“Oh, wonderful. I’ll just pass that along to your boyfriend then . . .”
“Get stuffed, Dave!” Sarah B replies with a sharp kick to Dave’s shin.
Early this morning, our flat bustled with action as six roommates prepared for their day jobs. Now, ten sunlit hours later, the flat is transformed into a haven of immobility. We are collectively so exhausted that the mere notion of being horizontal is enough excitement for any of us.
“I had a legend on Kingsbarns today,” John announces, nursing his Stella.
“Yeah?”
“It was a corporate outing, so the shack has to pay us fifty quid before we even start, right? My guy’s a Vegas hotel owner. He gives me a hundred-dollar bill at the end, and I tell him, ‘That’s really generous of you, sir, but you only have to pay the tip today—we’re already getting fifty quid from the shack.’ And the guy says, ‘Oh,’ looks in his wallet, clearly only has hundred-dollar bills, and goes, ‘Ah fuck it, just keep it.’”
The others laugh. Sarah A turns to me.
“What time are you down tomorrow, Ollie?”
“Eh, not too bad. Five.”
Dave whistles. “Good effort!”
“Yeah, well, you know . . . I’m trying. Long as I don’t have that Polish guy again.”
I set my bowl down on our coffee table and sink back happily into my couch cushion. Most nights of ours seem to follow this same routine: preparing and eating dinner together, usually pasta, and trading highlights, lowlights, and no-lights of our particular workdays. It’s my first time living in a flat away from home, and I like it. A lot.
SIX
I’m heading to the first tee to meet my golfers for my second round of the day. It’s four P.M., and dark clouds have begun to roll off the North Sea, toward the Old Course. I’m exhausted. My golfer introduces himself. He’s a tall, clean-cut forty-five-year-old from Spain. In his halting English, he lets me know that his bag is waiting, just by the fence. I follow his pointing finger to a cow-sized cart bag, obviously stuffed to the brim with an assortment of useless golfing items. (Witness: He packs a twenty-five-foot extendable golf-ball scooper. There is a total of one water hazard on the Old Course, and there are at least three ball scoops lying right alongside said hazard.) I suck in my breath, lift his cow, force a smile, and follow him to the tee. As we walk down the first fairway, I look over at the other caddie in our group, a strong-backed six-foot-three fellow trainee, cantering along. He is smiling. He is also pulling a cart, rented for him by his player, who uses no more than a ferret-sized Sunday bag.
At the end of the round, I limp up the concrete steps to the front of the R & A building, where golfers always pay their caddies. I dump the bag on the ground for the last time, just as my fellow caddie perkily glides his ferret-on-a-cart to a halt beside me. My golfer reaches into his pocket and takes out a crisp fifty-pound note. “That’s what I’m talking about,” I say to myself. My jolly mood crashes to earth as my golfer says, “Split this between you two.” I’ve had about as much as I can take.
“Excuse me, you know the trainee rate is twenty-five pounds plus tip, right?”
“Ohhhh! I apologize,” my golfer says, and looks genuinely sorry. He reaches into his pocket and produces a fifty-pence coin, which he places in my hand. “There we are. Sorry about that.”
• • •
I’ve been trying to pump out the rounds lately, in my quest for trainee-scrub promotion. I’m desperate to shed my trainee identity and be moved up to the promised land of full caddie-dom. So this week, I’ve decided to go into caddie overdrive, doing doubles (two rounds in a day) whenever possible. And already, I’m starting to understand some key elements to caddie life.
Like tips.
Along with pace of play and golfer ineptitude, tips rank as the biggest subject of caddie shack discussion. Officially, the full-caddie rate in 2004 is thirty-five pounds, plus tip. The trainee rate is twenty-five pounds, plus tip. This tip, or “caddie gratuity,” is left unspecified, and it creates a vast gray area, which will often (always) determine what caddies think of their golfers. A wonderful round with a pleasant golfer who then tips badly leaves a sour taste in caddies’ mouths and will assuredly induce post-round complaining in the shack. Caddies even have slang for certain tips. A fifty-quid total payment (fifteen-pound tip) is known as the “Hawaii Five-0,” after the popular TV show. It is considered a low tip, worthy of complaint. So a caddie might say to another, “I think we’re gonna see the Hawaii Five-0 today,” or use an even looser spin-off of the idea, such as “Fook me, we’re definitely goin’ to Hawaii today.” It is inner-shack lingo, and Hawaii, or the need to “get your surfboards out,” will be frequently mentioned out loud right beside golfers, who have no idea what their caddies are talking about.
A well-liked story in the shack involves the caddie last summer who asked his elderly golfer, on the first tee, what he did for a living. “Oh, I’m an actor,” the man replied. “I was on this show for years that used to be with CBS. You might have heard of it, Hawaii Five-0?” The caddie’s face fell. He knew what was coming. And as if confirming the presence of divine caddie law, he received fifty pounds at the end of the round.
Above the Hawaii Five-0, a payment of fifty-five pounds (the “Britvic 55,” after a UK soft drink) is still bad. Sixty pounds is considered good. Nothing special at all, but fine. A caddie would be slightly disappointed if certain things throughout the round had pointed toward a higher tip—a miraculous green-read on 18 for birdie, or leading the golfer to the round of his life—but sixty is normally considered good. In no way, however, would sixty be considered a “reward” for great caddying. Seventy is a nice reward, and anything higher will be talked about in the shack appreciatively. Triple-digit tips are not that uncommon. Everyone gets a “ton” (one hundred pounds) at some point each summer. And any payment below fifty is deemed equivalent to stabbing a caddie’s child.
What tip each golfer will likely dispense is frequently discussed among caddies throughout the round. The predictions take into account a stunning variety of factors, including the golfer’s perceived talent, personality, gender, hired tour company, and nationality. Nationality is big. Americans are not only the most frequent visitors to the Old Course, but also tip the best. Just north of the U.S. border live the people considered the worst tippers in the world—Canadians. Scottish caddies will frequently grumble, “He was a nice guy, like, but the fucking Canadians can’t tip.” (There’s also a regularly repeated saying in the shack: “What’s the difference between a Canadian and a canoe? A canoe tips.”) The English are bad too. So are the Germans. So are the Japanese, but that’s more complicated. The Japanese aren’t particularly stingy (golf drivers sometimes go for eight hundred dollars in Tokyo), but their golfers are usually on highly regimented tours with greedy Scottish operators who want extra tips for themselves and will often direct their Japanese golfers toward low caddie gratuities.
As a trainee, all rules governing my own pay are out the window. My trainee caddie badge is an embarrassing reminder to golfers of my lowly class, my supposed blithering ineptitude. The caddie report cards that I have to distribute to my players above the eighteenth green seem to scream, “I’m just learning! Pay me less!” And if that’s not enough, there’s the humiliation of standing there while Rick Mackenzie notes to my golfer—directly in front of me—that I am a trainee caddie (implying that if I suck, it’s not really his fault), and that my rate is thus “only twenty-five pounds plus tip.” So for me and my kind, fifty pounds is a great payday, and the money is usually lower than that.
It’s disheartening—I have to work much harder to prove myself to golfers, to overcome my trainee status and show them that I know my stuff. And that’s another reason I’m doing doubles whenever possible. I need to show Rick that I’m a hard worker and show the other caddies that I’m serious about this. Respect isn’t given freely out here. It has to be earned. And that’s what I intend to do.
• • •
St. An
drews is different in summertime. The town has changed form. The students are gone, their popped pink collars replaced by roving packs of American golfers (always in foursomes) and sunburned Scottish “holidaymakers” on pub terraces sipping Magners cider. The days are longer, the seagulls more restless as they swoop over the Scores (a scenic street near the North Sea). Golf is in full bloom, at peak season. The ballot is crammed full each day, hopeful walk-on golfers begin lining up at four A.M., and the caddie shack is heaving to keep up with the demand. In spite of my lower trainee rate, the money is good, and for the first time in my life, I’m making a bunch of it. I’m paying my own rent, buying my own food, depositing grubby twenty-pound notes into Lloyds bank. I feel like an adult, and it’s exciting. I’m still not respected in the shack (by a long stretch), but I think I’m moving in the right direction.
At day’s end, I’m handed fifty-five quid for my eighth round as a trainee. I hop on my bike and cruise back into town. The streets are still filled with people, and I still wear my caddie bib proudly, fully conscious of the awed looks American tourists give me as I ride by: an Old Course caddie. I’m loving the attention.
Suddenly, a car screeches noisily to a halt ten yards from my bike. A voice screams out, “Take that goddamn bib off, you know you can’t wear that in toon!” It’s another Old Course caddie. I remove my bib.
* * *
Caddies’ nights out are defined by job prospects for the following morning. During the early part of the week (the packed days), when most caddies will be getting down to the course between five A.M. and six A.M. for sign-up, the thought of a late night out—of arriving at sign-up groggy eyed and hung over—is, in a word, unappealing. However, when the next day’s ballot displays a slow workday, caddies sportingly make up for lost time. Enter St. Andrews’s pub scene.
A common view among Americans is that Old Course caddies predominantly congregate in the Jigger Inn—the famous pub located right alongside the seventeenth fairway, adjoining the Old Course Hotel. This is as accurate as the belief that a haggis is actually a ferocious animal (of which, interestingly, many caddies have been known to convince ignorant unsuspecting tourists). Caddies avoid the Jigger for a number of reasons: 1) It’s too far from town, 2) it’s too expensive, 3) it’s filled with tourist golfers who think Old Course caddies hang out there.
Older Old Course caddies opt for more centrally located pubs like the Dunvegan and TP’s. There is, however, a locally known game called the Jigger Challenge. In this game, whoever comes down 17 on the Old Course stops in the Jigger and helps themselves to a certain number of pints. The amount is up to the contestant, but that person then must play the eighteenth hole in fewer strokes than downed pints. To my knowledge, there have been very few winners of this game.
• • •
I’m pedaling up to Howard Place.
I’ve got an especially important midevening job here—green bean planting with Uncle Ken. The baby-blue gardening gloves are waiting for me when I pull up, as is Uncle Ken. He’s on the stoop, intently staring down Hope Street, and waves at me with relief. I’m six minutes late, but in eighty-three-year-old Uncle Ken’s world, this is enough to necessitate active stoop-watch duty. As we begin planting out in the garden, the frustrations of my day melt like snow. The work is wonderfully simple, relaxing. Inside this little garden, it’s just me and Uncle Ken. I pat down another bed of green beans, with Uncle Ken instructing me on proper planting procedure. Then I hear a bark and feel a warm lick on my cheek. Bonnie has joined us.
For the past sixteen years, Bonnie has been Uncle Ken’s constant companion. They share thrice-daily long walks by the Old Course, where Bonnie hunts and finds unlucky golf balls, sometimes two dozen in a single outing. They travel together on weekend motor caravan trips. (Uncle Ken is a stalwart member of the Scottish Motor Caravanners’ Club.) The two are inseparable. Whenever he eats a meal in a restaurant, Uncle Ken brings a small brown bag with him and discreetly slips a portion of his beef into the bag for Bonnie. (Uncle Ken confesses, with the sigh of a longtime spouse accustomed to his wife’s picky habits, that Bonnie will only eat the very finest Scottish beef.)
I quickly realize that as much as Bonnie needs Uncle Ken, he in return, living alone in such a large, lonely house, equally needs the company of his now-elderly terrier. It is charming to watch the two of them, sharing sprightly old age together, the firmest of friends.
• • •
The rounds keep coming. I’m assigned to a group from America—the Deep South. My player, after learning that I’m a John Kerry supporter, announces that by round’s end he’ll convert me to Republicanism. He doesn’t. What the other players in the group do manage to accomplish, however, is to deeply upset another caddie in the group—one of my friends. They trade anti-French Freedom Fries jokes throughout the entire front nine, which they share frequently with him. On 10, he reveals that his mother is French, and gives them dead-wrong green reads the rest of the way in.
I’m walking back to the shack to sign on for my next round. Rick is at the window. He takes down my name for a second round. “You’re not doing the motormouth thing still, are you?” he asks. Rick is implying that I’m somehow talking too much on the golf course. It’s something he heard regarding my very first trainee round, and he hasn’t let the matter die since. I think he picks on certain caddies that he considers to be “weaker,” and my eighteen-year-old-American-student status must qualify me for this category.
“Well, I’m doing the caddie chat if that’s what you call it, and I’m averaging threes on my assessment cards so I must be doing something right!” is what I want to say, Paul Newman–style.
“Oh no, I’m not, Rick,” is what I actually say, sounding meeker than a church mouse. And then I degrade myself even further. “I’m going to run into town quickly, can I get you a candy bar from Tesco?”
Rick beams. “Oooh nooo, Ollie, that won’t be necessary.” I leave the window to a smiling Rick and walk past a dorky trainee caddie with thick glasses, who has heard the exchange.
“Way to stand up to Mackenzie,” he taunts, his eyes squinting gleefully behind the bifocals.
“Well, we can’t all be the Fonz like you!” I snap, then leave to go buy a yogurt.
* * *
I’m learning more caddie “tricks” out here. If my golfer putts out first, I often head to the next tee, carrying the other bags with me. This speeds up play but also gives the older guys a rest. While not required, it earns you serious suck-up points with the other caddies. It also provides opportunities for your golfers to see you carrying four bags at once, which is always funny (the secret: put one bag over each shoulder, and carry the others by their side handles). Another trick is forecaddying. On certain holes, like number 6 with its blind tee shot over seemingly unending gorse, I always volunteer to go forecaddie. You have to be careful, though, as some older caddies like to do this themselves. One tall caddie joined me on top of the hill above the sixth tee, after I’d already gone to forecaddie. Looking down at our annoying New Jersey golfers, I said, “Least we’re outta range for a bit.” The caddie looked out to sea and sighed. “Best forty-five seconds of my day.”
There’s another important lesson to learn. In the caddie shack, like anywhere else, knowledge is power. The more a trainee knows about the Old Course, the more respected he will be by his fellow caddies. I begin studying my caddie yardage books whenever I can. I memorize the names of as many bunkers as possible. The cluster to the right of the fifth fairway is the Seven Sisters. The two between 6 and 13 are the Coffins. The bunker eighty-five yards short of 14 green is called Hell. The bunkers just left of 14 green are the Graves. There are a lot of death references out here.
• • •
It’s the next day, and I’m assigned a group of Japanese golfers, just in from Tokyo this morning. They’re dazed, jet-lagged, and absolutely euphoric to be on the Old Course. (Their excitement reminds me of myself as a five-year-old, on my first trip to Water Country,
a theme park in New Hampshire, when I began to hyperventilate and had to breathe into a paper bag.) The Japanese group speaks no English. None. I walk up to my golfer, eager to impress, and utter the one scrap of Japanese I know, “Ohayo-gozaimasu,” which means (I think) “Good morning.” My golfer’s eyes light up, and a torrent of babbling Japanese answers my greeting. I nod my head and smile back inanely. It’s going to be a long day.
My copious double-round days are having a good effect. Ken Henderson, the kindly assistant caddie master, tells me in the caddie shack that Rick is impressed with my “vitality.” He says that they can barely keep up with me and all my trainee-caddie report cards. In contrast to Rick, Ken is Mother Teresa. He’s a cheery sixty-year-old Scottish chap with bushy eyebrows and spectacles with string attached behind his ears. Ken is a keen golfer, and belongs to Crail Golfing Society, a course twenty-five minutes from St. Andrews and set on headlands overlooking the sea. Ken has a pleased, grandfatherly smile whenever I sign on for late double rounds, and an easy laugh. I get the feeling that he’s rooting for us youngsters. I receive Ken’s report about Rick with a nod, then immediately sign on for a second round. I want to keep up my “vitality.”
I’m back out on the course now for round two, caddying for a loud American guy from Los Angeles. He quickly establishes himself as a total jerk, making comments about a variety of things, including the slow pace of play (it isn’t) and the faults in his playing partners’ swings. After one particularly harsh put-down of his friend’s chipping stroke on 6, the criticized friend, a nice old guy with Coke-bottle-thick glasses, who could have understudied Uncle Junior on The Sopranos, shoots back with, “When God gave out the assholes, did you say yes twice?” Today is not my golfer’s day. It is not his day, in the same way that the arrival of a Plague of Locusts would not be a barley field’s day. As the round progresses, my golfer’s golf grows worse and worse, as does his temper. By 18, he is out of control. As the other players slow down in front of the Swilcan Bridge to take a group photo, my player keeps going. When told to wait for the picture, my guy, sentimental to the end, screams, “I don’t wanna take any more fuckin’ pictures!” and charges over the bridge. He slips, falls, skins both knees. His opponents laugh and applaud.
An American Caddie in St. Andrews: Growing Up, Girls, and Looping on the Old Course Page 4
