The best job I ever had was being a golf caddie (not caddy; I must admit I never knew which was the correct or more correct spelling, until just now when the venerable A Dictionary of Modern American Usage by Bryan A. Garner informed me caddie is correct; caddy is a "box or container"; though The American Heritage Dictionary says either one is acceptable for the "golfer's assistant" word; I always preferred caddie, not liking that -y spelling, y being the hermaphrodite of the alphabet; nothing against hermaphrodites, I just like the -ie rather than the -y). As the weather here lately screams golf and America's second greatest (nothing beats the Kentucky Derby, of course) sports event, The Masters, gets ready to commence, my thoughts naturally turn to memories of growing up on the links, hauling golf bags or chasing after carts, raking traps, tending pins, looking for lost balls, and ultimately just having a great time.
When I was still a pretty young caddie, probably thirteen or fourteen, and had just moved up to carrying two bags, doubles, I had a rather unfortunate experience. One of the bags I was carrying belonged to a golfer who wasn't very good. Nothing out of the ordinary there. So on the 13th hole he hit his drive into some woods. We walked in to find it (unlike the other novice caddie who became a semi-legend when, doing as he was told and following his golfer everywhere, he started to follow the guy into some woods; "Give me a break, son," the golfer turned to him, "I'm just going to take a leak."). Well, still being a bit dwarfed by the two big bags on my shoulders, I didn't see a tree root and tripped and fell straight down. Embarrassed as hell, I got right up without bothering to check for any damage. We found the ball, the guy kicked it out in the fairway, and I got into place beside the ball and put his bag down for him to select a club. He started to reach in for a club then jumped back and shouted, "There's dog shit all over my clubs!" Realizing immediately what had happened during my fall, I instantly jumped back to see if there was also dog shit all over me. Luckily, there wasn't. The guy, not too happy, obviously, about incurring a dog-shit-mottled set of clubs and bag along with his penalty stroke for an unplayable lie, quickly and angrily grabbed my nice white towel, a caddie's #1 tool, and vigorously rubbed his clubs and bag clean. He then threw the towel back to me, as if I wanted it. Luckily I was still a shy lad and didn't blurt out what my young but lightning quick mind was thinking: a rather appropriate comment on the state of your game, don't you think, sir?
In time, I grew to be a pretty good caddie, though one less apt to hold his tongue. One of the guys I caddied for many times over the years, a very good golfer who was a bit cynical and mean-spirited at times, once asked me what the wind was doing. Naturally, in response, a caddie bends over, rips a few blades of grass out of the turf and drops them to the whims of the wind. In this case, the blades, like Newton's apple, fell straight down. "The wind appears to be blowing down, sir."
Half the fun of being a golf caddie was going out in a loop with another caddie. One of my favorites was a guy named Sydney. He was one of the legendary "adult" caddies, he must have been about fifty or so at the time. Sydney had caddied for years. He weighed about 72 pounds and had about five teeth, and he had one of the greatest smiles and laughs I've ever known. And I could listen to him for hours. He'd tell me all kinds of stories about his experiences being a lookout on an ice-cutting ship or being an assistant to a medical examiner. Few experiences in my life were as enjoyable as standing on a hill watching golfers tee off a couple hundred yards away on a beautiful day and listening to Sydney tell me autopsy stories. One day we were out together and the guys he was caddying for kept hitting their balls into sand traps. Now raking a sand trap and trying to keep up can be quite a challenge, and it gets old pretty fast during a round. Well, on one of the last holes, one of his golfers hit his tee shot into yet another trap. We were on the tee, not more than a few yards from the golfers. As soon as that ball landed in the sand, Sydney leaned over to me, and in a not so quiet whisper asked me, "What the hell they think I am, Lawrence of f-----g Arabia?" I think I finally stopped laughing about that one just last week.
So many great times. So many great stories and people. Maybe some day I'll tell you about the fart on the 14th hole that changed my life. For real.
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