kick for green reading. Soon our group is holding up the entire tournament behind us. As a side observation, I also think that Spanish Braces Girl is sleeping with her caddie—she gives him extended, vaguely fondling hugs whenever he makes good clubbing suggestions.

  Italian Pro, our other playing partner, could not be any cooler. Maybe it’s her casual smile, or her skinny frame that still busts 270-yard drives, or her Italian cigarettes, but she brings to mind a glamorous international spy, working undercover on a golf course. Nothing can shake her. Between cool drags on cigarettes, she makes effortless par after effortless par. Matt Fouchek, by contrast, looks like he’s about to faint.

  Over in the Lydia-Oliver corner, however, things are more shaky.

  Tee to green, Lydia is exceptional today. Her drives are huge. Her irons are dialed in. And I’m becoming less alarmingly nauseous with fear. That’s all going fine. Our problem is on the greens. The New Course greens are different this morning. They’ve been double cut and double rolled. They’re like lightning. And maybe that’s the reason, or maybe it’s just nerves, but today, Lydia’s pace is off. We three-putt the first hole from twenty-five feet. We three-putt the sixth hole from twenty feet. On 8, Lydia leaves an eighteen-foot downhill putt halfway there and falls to her knees. Somehow she holes the remaining ten-footer for par. Behind her, at the side of the green, I close my eyes. This is as relaxing as a quadruple bypass. By the time we make the turn, we’re 3 over. Spanish Braces Girl and Italian Pro are both even.

  It’s frustrating. We’re still really close to the cut number; we’re just not scoring. In my head, I think that even or 1 over par should definitely get in. Whenever I pass other St. Andrews caddies, we’re subtly trading our golfers’ scores from adjoining fairways—with a quick flick of the fingers and then a thumbs-up or -down for over or under par. Most are way over. I see Greaves going up the fourth hole, chain-smoking away and caddying for a Japanese lady (4 over). I see McGinley (4 over), Joe McParland (3 over), Big Malcky (5 over), and Alistair Taylor (who smiles brightly at his golfer, then turns and secretly flashes me the universal hand-on-throat choking sign). It’s an inner community of Old Course caddies in the midst of this tournament, and we all want one another to get in. I think I might have the best chance.

  The twelfth hole is a par-5, but a short one. Lydia slams a drive down the middle, then hits a 3-wood to the edge of the green in two. We’ve now got thirty-five feet, right to left. I show Lydia the line (three cups out right). “Give it a chance,” I say. She strokes the ball. Her putt crests the hill, takes the break, slams into the pin . . . and drops. Eagle. Lydia leaps into the air. Suddenly, we’re back to 1 over.

  “See what happens when you get the right speed?” I say, trying to keep everything calm, but my pulse is privately lunar-launching. We’re now leading our group and definitely inside the cut line for the tournament. For the first time all day, something’s gone really right. Cool Italian Pro pars the hole and grins at Matt. Sweating a little, Matt gives her a strained thumbs-up, then whispers to me, deadly seriously, that he’s thinking of asking her for his first-ever cigarette.

  Lydia and I par the tricky par-3 thirteenth. Then Lydia hits a perfect 3-wood down the par-4 fourteenth and an 8-iron to just short of the green. This is looking good. Like, really good. A par here, and maybe just one more birdie, and we should definitely qualify for the Women’s British Open. As I watch, Lydia chips to ten feet . . . then makes a perfect stroke on her par putt. The putt lips out. Shit. Unfazed, Lydia walks around the other side and taps the remaining three-footer. Which misses too. Double bogie. My mouth drops open. I’m in shock. I think Lydia is too.

  Shaken, we bogie 15. And then 16.

  And then, just like that, it’s over.

  • • •

  Lydia’s 77 is the first score slotted onto the enormous green “Ricoh Women’s British Open FQ 2007” scoreboard outside the Links Clubhouse. Seventy-seven. Five over. Four fucking over for the last five holes. For a while, the wind begins to freshen, and it looks like maybe, just maybe, 5 over could sneak through. But then reality arrives, in the form of
a half-dozen 72s and 73s, and the new cut line drops from 5 over to 4 over. It’s official. The first-ever Women’s British Open to be held on the Old Course is not going to include Lydia Hall.

  We both turn away from the scoreboard, and the large crowd milling in front, and just stand beside each other. Lydia’s already phoned her coach with the bad news, texted her parents with the bad news, shared this bad news with the fifteen different tour pro friends who have asked. It’s time to say good-bye. I should give Lydia some encouragement.

  “Well . . . ,” I start to say.

  And then it hits me: the full wave of emotion. The relentless pounding disappointment. Shit. And then. Fucking hell. And then . . . Why? We were there! The Women’s goddamn Open Championship! I can’t even complete my pep talk for Lydia because I’m so overcome by my own frustration. Beside me, I expect Lydia to be a puddle of tears.

  Instead, Lydia looks up at me, shrugs, does a little smile, and says:

  “Tough day at the office.”

  There’s a pause. I don’t know what to say back.

  I look down at this five-foot-one, nineteen-year-old girl, whom I expected to be crushed—and I know that she’s the real deal. That she’s already absorbed this defeat. That she’s not letting her dream be shattered.

  I’m proud to have been her caddie.

  • • •

  It’s the next evening.

  Lydia has gone home. We exchanged e-mail addresses and phone numbers, and I wished her the best in Tour School this fall. It’s the end of a great partnership—it’s just ending six days too soon. Now everyone who qualified is preparing for Thursday’s first round, playing practice rounds on the Old. The TV crews are in town. The crowds have started to arrive.

  I’m out playing on the Jubilee Course, by myself.

  I can’t stop replaying yesterday’s round in my head, blaming myself in a million different ways. If I’d just given Lydia a 7-iron on 14 instead of an 8-iron, then her chunk would’ve made the green! If I’d just anticipated that she’d pull her putt on 10!

  These thoughts aren’t helping. Playing golf by myself isn’t helping. Nothing’s helping.