The other thing is that very few people are prepared to meet the price of their dreams. Years ago an editor in New York told me that when the last collection of Fitzgerald’s stories was put together at the end of his career and the publisher asked the author for a title, Fitzgerald said, “The Price Was High.” And he might have been thinking not only about the price he paid but about the price paid by those who stood beside him.
And even now, living this dream with Jack, I can hear fathers asking me: You mean my son might be good enough at golf to play on a professional tour someday and I could caddie for him? Where do I sign up for that? What do I have to do? My answer would be: Well, at age fifty-eight you have to leave home for six months and go live alone in one room in Scotland with no car, no TV, no Internet, no telephone, and you have to start at the bottom of the pile and work 187 days without a day off, walking about a thousand miles, most of it in brutal weather. For starters. And then you have to go back to Scotland a second time at age sixty and do it again. The same drill. Only this time with a bad right knee. I won’t know any other way to answer. There might be a shortcut, but shortcuts also carry a price. In fact, in Death of a Salesman it is the affair Willy has that costs him the love of his favorite son. And you have to dig deeper to see why he has the affair. The woman he is sleeping with is a secretary to the big buyers, the guys at the top who can buy what Willy is so desperately trying to sell. It’s complicated stuff. And in two hours I’ll be happy to stop thinking about it and just concentrate on golf.
Jack is fast asleep as I write this. Just after he turned out his light last night, I took the advice of a good friend, a former student of mine, and asked him if he wanted to play this last tournament on his own. I called to him across the dark room. “Hey, Jack, I was thinking … you might want to have this round tomorrow to yourself.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean, you’re the only golfer on this tour who has played every round, every shot, with his old man standing beside him. I was thinking I might sit this one out. I’m kind of tired, and it would give you some space. You’ve earned the right to have the round to yourself if you want it that way. I promise you won’t hurt my feelings. I just want you to walk away from Houston on your own terms here, however you want it to sit in your mind. I was here; I saw it. I’m proud of you and what you’ve done. I’m leaving with fond memories. So, sleep on it, Jack, okay? You can tell me in the morning.”
“Okay, man,” he said. “We’ll see.”
FEBRUARY 16, 2012, THURSDAY NIGHT
This morning, just after seven, when Jack stepped out of the shower, he said to me, “I want you out there today, Daddy. We started this together, and you’ve been with me all the way, so let’s finish up together.”
“Good enough, Jackie,” I said.
Of course I was relieved that he had made this decision, especially when we were informed by the tournament official at the start of our round that a forecast of heavy rain tonight would likely make the course too wet for a second round tomorrow. Meaning I would have missed my last chance to walk beside Jack on this tour.
At 8:20, Jack made a poor swing on his first drive, and the ball sailed up the right side of the fairway into bad ground. He recovered on the next shot and landed an eight-iron seventeen feet left of the hole. The greens were soaking wet, and his lag putt fell three feet short, leaving him a downhill second putt with a left-to-right break. He struck the putt a touch too hard, and the ball fell into the left side of the hole and then jumped out. A disappointing three-putt to start the round. One over par after one hole.
He was discouraged but not beaten, and he recovered to record pars on the next six holes. But I could tell by the dirt in the grooves each time I cleaned his clubs that he wasn’t flushing the ball. He was striking the ball off the toe. After another three-putt on the par-4 8th hole, disaster struck when his drive from the 9th tee, a 247-yard carry over the marsh, turned left instead of fading back into the fairway and landed in the water. He tried to recover, hitting his second drive onto good ground, but he couldn’t steady the ship from there, and he posted a triple bogey. I think only the second one on this entire tour.
We talked then about how there is almost always pain in competitive golf, and I reminded him that he had already proven many times that he could fight his way back from disaster.
He proved it once again, recording six pars and a birdie in the next seven holes. But on the 17th, a 600-yard par-5, he blocked his drive into the woods. For the first time on the tour I found myself looking for a ball that my son had hit, and I wanted in the worst way to find it. Nothing rips a caddie’s heart out like failing to find a golf ball. As I was walking through the woods with my head bowed, I tried to concentrate on the task at hand, but I kept recalling all the times in Scotland I had somehow found my golfer’s ball. This time I failed. We had to play Jack’s provisional shot from the tee, and it was stuck in thick grass off the left side of the fairway. All he could do was hack it out into play, which left him 187 yards from the green as he took his fifth shot. “I’ve got to save a bogey here, to have any chance at all,” he said. “I know,” I told him. It came down to a nine-foot putt from the right side of the green. He looked down the line carefully, then settled into his stance and drained it. I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “That damned hole was a struggle. This is the first time your shirt has come untucked here in Texas.”
He tucked it back in as he climbed onto the 18th tee box, then striped his drive and set up a lovely nine-iron that never left the flag all the way to the green. We both thought it would be maybe four feet from the hole, but when we got to the green, we saw that it had rolled seventeen feet past. And then, for the second time today, his par putt sat on the lip and wouldn’t drop for him.
A six-over-par 78 was a great disappointment to Jack. You figure when you make twelve pars and a birdie in a round that you will post a better number. But there wasn’t time now to look back; the tournament director was waiting for everyone coming off the 18th green with word that we would play a second round in half an hour because the forecast was so poor for tomorrow. I couldn’t have asked for more.
But there was one catch: every player in the thirty-four-man field had to agree.
It came down to one player refusing to play and an ugly scene. One player after another begged him to change his mind. But he wouldn’t budge. He had played well enough in this first round to win some money if the second round was canceled, and he wasn’t going to jeopardize that, even if it meant disrespecting every other player in the tournament. Barry took it upon himself to use that great word from the old country and called him a wanker to his face. It was a moment I will always remember. And because I’ve had difficulty all my life walking away from an asshole without first telling him the truth about himself, I let him know that I had witnessed my share of wankers on golf courses in Scotland, and his behavior was the most compelling display of poor sportsmanship I’d ever seen.
And that was it. We are now waiting for the rain to start tonight. If it is raining when I wake up at four in the morning, I know that Jack and I will have played our final hole of golf here in Texas. God, I’m hoping for a miracle with the weather so that Jack can have one more shot at a great round here and so that Barry can go out there tomorrow and beat the miserable wanker.
Jack will get a text from the tournament official at seven in the morning, and then we’ll start packing the truck for the drive north. We’ll leave this room where we have eaten and slept and talked and laughed and lain awake worrying and counted our blessings just for the chance to be here.
FEBRUARY 17, 2012
There were flood warnings last night as we were packing. But here it is Friday morning at 5:30, and there has not been a drop of rain. When I looked out the window and saw the parking lot was dry, my heart began to race, and it felt as if a miracle had taken place. With two and a half hours until our tee time, our chances of playing improve as each minute passes w
ithout rain.
Last night it hit Jack and me at the same time that there was only one way to resolve the injustice of what happened yesterday. And so I wrote an e-mail to the director of the tour, a fellow who is known to be fair and also to read his e-mails:
Tyler,
Sorry to bother you. I hope I get to meet you someday and thank you. Jack and I are sitting here, packing up for the long drive back to Maine and licking our wounds after the injustice of this day. And we are just thinking that the very best thing that could happen now for every player in this last tournament except the one player who refused to play the second round today would be if you let us play tomorrow no matter how bad the weather is.
Just let the boys play, Tyler. I’ve seen great competitive rounds of golf played in St. Andrews, Scotland, in the worst weather you can imagine. In fact, I’ve seen some of the most heroic golf played in those conditions.
That would be a terrific way to wind up the tour. Thanks again.
———
Somewhere outside Memphis. We finished our round at 11:30 this morning in light rain that never threatened the tournament. Before we left, while Jack changed his clothes, I had a chance to talk a bit with the two boys from our group today. Noah was twenty-four years old, and this was the end of the road for him. He had a beautiful game and hit the ball a mile like Jack. “No,” he said solemnly, “I gave myself this tour to see if I could putt. I never sank a single putt the whole time. I’m through.” Brian, on the other hand, was planning to play thirty events on the Adams Tour this summer.
“Q school for you in the fall?” I asked.
“You got it, sir,” he said.
“Good for you,” I said.
“What about Jack?” he asked. Even as I was explaining that Jack was not a dreamer like his old man and that he was ready to go back to the real world, I was doing the math in my head. He had finished his last round on the tour at three over par, hitting sixteen greens in regulation to match the sixteen he had hit yesterday. He had hit every fairway from the tees except one again. No one on this tour had better accuracy from the tee, and only a few players had hit more greens in regulation, and this was a triumph to me for a kid who had not played any competitive golf in almost three years before Texas. But Jack wouldn’t see it that way. In today’s round he had seven tap-in pars, which to him meant seven more missed birdies to add to the seven he had missed yesterday.
But that isn’t what I am going to remember from our last round of golf together. I am going to remember Jack giving Barry a couple of hats from the Inverness Club. And Barry very sweetly trying to persuade Jack that he had a future in golf. “You play fearlessly, Jack. You were only behind me by a few strokes these last couple of events, and I’ve played in a hundred tournaments. Think of the progress you’ve made. I’m just saying, think about it. Look ahead five years and think what you could accomplish in this game.”
And there was Jack thanking Barry and telling him how he saw things. “I never played up to my potential here, Barry. There were three or four rounds when I embarrassed myself. I have to be honest about this. You’re either the real deal in this game, or you’re just a pretender, lying to yourself. I don’t want to do that, man. I came here and, yes, I made some progress, but I never played up to my potential. I wish I had. But I didn’t.”
I watched them shake hands. In that moment I understood something about my son. He saw the grace in an ordinary life lived honestly. Something that big dreamers like myself almost never see.
I am going to remember Jack rolling in his last putt for a par with a golf ball that had his girl’s initials on it. And how he cheered on his playing partners through the round, even though they were his opponents. And then the moment today when I looked up through the mist and rain and saw Jack walking toward me, wearing the black jacket that I had bought him that winter day at Carnoustie five years ago where this journey of ours began. Five years ago, I thought; like anyone, I wanted to get those years back. And in a way I got them back this winter in Texas.
I am going to remember all of it for as long as I can. The handshake on the last green. The quick embrace. And the walk to the parking lot when Jack said, “That’s that, man. It was real, wasn’t it?”
I was a step behind him. “Yeah, Jackie,” I said. “It was real.”
By noon we were on Route 59 heading north out of Texas into winter, just another father and son in this world who would soon say good-bye without any clear idea when we would ever see each other again.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In the curious geometry of life, it turns out that some of the best philosophers and psychologists in the world carry golf clubs for a living in Scotland. They are as tough and determined as sled dogs, and they are also generous teachers and spiritual advisers, raconteurs and even meteorologists when they are called on to be. One of the great privileges of my life was to work for two seasons in their company, and though I poured everything I had into this work and tried to measure up, if I were to return there and work for ten more seasons, I would still be learning from Neal, Big Brian, Wee Brian, Adam, Andrew, Gary and Jimmy, Kenny, Paul, Alan, Colin, John, Scottie, No Chance, Pots and Pans, Billy the Bullet, the Beast, the Goose, Donuts, Stretch, Johnny, Connor, Kim, Stevie, Kevin, Mark, Sean, Arthur, Gavin, Robert, Ian, Duncan, the wise old veteran Glen, and half a dozen Malcolms, including the incomparable Malcolm of Stirling, who held me up on my sixtieth birthday, and big Malcolm, aka the Whale, who once in a sleet storm took my glasses off for me and dried them when I was too cold to move.
I am grateful to my caddie masters for every round of work, especially Davy Gilchrist, who got me started, and good old Kenny McLeod in his red jumper up the road at St. Andrews Bay, who should be called by central casting if Hollywood ever needs a caddie master.
Every caddie needs a home, and I am grateful to Philip Rolfe, who runs the Scores Hotel to perfection and who always made me feel welcome in the Chariots bar, where my journey began and my long days often ended.
Long ago, after Bryce Roberts first showed Jack how to swing a golf club, there were some fine young golfers at the Algonquin in St. Andrews-by-the-Sea, New Brunswick, who taught my son a lot about the game: Marty Mitchell, Peter Young, Chad Parks, Matt Myers, Todd Duplessis, and Timmy McCullum, who could hit the ball almost as far as Jack grew up to hit it.
David Scott, a glorious golfer and one of the best people you’ll ever meet, was the first person I caddied for, and though I got all the yardages wrong, he never held this against me. While caddying for my son, I often turned to David for advice, as I did the fine Canadian golfer Gordon McGarva, who, in the summer of 2011, won the Victory Cup in St. Andrews, and Ray Farnell, an outstanding caddie on the PGA Tour who took a walk with me on the Old Course the night before he caddied his first round of a major. And there was the brilliant young Irish golfer Barry O’Neill, who helped Jack and me on the Adams Tour. I know that someday I will watch Barry play in the Irish Open, and if there’s any justice left in the world by then, he will be paired up with Rory McIlroy in the final group, on Sunday afternoon.
The friendship of John Carr, Zac Sherman, Charlie Woodworth, Mike and Pat Ciesla, Brian Durocher, Colin Harrison, David DeSmith, and the matchless writer Daniel Asa Rose carried me through this book. I owe them for this, as I owe Jim White of Toledo, Ohio, who was the first person to tell me that I had to go to Scotland if I wanted to learn to be a caddie, and his son, Jimmy, who has been such an important person in Jack’s life and in mine. The whole time I was away from home, I had the support of my old friends Glen York, Jim Sullivan, Jeff Sullivan, Ed Beem, Mel Allen (my first editor, “back in the day,” as Jack says), and Doug Eisenhart and his dear wife, Gilly, who grew up in Edinburgh and moved to the States and thinks me perfectly daft for loving her Scottish weather. It meant so much to me after Jack moved away when Jono Sexton would come to Maine from time to time and take me golfing out at Prouts Neck.
For the years when I was living this story, and then
writing it, I had people in New York City whose belief in me made all the difference. Thank you, Victoria Pryor, Rich Morris, Lynn Nesbit, Jason Kaufman, and Robert Bloom.
Of all the fine philosophers I worked with in Scotland, Stevie Morrow, who walked me through some early season jitters, delivered the best caddie line I ever heard. “Don,” he said one sunlit morning as we made our way to the 1st tee of the Castle Course, “when I get stuck out there with a real wanker, I give him the bronze treatment instead of the gold, which means the same lousy reads but without the smile.” I have a deal with Stevie. When I am old and facing the end, I am going to ask Colleen to take me back to St. Andrews for one last walk on the Old Course with some of the old caddies who were still young when I knew them. I will wear my black rain jacket with the Links Trust emblem over my heart and the word CADDIE on my left sleeve. Stevie will help me out to the 11th green, and then we’ll turn and slowly make our way back toward the timeless embrace of the old gray town, and I will remember.
FROM JACK SNYDER …
I would like to thank everyone who helped me chase my dream. I was overwhelmed with the support from so many friends and family. Not only financial support, but the emotional support and encouragement from everyone were greatly appreciated. I wish that things had gone better and I had performed at a higher level, but the experience was life-changing and something that I will carry with me the rest of my life.
In particular I want to thank Dave and Susan Snyder, Randy and Callie Curtis, Carl Patrick, Mark and Laurie Murphy, Marty Scarano, Jim Sullivan, Peter Waldor, Mike and Melissa Field, Doug and Gilly Eisenhart, Johnny Guarino, John Carr, Steve Kapelke, Colin Harrison, Chris and Julie Tansey, my three sisters, Eryn, Nell, and Cara, and my grandmother, who made the journey to Houston possible.
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