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

by Oliver Horovitz

  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 fo
r 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 . . .”

  I keep scanning the counter. Over the past fifty-one seconds, several facts have made themselves abundantly clear to me. 1) I’m physically shaking, 2) I’m way too nervous to say anything remotely cool to this girl right now, and 3) my only hope of getting her number is to stall for a further, unspecified amount of time, until I can calm down. I have to find something else to buy . . . anything.

  “Oh, uh, I’ll take those sweets.”

  The girl nods, scoops up a packet of lemon drops. “These?”

  “Yup!” I say brightly, and then for some unclear reason add, “For my niece.” The girl rings up the final item, pretty sure that I don’t have a niece, and looks at me.

  “That’s forty-nine pounds.”

  Shit. This was more than I was expecting. I pull out a grubby fifty-pound note that I received less than fifteen minutes ago and realize that I’ve just blown all my caddie earnings from today. Somehow I’m emboldened by this depressing detail, and leap into action.

  “So . . . are you a student here?”

  There’s a long pause.

  “Yes,” the girl finally answers.

  Another pause.

  “Oh . . . cool. What do you study?”

  The girl makes a face that seems to ask, “Is this actually happening?”

  “English.”

  I’m about to begin the next bar of my conversational concerto when she adds with finality, “Well-have-a-great-day.”

  I leave the store, tossing my pork chips into a bin on the way out.

  * * *

  I’ve been single since the last week of May, when Claire and I broke up. And I’m remembering that my skills with girls are, strictly speaking, not award winning.

  Claire was my first serious girlfriend. A hilarious, cute brunette from Charlestown, South Carolina, she was, like me, a first-year student at St. Andrews. We dated for the second half of the school year, including a Valentine’s Day weekend (yep, I finally had a girlfriend on Valentine’s Day) spent exploring the Scottish Highlands together—forty-eight hours that, for me, approached dream status. Then summer arrived, and several facts became unavoidable. Claire would be back here next year; I wouldn’t. Claire was heading back to America for the summer; I was staying here to caddie. The decision that followed made sense. The scene that followed this decision was less orderly—with my leaving Claire’s dorm room, then running headfirst into her four roommates, who collectively looked ready to administer my life’s second, and possibly more violent, circumcision.

  Several weeks later, I’ve still got that afternoon on regular repeat. I’m pretty sure that splitting up was the sensible thing to do. But I’m also realizing that sensible, when applied to romantic relationships, rarely makes a great deal of sense.

  • • •

  “Hurry up! It’s starting!” Everyone’s already in the living room.

  “Yeah, I’ll be there in ten seconds!” I yell back from the kitchen. The microwave’s cycle is almost done, and the cheese is starting to bubble. I grab my creation and dash into the main living room as fast as my throbbing legs will turn over. Five other kids are already there, glued to the UK’s smash-hit reality show Big Brother. They all turn as I enter. Eva looks at me.

  “What is that?”

  “Pasta with butter and cheese.”

  Sarah looks inside the bowl and remarks hesitantly in a Northern English accent, “That’s a lot of cheese . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “And a lot of butter.”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  Dave elaborates on this point. “It looks like shit.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” I search for a clever retort. “You’re shit.” And then I sit down. Clever retorts are harder after double caddie rounds.

  I’m growing to love my digs, a rented garret room in a flat that occupies the top three floors of a stunning Victorian h
ouse overlooking Market Street, St. Andrews’s half-mile-long main artery. From my door, I have no more than a three-minute bike ride to the Old Course. As important, my building is flanked by a pub called the Red Reiver and a wine seller called Luvians Bottle Shop. Five other university kids are also living in furnished rooms in the same flat this summer: 1) a nice English kid named John, whose parents own the flat, 2) his girlfriend Sarah A, 3) John’s older brother Dave, 4) Sarah B, a University of St. Andrews third-year, and 5) Eva, a Russian girl who spends summers working in Scotland. I quickly discover that all of my flatmates are very European, and very cool. And everyone, like me, has a busy summer job. John and his brother Dave caddie at Kingsbarns Golf Links; John’s girlfriend, Sarah A, waitresses at a coffee shop on South Street; and Sarah B and Eva bartend at the Pilmour Hotel, a pub frequented by Old Course caddies (and known to insiders as “TP’s”).

  “Any good tips today?” Dave is asking Sarah B.

  “Yeah, two American golfers were chatting me up all afternoon.”

  “Minted?”

  “Big-time.”