An American Caddie in St. Andrews E-Book

Oliver Horovitz

• Herausgeber: Elliott & Thompson
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Seitenzahl: 437

Beschreibung

Longlisted for the William Hill Sports Book of the Year 2014After finishing high school in New York, Oliver Horovitz was accepted to Harvard University. But there was a problem; he couldn't start until the following year. With time on his hands and a long-standing love of golf, the solution was obvious: a gap year at the University of St. Andrews, alongside the iconic Old Course, known around the world as 'the home of golf'.At the end of term, Ollie joined the St. Andrews caddie trainee programme and spent the summer lining up at the caddie shack, looping two, sometimes three, rounds a day, with the notoriously gruff veteran caddies. And so began an adventure that would change his life in unexpected ways.

Leseprobe

Praise forAn American Caddie in St. Andrews

“Anyone who likes golf and St. Andrews will savor this captivating book, but even nongolfers should enjoy Horovitz’s sweet memoir of golfing in the sport’s mecca.”

—Chicago Tribune

“This poignant, funny memoir by Oliver Horovitz, a Harvard student who finds his calling on the Scottish links, is an intriguing tour of life at the world’s most celebrated course.”

—Parade

“An enjoyable and hilarious tale from a young man many golfers will envy for living his dream.”

—Shelf Awareness

“With the energy and joy of youth, he describes his ‘gap year.’ . . . His interaction with the group of ‘pretty’ university girls, deemed ‘Model Caddies,’ is wondrous. . . . Horovitz shares his deeply felt memories of golf, girls, and the academy boldly, never taking himself too seriously or being irreverent about the caddie tradition on the time-honored Old Course links.”

—Publishers Weekly

“In this breezy memoir, the younger brother of a Beastie Boy spills insider tales about looping and living in St. Andrews. . . . The characters—bitter old caddies, the author’s university pals, and his eighty-three-year-old uncle—are lovable. So, too, are Horovitz’s yarns, which feature late-night antics in the Old Toon and a round caddying for Seinfeld creator Larry David.”

—Golf

“A must read.”

—PGA.com

“An utterly absorbing, affectionate, and funny narrative. . . . I loved his memoir so much I lingered over it, relishing my own memories of that mysteriously captivating town, historic links, and addictive Scottish game, and I recommend Ollie’s book to those who’ve either already walked in the footsteps of Old Tom Morris or have a visit to the home of golf on their bucket list.”

—Ron Hansen, author ofThe Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford

“Oliver Horovitz is a writer to watch. Even if you don’t play golf, you will enjoy the Ring Lardner style of Ollie’s An American Caddie in St. Andrews. The book has great characters and a wonderful sense of being a fish out of water.”

—Michael Douglas

“This is a story you have to read before your next bogey. Oliver has his priorities spot-on!”

—Gary McCord

“An American Caddie in St. Andrews is a funny, charming, coming-of-age tale about golf and life. . . . Horovitz is a gifted writer and an engaging storyteller . . . and he can read putts!”

—Huey Lewis

“While exposing the insular world of the St. Andrews caddie, Oliver Horovitz discovers a good deal of truth about golf, golfers, and himself. A terrific read. Recommended.”

—Curt Sampson, author of The War by the Shore

“This is much more than a book about golf. Engaging, witty and wonderfully self-deprecating, Horovitz charts the journey from student life to responsible adulthood in a touching and heartwarming style. He captures the essence of St. Andrews, marrying the disparate worlds of university life with the caddy shack at golf’s most famous course. This story of growing up is told through the insightful observation of a rich range of characters. They get to the heart of what make St Andrews such a special place.”

—Iain Carter, golf correspondent, BBC 5 Live

An entertaining and heartwarming story of summers walking the links, it really captures the allure of St Andrews, it’s characters, and the Old Course. . . . An excellent read.’

—Ken Brown, five-time Ryper Cup player

Oliver Horovitz is a writer, filmmaker, and caddie on the Old Course in St. Andrews, Scotland. He has written about his caddying experiences for Sports Illustrated, Golf World, Golf Digest, and Southern New England Golfer. He divides his time between New York City and St. Andrews.

First published in the United States of America in 2013 by Gotham Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House.

This edition published 2014 by Elliott and Thompson Limited 27 John Street, London WC1N 2BXwww.eandtbooks.com

EPUB: 9781783960019 MOBI: 9781783960026

Copyright © Oliver Horovitz 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Insert photograph on page 1 (middle) copyright © Rory Jackson; bottom photograph on page 1 copyright © Lindsay Allen; top two photographs on page 2 copyright © Matt Fouchek; bottom photograph on page 2 copyright © Gillian Horovitz; second photograph on page 3 courtesy of St. Andrews LinkTrust; top photograph on page 4 copyright © Getty Images, Richard Heathcote; middle photograph on page 4 copyright © Israel Horovitz; bottom photograph on page 4 copyright © Greg Savidge; top photograph on page 5 copyright © Kenny Goosen; bottom photograph on page 6 copyright © Scotimage; all other photographs courtesy of the author.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Set in Janson Text • Designed by Spring Hoteling

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

To Uncle Ken.

“I don’t blame you, I don’t blame you!

I blame me for choosing you!”

—What Seve Ballesteros once yelled to his caddie after a bad clubbing

PROLOGUE

“Please welcome your 2003 graduates!”

The raspy voice of our principal, Stanley Teitel, booms into the loudspeaker. Jack Welch, our class day speaker, takes a seat, having just finished his speech. I’m pretty sure he’s the CEO of General Electric. I know he just talked about GE washing machines, a lot. It’s 10:12 A.M., June 25. I’m onstage at Avery Fisher Hall in New York City, trumpet on my lap, facing three thousand fellow Stuyvesant High School students, parents, and teachers, all assembled for our graduation ceremony. It’s ridiculously hot. My cell phone vibrates, signaling a call that could define my life. I’m waiting to hear from Harvard College’s admission office. I’ve been on their waiting list for the past three months, and they’re supposed to let me know today if I’ve been admitted. As the orchestra strikes up a rousing march, I exit stage left, semi-discreetly, and take the call. It’s Sally Champagne, Harvard’s admissions officer. The news is good. I’ve been moved off their wait list: I’m in. But Sally Champagne keeps talking. There’s a small catch: All class of 2007 spots have been filled. I’ve been accepted for the following year. I need to take a gap year, which is a euphemism for killing 365 consecutive days. But how?

I stumble back to my third-trumpet seat. Dr. Raymond Wheeler taps his baton and scowls at me to pay attention. Trumpet touches lips. We play “Pomp and Circumstance March No. 4” and there is no doubt whatsoever that high school is ending.

I strain, unsuccessfully, to hit my high E-flat and catch Dr. Wheeler wincing as if his firstborn child has just been hit by a truck. It’s no good. I can’t concentrate; my immediate future’s playing out alongside Edward Elgar’s overture. Measure thirty-two arrives, giving me a nine-bar rest. While resting, I tear through coming-year options. After I rule out 1) waiting tables, 2) chopping wood, 3) chopping tables, an idea hits me: a year at the University of St. Andrews, in Scotland, where I’d also applied. I’ve been going to St. Andrews since I was a little kid, to play golf with my family and to visit my mother’s uncle Ken Hayward, who lives four hundred yards from the Old Course’s first tee.

As soon as I get home from graduation, I call the University of St. Andrews. I discover that they have a special freshman-year-abroad program. I call Harvard to see if I can do it. Harvard says it’s okay, if I don’t matriculate for transfer credit. I also discover that the University of St. Andrews has a 70/30 girl-to-boy ratio. I’m also a 1.8-handicap golf junkie. This is all sounding good.

“First place goes to Duncan Montgomery!”

Everyone around me applauds. Several bang on tables. Others scream, “Montayyyyyyy!” at inappropriate volumes. Duncan Montgomery, a third-year student from Edinburgh, waves cheerfully from his seat.

It’s a warm Wednesday night in mid-May, and I’m near the end of my gap year in St. Andrews, Scotland. I’m at the weekly meeting for the University of St. Andrews golf team. True to British university form, the team is entirely student run (no adults, no coaches) and meets once a week, at a pub called the Gin House. It also contains, this year, twenty-five students with handicaps of 2 or better. Results are being announced now from the weekly club medal on the Old Course, from which team standings are determined. The winning student this week (“Montayyyyyy!”), currently necking a pint of Tennent’s lager, has casually shot a 5-under 67. Last weekend, facing a match against Clark University (visiting from the States), the club captain, a party animal from Northern England, showed up on the first tee at nine A.M., sleepless, disheveled, and still in a tuxedo from the night before. He rubbed his eyes, hit his opening drive 280 down the middle, and won his match 6 and 5.

I’m sitting at the crowded team table in the back of the Gin House, beside Michael Choong, a posh Chinese-English third-year student from Wimbledon, and Richard Hooper, a six-foot-three Welsh fourth-year student who last week broke his putter in anger against a tree on the third hole of a match against the University of Stirling and had to subsequently putt with his 4-iron (he shot 68). I lean back in my chair, think about my own relatively puny score of 75, and roll up my sleeves for the ensuing drinking games. It’s going to be a messy night.

Thus far, my gap year in St. Andrews has been unthinkably wonderful. With my £105 student links ticket, I’ve been allowed unlimited play on St. Andrews’s six golf courses. I play a round virtually every day on the Old Course and have dinner at least once a week with my dapper, plaid-tie-wearing uncle Ken. My classes are superb. I read English with Robert Crawford, the good great poet, who has us imitating Wordsworth and Keats. I also study modern history and international relations, taught by brilliantly eccentric old Scottish guys with big ears and impenetrable brogues. I have my first serious girlfriend. I try haggis. I meet kids from all over the world, and together we discover St. Andrews’s thirty-one pubs (the highest per capita pub population in the UK).

Maybe because of its age (nearly six hundred years old), or maybe just because it’s in Scotland, ancient arcane traditions abound at the University of St. Andrews. And I’ve tried to take part in them all. There’s the bimonthly Pier Walk, for which hundreds of students don ceremonial red academic robes and walk down the harbor pier in pitch-darkness, every third student holding a candle for (totally inadequate) illumination. There’s the May Dip, held on May 1, when all seven thousand students stay up through the night attending various parties, then charge into the North Sea at five A.M., totally naked (while a choir sings hymns and bagpipers play from the rocks). And there’s Raisin Weekend, an Animal House–esque weekend in November “supervised” by every first-year student’s “academic parents” (all third- or fourth-year students), involving obscene levels of drinking and culminating in a nine A.M. sixteen-hundred-person shaving foam fight in St. Salvator’s Quad. There’s also the student charity fashion shows, at which ultracool European students dressed to the nines sit at tables stocked with champagne. And the notorious May Ball, held in a gigantic converted farmhouse outside St. Andrews. Here, the VIP “Gold Ticket” gets you a limo ride . . . to the helicopter, which sweeps you along the coast and touches down on the farm, where bumper cars, a Ferris wheel, and chocolate fountains await.

There’s another quirk to the University of St. Andrews. For the last three years, Prince William has been a student here—bringing fame, fortune, and gloriously high numbers of girl applicants to the university. Protecting its prized possession, the university has a special agreement with the royal family: Any student attempting to sell photographs of William to the British tabloids will find him or herself promptly expelled from school. Uncle Ken lives across the street from William’s flat, exchanges pleasantries with him daily, doesn’t ask for autographs or photo ops.

But my most important discovery—by far—is that everyone at the University of St. Andrews seems to play golf. Including very cute girls. For the first time in my life, my golf playing is an asset, as cool (perhaps) as being a quarterback on an American college football team. In St. Andrews, golf runs alongside life. This is not a small deal.

By this point in May, it has become clear to me: I do not want this gap year to end. As glasses clink and club captain Benny Kelly announces upcoming matches, I ask kids at my table what students do for paid work during vacation. Amazingly, I learn that many of my golf team friends stay on in St. Andrews over the summer to caddie on the Old Course. I’m told that caddies earn fifty pounds a round or more, and can, on a good day, loop two rounds a day. The exchange rate for the dollar is terrible, so fifty pounds translates to nearly $100—a hell of a lot more than the $35 a round I’d been earning caddying at Bass Rocks Golf Club in Gloucester, Massachusetts, where my family lives during the summer months. Over pints of Belhaven Best, my friends also tell me hilarious stories of tourist golfers and famously gruff old Old Course caddies. It all sounds good.

I fill out the forms, buy official Old Course caddie rain gear, sign up for the official Old Course caddie training program, change the date of my flight home to America, and find cheap student digs for the summer.

I’m good to go—which is to say, I’m ready to stay.

ONE

“Horovitz, you’re with Kenny.”

Rick Mackenzie thrusts a pin sheet into my outstretched hand. Twenty old Scottish caddies mill about the window of the caddie shack. It seems like a slow day. I nod to Rick, thank him, offer up a sunny smile. I want to make a good first impression, to charm him, and the smile usually works with most people.

Rick does not return my smile. “Get going,” he barks instead.

I get going.

I’m about to do a “shadow round”—the final stage of my official Old Course caddie training program before I can begin earning money. I’ll be following a professional caddie around the Old Course, observing how he operates. Secretly, I’m pretty sure I don’t need this shadow training. I’ve played the Old Course close to 150 times this year. I had the best round of my life (2 under, the only time I’ve ever broken par) on these very eighteen holes back in December. I’ve also caddied summers at Bass Rocks Golf Club since I was twelve. The way I see it, I’m already qualified. Still, a shadow round is what Rick’s requiring, and I tell myself it’ll be good to hang with one of the professional caddies, to pick up some tricks. In fact, going in, I have a romanticized view of this relationship; I see us as Caddie and Shadow, teacher and student, father and son even.

I find Kenny by the first tee. He is a Scot with an accent so thick, even other Scottish caddies have difficulty understanding him. He has three friendly American women in his group, all, like me, from New York City, and I happily chat with them while we await our tee time. My caddie mentor, observing this friendly chat, is all smiles, and I feel my caddie career is off to a great start. As we walk onto the first tee, Kenny yanks me aside, motions to his mouth, and whispers fiercely, “Yuh see what ahm pointin’ to, Jimmah? Shut it!”

The high point of this shadow round, beyond my raking traps and searching cacti-sharp gorse bushes for lost balls, comes on the fifteenth hole, when I’m told (not asked . . . told) to run to the Eden Clubhouse to grab a bottle of water. Upon my breathless return, the professional caddie takes the bottle, turns to his player (who has, of course, witnessed none of my excursion), and charmingly announces, “Here, Judy. I got you some water.” This is not the opening day of my dreams.

By nine P.M. I’m back in my rented St. Andrews flat, and the memory of the day’s caddie humiliation is mercifully fading in the recesses of my mind. From my closet, I pull out a crimson-colored packet that’s arrived in St. Andrews. There’s a boldfaced message on the front cover: Welcome (in 3 months!) to the Harvard Class of 2008.

I open up the packet, revealing twelve pages of advance orientation info. Move-in dates, freshman-year academic requirements, a picture of a dorky kid smiling in pastel green shorts. I really don’t need to look at this packet yet—there are still months before freshman registration—but tonight, I pore over everything. I’ll be living in Weld Hall, the welcome sheet says. That sounds nice. It looks like it’s in the middle of Harvard Yard. There’s also a laundry room in Weld. Sweet.

I count the days till I start. Eighty-three. A part of me wishes it were less. I notice my pin sheet from today lying on the bed and tuck it away in my drawer. I realize I’m actually scared to go back to the shack tomorrow.

My great-grandfather was a junk man. My grandfather was a truck driver until age fifty. My father did all kinds of odd jobs until he was able to earn an adequate living as a playwright. By comparison, I had it pretty easy growing up. I spent my childhood summers in Gloucester, Massachusetts, and from age nine, these summers were mostly spent on a golf course. If I wasn’t playing golf, or hitting balls until my glove wore out at the pads, I was probably somewhere sulking and wishing that I were playing. I also watched golf on TV religiously; I could tell you everything about Viagra and Lipitor by age twelve. Occasionally, I had a job teaching golf to little kids in the city of Gloucester golf program (frequently forgetting our age difference and dropping F-bombs in front of seven-year-olds). I also caddied at Bass Rocks. But more than anything else, my summers meant golf.

I guess for me, spending thousands of hours hitting golf balls felt sort of like a job in itself. Because in the way that all twelve-year-old boys are pretty sure they are going to be professional athletes, I was always pretty sure I was going to be a professional golfer. And in the same way that every twelve-year-old boy keeps a running narrative of his personal details for future TV interviews, I secretly stored away my golf eccentricities, secretly waited for when I would tell Bob Costas about how I always used a women’s putter (I won it when I was eleven, not noticing the green and purple color scheme). I never told anybody at Bass Rocks how I was secretly filing our private conversations away for future Golf Channel specials—how when I played with Pat O’Donnell and shot 2 under on the front nine, that that was the first time I knew I’d be a pro. I never told anyone these things. But each day I went to work. And each week I had to buy a new golf glove.

Obsessions are funny things. When you’re in the midst of them, they don’t seem in any way strange. Or perhaps it’s when you’re young that they don’t seem strange. In elementary school, while some kids drew Spider-Man comics in their notebooks, I drew golf holes. In fourth grade, I conducted a putting demo in my class for show-and-tell day. I also dressed up as a golfer for Halloween. Two years in a row. Yeah, I was that cool.

I felt like I had another job, too, aside from golf: school. I was, by light-years, never the smartest kid in class, but I worked hard. At Stuyvesant High School, a public school with an entrance exam taken by twenty-four thousand New York City kids for eight hundred spots, I made the cut by one question. All stereotypes of high school were thrown out the window at Stuyvesant. Stuy’s football team had perfect SAT scores. Cheerleaders took eight AP courses. My classmates were seriously interesting, funny, but also shamelessly dorky. Everyone knew everyone else’s running grade point average, to the decimal place. The more exciting days of the year were report card days. Our robotics team was nationally ranked. While at Stuyvesant, I would sometimes study five hours a night; there weren’t a lot of chances to relax. But I felt like it was my job to get good grades. I felt like in my family, it was a way to distinguish myself, to carve out some kind of niche. Getting into Harvard, a school that my dad and his buddies in Wakefield, Massachusetts, had only seen and heard of from the outside—this made me feel, I dunno, good.

A St. Andrews seagull squawks outside my window, snapping me back to Scottish reality.

I stare outside at Market Street, past the seagulls and down toward the Central, a pub where my friends and I would grab postround pints during the school year. The sun is sinking lazily behind chimney tops and church steeples, bringing dusk down onto the cobblestone street. I think more about my gap year in St. Andrews, how great it’s been. How it’s given me a (forced) chance to finally breathe. To have fun. To live. I’d been hoping that this summer of caddying would be all that, and maybe more. Because at the moment, I see myself not as a St. Andrews caddie, but as an American kid about to start at Harvard. Sure, I know the course, but I feel a lot more like the American golfers teeing it up here than the guys carrying their bags. I’m here because it’ll be a cool summer job. A thing I can brag about to my friends. And maybe I’m pathetically leafing through my Harvard information packet in my room right now because I’m sure I don’t belong in the caddie world. Because I’m trying to convince myself that there are more important things in my life than the humiliation of this afternoon’s shadow round. Because I’m trying to pretend that I don’t care. I look down at the dimpled blue folder.

Ninety-six percent of Harvard seniors find immediate job placement in their field.

The old caddie doesn’t respond.

I repeat my question. “Is that what he paid you in?”

Again, no response. I’m outside the caddie shack, on the damp concrete path, waiting for another round. The caddie I’m addressing—Neil Gibson, it says on his badge—has been showing another caddie a traveler’s check, seemingly made out to him by his golfer. I’ve walked over to the two Scots, interested and wanting to join in on the conversation. But I’m getting the silent treatment. Both caddies are acting as if I’m literally not there. Other caddies are staring now. This is humiliating. Stunned, I walk back to my bench and sit down. I guess I was somehow out of line.

My first few days here have been a quick introduction to the caddie social structure—which is extremely complex and as firmly in place as the hierarchy of any Mafia “family,” the only discernible differences being that Old Course caddies 1) don’t tend to speak Italian, and 2) drink a lot more Guinness. At the top of the pecking order you’ve got your old-timers—the wrinkly, complaining guys, who’ve spent years earning their stripes. Just below them are the full-time adult caddies. Currently in their caddying prime, these guys pound out thirty-six holes daily, and many have caddied in British Opens, or on the European or LPGA tours. They know their stuff. Below these guys are the university (or university-aged) kids, who’ve been caddying for a couple of summers and have achieved a decent level of cockiness. And at the very bottom of the pack, generally regarded as the scum of the caddie yard, are me and my kind: the trainee caddies.

I’m quickly realizing that the St. Andrews caddie world is not a safe place for newcomers. Less so for young newcomers. Even less so for student newcomers. And infinitely less so for young American student newcomers. Down here, the world is fiercely local, startlingly insular, strongly resistant to additions. There’s no hand-holding, no shortcuts. If you don’t know the run-out to Shell Bunker on 7, the caddies in your group will not come to your rescue. If you misclub your golfer over 11 green, word will get back to the shack. Mistakes are not taken lightly; the attitude is “If you don’t know your stuff, you shouldn’t be out here.”

Different laws govern the grounds of the caddie shack, invisible laws that extend out onto the courses, undetectable to your visiting golfers. If you answer the questions of another caddie’s golfer, you’re dead. If you mistakenly walk left down the first fairway, blocking golfers driving on 18, their caddies will scream “FORRRRRE!!!!” at you furiously. At every step, there’s a sense of danger for newcomers. And truthfully, I feel scared here. I’m far away from the university dorms and the friends I’ve made in St. Andrews, far from my family and the people who know I’m a good guy. I’m in a new, gruff world. I feel lost.

A few days pass. I’m promoted to the “official trainee caddie” rank and begin my first paid round on the Old Course, replete with blue caddie bib and an embarrassingly huge badge reading TRAINEE CADDIE (it resembles the STUDENT DRIVER signs you see on American cars or the big red L on British cars). My golfer is an exceedingly large Swiss journalist who resembles Michael Moore on a very bad day. As the round progresses, so do his drives, from straight, to gentle draw, to mild hook, and (from hole 10 onward) to frightening duck hooks, diving ninety degrees left, before entangling themselves in whatever rough, gorse, or other groups of golfers await. All advice I offer does little to remedy the situation. By hole 16, he is on pace to not break 130, with mulligans. On hole 17, the world-famous Road Hole, he simply stops playing. After we finish, he scribbles all 3’s on my trainee caddie report card (a perfect score) and hands me a crumpled fifty-pound note, telling me not to mention this round to anybody. My mood lifts. My career is off and running.

I practically gallop back to the shack to hand in my card to Rick. I’m eager for a compliment about my perfect report card. I’m feeling more secure right now; I’ve just taken a test, and I’ve passed. This world, I know. Like a dog eager to be petted, I wait impatiently as Rick glances at the card. The caddie master puts down the card and leans out the window threateningly. “I want you to tone it down out there. Caddies are already starting to talk about you.” Before I can respond, Rick closes the window on me. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

If caddie masters came in cooked-beef choices, Rick Mackenzie would not be tender. Originally from western Scotland, Rick has been the caddie master at St. Andrews for twelve years. He’s a rough-looking man in his late forties, with hair that might have once been blond and a stern, stormy face. When he scowls—which is often—he doesn’t seem far away from violence. This is all to say that I am profoundly terrified of Rick. He’s notorious for firing even experienced caddies who have looped for years, for offenses as minor as not shaving before a caddie round. Legend has it that the bruises and scars on Rick’s weathered face are from beatings by previously fired caddies.

It’s apparent that when Rick is around, caddies become worried. Anything you say that Rick takes the wrong way—which is 82 percent of what you say—results in your being pulled into his office. Caddies always feel like they are one step away from being fired. Compounding this is the fact that Rick is deeply suspicious. Witness: Yesterday in the shack, five caddies were watching Alistair Taylor falling asleep and laughing as his head kept slipping from his hands. Hearing the laughter, Rick came charging in and roared, “Does something I said seem fuckin’ funny to you?” Laughter ceased. Everyone had to now desperately convince Rick that this was a misunderstanding.

As caddies in 2004, we’re available for work on all six existing St. Andrews courses.

Course #1, where the majority of our rounds take place, is the famous Old Course (of course). Taking a caddie here is absolutely essential, since without one, a golfer would have zero clue where he or she was heading (almost every tee shot appears as if one is hitting into wilderness). Course #2 is the tighter, tougher New Course (“new” being a relative term here, since it opened in 1895). Course #3 is the Jubilee Course, the toughest golf course in St. Andrews. Course #4 is the calendar-pretty Eden Course, which is not often worked for caddie rounds. Course #5 is the short, straightforward Strathtyrum Course. It’s primarily for high-handicap golfers, and although it does happen occasionally, taking a caddie on the Strath would be a bit like hiring Pete Sampras to restring your tennis racket. Lastly, course #6 is the wee nine-hole Balgove Course. The Balgove is basically a beginner’s pitch-and-putt course, and I have never heard of a single caddie round taking place there (although veteran caddies will frequently joke that upon retiring, they will someday return to the shack, request a trainee for the Balgove, and treat him like shit). All told, that’s ninety-nine holes within walking distance of the town, with rumors of another eighteen in the works. That’s a lot of golf. And a lot of chances for caddie rounds. Which is what I need.

“Man, that’s something, huh, Rog?”

My golfer stands with his hands on hips, looking straight ahead and talking to his friend. I’m on the Old Course, at the par-3 eleventh, a hole that runs toward the stunningly beautiful Eden Estuary and is described by Old Course caddies as the “most difficult par-3 in the world.” (This is absolutely not true. I’ve seen 30-handicap golfers make birdie here.) It’s my fourth round so far as a trainee. There’s a sixty-year-old caddie in the group with me who’s been caddying on the Old Course for the last fifteen years. He lights a freshly hand-rolled cigarette on every tee box. On this occasion, after the initial puff, he announces to the group that we’ve got 160 yards to the front edge. I look down at my official Old Course yardage book and notice that the old caddie’s calculation is dead wrong.

“Um, are you sure?” I ask. “I think it’s actually only one fifty-four to the pin.”

The old caddie shoots me an iceberg stare. “I’ve been caddying here for fifteen years, you think I’m gonna let a bloody trainee tell me about yardage?” he screams, in plain view of the other players. Clearly, I’ve crossed a line here. As we leave the tee box, I try to apologize, but he’s having none of it. He strides out to two caddie friends in the opposite fairway and starts speaking privately (and furiously) with them. I curse under my breath, noting that my absolutely correct advice was, in my new caddie world, a mistake.

After the round, Rick again wants to see me. This time I’m less eager to get to the window. After a fifteen-second “chat,” I gather that Rick is not pleased about what happened on 11. I begin an eloquent excuse, but Rick cuts me off. “You’re on thin ice, mate,” he says, and slams the window shut.

Quietly, I leave the window. I don’t know what to do. As I’m replaying today’s events in my mind, a gentle-looking older caddie passes me. He looks me up and down. I want to meet as many new caddies as possible. I’m also in need of a friend right now. I nod, say hello to him. He does not respond. He glares and walks by.

I shuffle away from the shack and over to the Old Course putting green, to watch four wind-shirt-clad American golfers putting. They look so happy, so friendly. They joke with each other. I suddenly realize that I’m extremely jealous. They’ll be heading back to the States soon. I could be as well. I remember that today was my original flight date. A sudden pang seizes me. It’s homesickness, mixed with a longing to fit in, and above all, loneliness. I want to just rip off my bib, hop the fence, and run over to the Americans. I want to join them, talk to them, play golf with them. Anything but stay here. All at once, I feel trapped—pinned to my caddie identity. I don’t need this shit, I think. Why do I have to put up with this? I could just go home. Enjoy my summer. I wish I hadn’t changed my flight. I wish I hadn’t done any of this. I bite my lip, hold back tears. I feel like Harvey in Captains Courageous, and I’ve just fallen off the ship.

TWO

The doorbell ring dances around the house.

I can hear the sound of a creaking chair, then movement toward the door. Above me at number 4 Howard Place, St. Andrews seagulls dart and dive, landing on the chimneys of surrounding flats. Ten seconds pass; then I hear the door being carefully unlocked, along with an unmistakable cheery giggle. It’s Uncle Ken.

I’m here for my twice-weekly dinner with my great-uncle Ken Hayward. Throughout the school year, I’ve been supping with him on Friday evenings, and I’m praying that these meals continue during my caddie summer. Uncle Ken first came to St. Andrews during World War II. A Royal Air Force pilot squadron leader, he was stationed at RAF Leuchars, directly across the Eden Estuary from the Old Course. Uncle Ken fell in love with St. Andrews, and with a St. Andrean lass named Betty. They married in 1944, and after living for twenty years in England, Ken and Betty retired to St. Andrews in 1964. Uncle Ken’s been here ever since. Betty died in the 1970s, and Isobel, Ken’s second wife, died suddenly in 1991.

Now eighty-three, Uncle Ken lives alone in a huge, elegant Georgian town house at Howard Place that he inherited from Isobel. Uncle Ken was a town councilor for more than twenty years. He was a reasonable golfer (7 handicap) and a member of both the St. Andrews Golf Club and the New Golf Club (whose clubhouses overlook the eighteenth fairway of the Old Course). For the past twenty years, Uncle Ken has been president of the St. Andrews and District Horticultural Society. He knows every shop, every street sign, every house, every tree, and every St. Andrean over the age of seventy-five. You could say, with accuracy, that Uncle Ken’s got the town under wraps. Ever dapper, he always wears a dress shirt and tie, even at home, even in the garden. When on the streets, he sports a tweed jacket and tartan cap. He has a cheery, youthful (and high-pitched) giggle, and a deadly putting stroke. He also has an adorable Jack Russell terrier named Bonnie, who has the look and energy of a wind-up toy. Uncle Ken and I go to a different restaurant every week—which provides a welcome change from my caddie diet of morning cereal, midday chicken sandwich, and nightly pasta. At these dinners Uncle Ken is all business as he enthusiastically fills me in on the town gossip, the state of his garden, and his motor caravan (RV) club trips with “the gang,” plus seriously interesting stories of his time in the RAF and subsequent travels around the world. Uncle Ken has endless plans, a full agenda (which he calls his “gen”). I always fire back with detailed reports of my own golf scores, often hole by hole, shot by shot. I love my time with Uncle Ken. I never want the nights to end.

This evening, over poached salmon at the Grill House, I explain to Uncle Ken what’s been happening so far in my caddie world. I tell him that I’m having a rough go of it. I confess that I’m having second thoughts about this summer job choice. Uncle Ken takes this all in; then he takes in a bite of Tay salmon. A few seconds later, he speaks. “Give it time, Ollie. This will be good for you.” I nod. I want to believe him. But I’m not sure he speaks the truth.

“Alistair Taylor,” the caddie shack loudspeaker bellows.

Alistair, an older caddie with aviator sunglasses and legs so skinny and pasty that they’ve been described as “two out-of-bounds stakes,” is just getting his coffee from the shack’s instant machine. He hears the announcement milliseconds before coffee hits lips and does a huge double take. He’s on the course in five minutes and now can’t enjoy his coffee. “Typical,” he mutters as the others in the shack laugh loudly, “fookin’ typical!”

The epicenter of caddie life is the caddie pavilion (aka the caddie shack). About twenty feet long and twenty feet wide, it is barred from the public’s reach by a stern sign reading REGISTERED CADDIES ONLY (although UNASSUMING tourists often stumble in through any door left ajar, in search of toilets). The room is furnished with wooden benches, a table, a TV, old magazines, decks of playing cards, random golf clubs, and a KLIX machine that dispenses, among other things, vegetable soup with the inexplicable texture and flavor of minced carrots floating in paint thinner. Caddies assemble in the shack early mornings before their rounds (a tinny intercom intermittently blares out the name of the next caddie up), where they play cards and read tabloid newspapers (The Scottish Sun, featuring a different nude girl on page 3 every day, is a highly popular read). On the inside doorway of the room hangs a NO SMOKING sign—shrouded in a constant fog of cigarette smoke.

A caddie’s day begins at different times, depending on how ambitious (and outrageously sleep deprived) one chooses to be. The first thirty rounds are reserved for the Top 30 Group: caddies with the highest number of rounds the previous year. The rest of the bags are awarded on a first-come, first-served basis, unless a paying player books a specific caddie in advance. The caddie manager arrives at six A.M. to start taking down names, but caddies begin to line up outside the shack well before that, sometimes as early as four A.M. Legend has it that Old Course caddies used to arrive when the pubs shut and sleep on the benches by the shack till morning lineup. Ultimately, R & A members complained of the noise, sight, and smell of these unshaven men, and bench rest was banished.

Once caddies sign in and get a number, they are free to do as they please, provided they are at the caddie shack when their name is called. I’ve already learned the art of correlating number and time to wait. Each morning I arrive at five thirty A.M. for sign-in, pajamas under my waterproofs; collect my number; and return to my bed for one to three hours of blissful sleep.

“You’re fookin’ ridiculous! Right is miles easier in!”

Three caddies near me are now debating the ideal line off the twelfth tee (to avoid four hidden bunkers in the middle of the fairway). Alistair has left for his round, coffeeless, bequeathing the untouched cup to another caddie with the accompanying description “White coffee, nae sugar, to’ally virginal.” I’m sitting at the far end of the shack bench, over by the cubbyholes—by myself. I feel as cool as the fifth grader sitting with his teacher on the school bus during a class trip.

Beyond the twelfth-hole-debating group, another pack of caddies is fervently discussing Lee Westwood (“Nice swing, like, but he’s a poncey bastard”). Near them, a balding forty-year-old caddie is telling a joke crescendo-ing exponentially in dirtiness about a golfer and a farm animal. Caddies all around are laughing. They’re hanging out with their friends. They’re having a perfect Tuesday morning. And I’m in no way a part of it.

I adjust my bib self-consciously, pretend to look at my pin sheet. I’m confused about why I’m so excluded. What the hell is going wrong down here? What have I done to deserve this? I don’t get it, and I don’t like it. I resent these guys for their unfriendliness. You know what? Fuck ’em. I start reading a newspaper. More laughter from around me. I try to concentrate on the paper. More banter. No use. I put the paper down, take a deep, quivering breath. I realize something: I desperately want to be accepted by these guys.

THREE

“Now, careful, Henry, it’ll be very hot!”

Uncle Ken places three steaming mugs of Nambarrie tea on the table. Henry, sitting across from me, looks very pleased. He takes a sip, emits a satisfied eighty-three-year-old sigh.

“Aye, this is what I like.”

“Oliver, I’ve got a rock bun from Fisher & Donaldson for you as well,” Uncle Ken calls from the pantry, very seriously. “Would you like it now?”

Hell yes.

Whenever I have long gaps between loops, I’ve been biking up to Howard Place to have tea with Uncle Ken and various gardeners’ club cronies (all elderly men wearing tweed jackets and tweed caps). Here I am treated to heated discussions on horticultural society event planning (“gen”), golf stories, tourist stories, reports of fallen trees, medical reports with more deaths than births, and the center of any local conversation: the weather in St. Andrews. My tea sessions with Uncle Ken and his cronies are extremely cool. They are full of good cheer. They make growing old seem, in a word, hopeful.

Today it’s Uncle Ken and his closest friend, Henry Anquetil. An Englishman himself, Henry was also in the RAF, and married a “WAAF” (Women’s Auxiliary Air Force), as he still labels his wife, Grace. Henry was the head gardener for forty years at the University of St. Andrews. Henry knows every single tree, flower, and bush growing on the university’s massive grounds. He knows them because he planted them.

“How you gettin’ on down there, laddie?”

Henry is interested. Together, both he and Uncle Ken are ardent trackers of my caddie and golf life. They’re the first to applaud me (very Englishly) on good rounds. When, as a St. Andrews student, I broke par for the first time, shooting a 2-under 70 on the Old, Henry’s response was a murmured “. . . By golly, well, I’m blowed!” I tell Henry that I’m trying my best down there. Henry nods. “I’m sure you young lads are doing well.” I nod back in agreement, stiff upper lip firmly in place.

Henry, like Uncle Ken, is tracking steadily toward ninety. Henry, like Uncle Ken, is impeccably dressed every day in shirt, tie, and tweed jacket. Henry, like Uncle Ken, likes to stay on top of all town “gen.” Such information is gathered by Henry daily during his waits at the Market Street bus stop, alongside the other “ancients” (as Henry and Uncle Ken call themselves). All gen is then disseminated at the kitchen table daily. As they hold forth over the town, Henry and Uncle Ken bring to mind Statler and Waldorf, the balcony-seated old men in The Muppet Show.

Henry turns his attention to another important matter.

“Did you see the leeks at the Kingsbarns flower show, Ken?”

Henry is now holding some pictures (of leeks) that he took from the vegetables competition. Scouting photos.

“I did, Henry, yes.” Uncle Ken is all ears.

“Were as big as my cup!” Henry shows me an approximation of their size. “I went like this . . . one, two, three. I said, ‘By golly, they’re good leeks.’ ”

Henry and Uncle Ken are alternating presidents of the St. Andrews Gardeners’ Club and travel frequently to flower shows around the surrounding towns. Together, they spy on other vegetables that have won top prizes—six-foot-long leeks, immaculate carrots—to see how their St. Andrews show in September will compare. Fierce competition simmers on these flower-show circuits. The first-prize cucumber will be talked about in surrounding towns; eighty-year-old women with poor flower showings will sulk for weeks.

Dong dong dong.

The grandfather clock chimes three o’clock. It’s time for me to head back down to the Old so Rick doesn’t kill me. Uncle Ken sees me off at the front door, wishes me a good second round. Henry joins him out front, towering over my uncle (Henry, unlike Uncle Ken, is pushing six feet tall). “I hope they tip you well, lad,” Henry says, a twinkle in his eye. It’s obvious that both men are proud to know a young caddie on the Old. I tell Henry I hope they tip well too, and unchain my bike from the fence. As I pedal away, I glance back up at the stoop, where Uncle Ken and Henry stand, tweed coated and walking stick steady. They both tip their caps at me. I smile. I can’t help thinking that they’re the last remnants of a time past.

FOUR

“We’ve got Yanks.”

Willie Stewart, a mustachioed Scottish caddie who looks permanently annoyed, motions to his two friends. I’m in the group too, although I’m not motioned at. The three Scots start walking to the first tee. Before I follow, I have to first pay my five-pound “admin fee” at the shack window. Every caddie pays Rick five pounds at the start of each day, as a kind of sign-on payment. Since caddies are technically self-employed, this money connects the caddie department to wages earned from golfers. The “admin fees” go toward the upkeep of the shack, as well as various caddie supplies like bibs, hats, and caddie waterproofing subsidization.

Rick’s at the window as I approach, and he sticks his hand out immediately for my fiver. I scrounge around in my pockets (underneath my waterproof pants) and finally pull out four pound coins. Nothing else. I remember that I brought down only five pound coins this morning. I also remember that I bought a bottle of water ten minutes ago from Rick, for a pound, because my throat was dry. I probably should not have done this.

“Rick, I guess I’ll have to pay you the final pound after my round,” I say.

I definitely should not have said this.

Rick turns a volcanic shade of maroon and leans out the window toward me. “Well, you won’t be caddying today then, that’s for sure!” he bellows. This is not good. I’m considering trying to trade back my half-empty water bottle when someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s an older caddie who’s witnessed this scene. He hands me a pound coin. I take it and thank him.

“You owe me two back,” he growls.

This is round number six for me in my quest for thirty. That’s the golden number for trainees. It is the number of rounds, supposedly, after which Rick Mackenzie reviews our progress and (hopefully) promotes us to the rank of full caddie. Nothing is guaranteed, though. First you need to pass a difficult written exam, in which you must name many of the 112 bunkers and provide accurate sketches of the breaks in several Old Course greens. Plus, Rick seems under no particular pressure to take on new caddies. He’ll promote to the rank of official caddie only those trainees who are near flawless.

All paid up now, I jog to catch up with the other three caddies, headed toward the first tee. At the tee box, Willy distributes pin sheets to the other caddies in the group. I ask if he has an extra one.

“You’ll hafta get one for yourself, kid,” Willy grunts. “I just got ’em for me boys!”

I walk back to the starter’s hut to pick up my own pin sheet, aware that 1) I’m still at the insect end of the food chain, and 2) I’m probably not one of Willie’s “boys.”

The Old Course gets roughly twenty-five thousand visitors every year. The overwhelming majority of these twenty-five thousand are Americans. English, Japanese, and Canadians come next in frequency. Then it’s Spanish, followed by French, followed by Germans. As Willie predicted, we’ve got Americans today, and from hole 1, I go to work. I’ve been picking up some crucial unwritten rules of caddying, either observed from my older counterparts on the course or overheard as I eavesdrop on conversations in the shack.

There are a few key rules: First, a young caddie who’s out in a group of veterans has to tend/pull most of the pins on the greens. If he doesn’t do his share, he will incur the wrath of the other caddies. The pin rule actually applies to most caddies—so anyone not pulling enough pins will quickly become known as lazy. Caddies who discover at the window that they’re out with such-labeled guys will mutter, “Well, I’ll be getting every fucking pin this round then . . .”

Second commandment: Before rounds, it’s considered bad form for a young caddie to go up early to the tee before the other caddies (shit, I always do this!) to introduce himself to the group. Holding court in front of the whole group treads on the other caddies’ toes. They’ve been here longer, the thinking goes, so let them play to the group.

Unwritten rule number three applies to bag selection. As a trainee caddie, you should always pick up the heaviest bag. If there’s a cart bag, you need to take it. This isn’t required, but it’s a way to gain respect.

Rule number four: If you’re asked questions during the round about history, course changes, and things of that nature, it’s considered respectful to defer to the older caddies. (“Hey, Fergus, John was just asking when the Swilcan Bridge was built. You’d say it was in the fourteen hundreds, right?”)

And finally, number five, and the most important rule of caddying ever: You must never, ever, question another caddie on the course in front of his golfer. If putt reads are wrong, if lines off tees are suspect, do not throw your fellow caddie under the bus. There is nothing to gain from correcting an older caddie. You make him look foolish, and you will quickly incur the wrath of the other caddies. These rules all have something in common: Don’t be a big shot. I wonder if they think I am.

FIVE

“Do you want anything else?”

The English girl in Luvians Bottle Shop is staring at me. She’s tall, blond, and outrageously good-looking.

“Uh . . .”

I glance over the counter. I’ve already bought two bottles of whiskey (which I don’t particularly need) and a packet of pork chips (which I definitely don’t eat). But I’m desperate for an excuse to keep talking to her. For the last few days, I’ve been passing this store and this girl and gradually falling in love. Now I’m inside, and I’m finally in front of her, and . . .

“Um . . .”