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

by Oliver Horovitz

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 post-round 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 cadd
ie 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 loudseaker 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.