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

by Oliver Horovitz

  On the par-3 fifth hole, I hit an ugly hook with my 7-iron. The ball screams left and disappears over the embankment, onto the adjoining New Course. Without thinking, I head over the hill to find my ball. When I arrive there, it’s as if the golf gods have played a cruel trick on me.

  I’m in the middle of the New Course’s fourteenth fairway, precisely where Lydia and I crumbled yesterday.

  And suddenly I begin to cry.

  Through the tears, I’m shocked by own reaction. Why the hell am I being so affected by all this? And then, I know why. I see myself at age sixteen, the four-time junior club champion at Rockport Golf Club and the three-time junior club champion at Bass Rocks Golf Club, absolutely convinced that I would someday be a professional golfer. I see myself in the big tournaments where I imploded, the tryouts where I failed, the gradual unraveling, thread by thread, of my particular golf dream. Was it ever a sure thing? Of course not. But I was good. And I was promising. And it was my dream. It mattered to me. Now I realize that yesterday’s failure feels like my own failure. That there’s been a kind of transference.

  I think again of Lydia.

  Lydia. This young girl I just met from the middle of nowhere in Wales, with a kind of absolute ability to not be defeated by loss, to be able to just say, “Tough day at the office.” And in her, I see a strong woman. From her, I take courage.

  I head back over the hill with my ball, to the Jubilee Course. Now I’m thinking about another shattered dream from this summer. Maybe Sylvie, too, was just a “tough day at the office.”

  • • •

  “You heading to the Dunny?”

  Patrick McGinley and I are standing on North Street, by the New Picture House movie theater.

  “Uh, maybe. I want to get some pizza first. Why?”

  “I think Lorena’s family’s having their party there.”

  It’s Sunday evening. The first-ever Women’s British Open held on the Old Course has concluded. Lorena Ochoa has won. It’s her first-ever major. Back in Mexico, people are celebrating in the streets. Here in St. Andrews, Ochoa has flown in about twenty family members. Celebrations should be going deep tonight.

  “Just get pizza after!” McGinley whines.

  “Nah, I’m hungry now, I’ll catch up with you there,” I say. As we stand here talking, I see Greavesy on the other side of the street. He crosses over to us, panting a little.

  “Paula Creamer’s heading to the Dunny. It’s her twenty-first birthday tonight.”

  Earlier this evening, after finishing tied for seventh, Creamer was seen on BBC coverage drinking birthday champagne on her Old Course Hotel balcony. Greaves and McGinley both look at me.

  “Well, maybe I’ll just get pizza later,” I say.

  * * *

  When we enter the Dunvegan, we’re in a scene out of a movie.

  The pub is packed with golfers, tour caddies, Old Course caddies, and Women’s European Tour organizers. On the left-hand side of the room, Lorena, her caddie, and twenty of her family members are standing on the cushioned seats by the windows. An eighty-year-old man with a saxophone, standing next to Lorena (“That’s her caddie’s dad,” McGinley whispers to me), plays “Tequila.” Everyone is going crazy.

  We head over to Matt Fouchek, who’s here with a bunch of other caddies.

  “How great is this?” Matt shouts, laughing.

  Now Lorena is dancing in the center of the room with her dad, and everyone is clapping. “Lorena! Lorena!” they shout. Soon a bagpiper comes inside, and from the entrance begins playing “The Blue Bells of Scotland.” The music cuts into the room. It strikes me that for the moment, here in this room, I’m at the epicenter of golf.

  And then she comes in.

  Paula Creamer. Looking unbelievably cute. She’s here with two friends, here to celebrate her turning twenty-one—the same age as me. They take a seat by the windows.

  “She’s nice!” Fouchek says.

  “Seriously nice,” Greaves adds.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  And then inspiration strikes. I run for the bar.

  “Where are you going?” Greaves shouts.

  I order two shots of tequila and grab two limes, plus two saltshakers. The bartender puts everything on a tray for me. And then I head directly for the window. There’s a kind of lull in the music as I walk up.

  “Excuse me, Paula?” I say.

  The Pink Panther looks up at me. “Yeah?” Paula says.

  “I got you a birthday present,” I say, and hold up the tray. Adults all around us see this and burst into a chorus of “Way-hayyyyyyy!”

  Paula starts laughing. “Uh, thanks. You’ll have to show me how to do this!” she says. Then she reaches for her lime.

  “No, it’s salt, tequila, then lime,” I say.

  A year at St. Andrews has educated me well on the tequila front.

  With the entire room now watching, we clink our glasses and down our tequila shots. Everyone cheers. Pictures are taken. I notice, at the other table, that Paula’s dad and caddie are glaring murderously at me, but I don’t care. Happily, I plop myself down on a chair next to Paula.

  “I thought you did really well this week, Paula . . . ,” I say, and for the next fifteen minutes, I proceed to unabashedly (and completely unsuccessfully) hit on her. Behind me, the Ochoa family has started dancing again. Caddies and golfers are joining in. I look around me. I think of Lydia. And her dream. And being able to say, “Tough day at the office.” She’ll get here one day. I know she will. The music crescendos. It’s been a good week, among these new women on the Old.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  It’s August.

  Senior year is looming. My summer is winding down.

  I’m out on the Old.

  My golfer is a mega-rich businessman from Thailand. Caddying for this guy is an experience. And not a good one. Despite speaking perfect English, the man addresses me only as “caddie.” He also makes me pick his ball out of every cup. He also has a head cover on every iron. I have yet to meet a golfer I like who uses a head cover on every iron.

  The round is going nowhere speedily when on the fifteenth tee, a text buzzes in from Matt Fouchek. Casually, I flip open the message.

  “larry david just teed off on 1”

  This gets my attention.

  “WHAT!! WHEN???” I text back.

  “5 mins ago”

  “HOW MANY CADDIES IN GROUP??”

  “1. For 4 guys. No one else around.”

  A plan forms in my head. I will push my group onward, as fast as inhumanly possible. Then, when we reach Larry David, I will ask to join his group.

  “Okay. Good to go! Good to go!” I shout, and begin gunning my guys along, as if piranhas are tailing us. On 17, I spot them coming up the second fairway: three guys and a tall, loping Larry David. “I’ll be right back,” I yell to my Thai golfer, but already I’m dashing away. Steering clear of Larry David (that’ll be too obvious), I walk up to another golfer instead. “Hey, guys,” I say as casually as possible. “I see you’ve only got one caddie . . . just so you know, I’m happy to catch you guys up, after I finish my round.” As the guy considers this, I suddenly recognize who I’m talking to: Peter Farrelly, one half of the film-directing Farrelly brothers.

  Peter Farrelly looks me up and down. “You a good caddie?”

  “Yeah, I’m a good caddie!” I reply.

  Larry David walks up. “You fun?”

  I look back at Larry. “Eh, I’m okay . . .”

  Twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, I’m fizzing my bike along the shell-covered path, back out onto the Old. I catch everyone in the middle of the third fairway, and with nowhere to lock my bike, I simply hurl it into the middle of a large gorse bush. “Hey, everybody,” I pant as I jog up.

  “Jeez, you got here quick,” Larry says.

  “Yeah, well . . . I . . . hi,” I reply. Peter Farrelly puts me on his bag. This round has begun.

  * * *

  “So this is your fourth se
ason over here?” Larry asks.

  It’s the seventh hole, and the creator of Seinfeld and I are walking up the fairway together.

  “Yep,” I reply.

  “Cool! I bet it’s fun.”

  “Oh yeah.” We walk for a second. And then I blurt out . . .

  “Hey, Larry, I know like every single line from Curb.”

  This information could have perhaps been delivered in a smoother way.

  Larry laughs. “Really? That’s awesome! Thank you!”

  “Yeah. ‘The Ski Lift’ is probably my favorite episode ever. ‘The Carpool Lane’ too.”

  Larry smiles. “Thanks! Yeah, those were fun.” We keep walking side by side—just me and Larry David. Larry seems pleased. I am too. Larry turns to me.

  “So you got a girlfriend over here, Oliver?”

  * * *

  The sun is setting as we walk off the eighteenth tee. It’s time for the Swilcan Bridge picture—possibly the best-known tradition on the Old Course. Peter Farrelly hands me his camera as the group starts walking toward Swilcan Bridge. Peter . . . the other two guys . . . everyone, except Larry. I look left and see Larry David walking away from them, toward the wooden maintenance bridge.

  “Hey, Larry!” I call out. “You’re going over the wrong bridge.”

  Larry turns to me, then looks over at Swilcan Bridge and replies, “Eh . . .”

  “Larry,” I yell, “come on, everyone’s taking their picture on the bridge. It’s a tradition.”

  Larry considers what I’ve said, then shrugs. “Nah, I’m good.”

  “Larry! Come on, just do the picture!”

  Larry seems to weigh this in his head for a second. Then he speaks.

  “Eh . . . it’s just a fucking bridge!” he says in classic Curb Your Enthusiasm form . . . and walks over the maintenance bridge.

  Tequila shots with Paula Creamer. Caddying with Larry David. It hasn’t been a bad summer. Peter Farrelly turns to me.

  “You got a girlfriend over here, Oliver?”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  “Oliver Horovitz and Mike Brown.”

  I shuffle over to the shack window ahead of Mike, a young trainee caddie from Cupar. It’s my final day in St. Andrews. My flight home is all booked for tomorrow. Senior year is looming. I wonder if I should have eaten all six of the jelly donuts Big Malcky brought down to the shack this morning.

  “Ten forty on the Old,” Rick says to us, taking our fivers and handing us pin sheets. I take mine.

  “This is my last round of the season, Rick.”

  Rick looks back at me. “I never thought this day would come.”

  As we leave the window, Mike the Trainee looks at me excitedly. “Should we go up now and meet our golfers?”

  I recognize his eagerness a little too easily. “No, give it a minute, they haven’t gotten to the tee yet,” I say, and gulp down the last of my 30 p shack coffee. I hope this kid’s not going to be annoying out there today.

  * * *

  It’s funny how the caddie shack moves in cycles. You arrive for your first season, knowing nothing, and by the end of the summer, you’ve started to figure out the script. The next summer, there are other newcomers to take your place. You see the new trainees making the same mistakes you made—correcting veteran caddies on the course, grabbing too few pins, giving too much information—but instead of helping them, you kind of just let it happen. Like it’s the natural order of events.

  * * *

  Our golfers today are two husband-and-wife couples from Long Beach, California. I’m caddying for a nice guy named John. Mike the Trainee has John’s friend: Randy. Picking Randy’s bag, it soon is revealed, was a mistake of uncharted proportions.

  Randy is hellish. On the greens, he’s apparently decided that Mike will be held to a standard of putt-reading more precise than pommel horse judging. “Okay, Mike, I’m trusting you here!” Randy will announce over putts, then if they miss, add accusingly, “Well, that was on your mark . . .” Each putt read is a murder trial. A trial for which the verdict will be delivered into poor Mike’s ear for sometimes three minutes afterward.

  “I feel like I’m being abused,” little Mike whispers to me, quietly, on the tenth tee box.

  It’s tough to watch. Mike’s just a trainee. He doesn’t know these greens that well. If Randy wants this so bad, he should do what the pros do and read his own putts. He should give Mike a fucking break. But he’s not. In fact, Randy is becoming angrier, more demanding.

  At last we get to 18. Randy (who’s announced that he is 3 over, which I know is untrue) hits his approach shot to thirty feet. Then he turns to our group and makes another announcement. “Okay! I wanna get a birdie here! Birdie on eighteen . . . come on, Mike, we have to get this.”

  I can see Mike swallowing hard. This is exactly what you do not want to hear from your golfer. Especially someone like Randy. As Mike surveys the putt from up top, he looks terrified . . . and completely unsure of how it’s breaking. “How great would birdie be here?” Randy is saying to his wife. That’s it. I need to step in. I walk behind Mike, who’s crouched down behind the ball, and whisper, “Hey, man, what are you seeing?”

  Mike looks up at me nervously. “Oh, way out left . . . four feet left,” he says.

  I look at the putt, then back at Mike. “I think it’s only a foot,” I whisper, then walk away.

  “Okay, what’s the story here, Mike?” Randy says loudly, oblivious to our conversation.

  “One foot out left,” Mike replies.

  “You sure?”

  Mike winces slightly. “Yep.”

  “Okay . . . ,” Randy says, before adding, “I’m trusting you.”

  Randy hits the putt, starting it exactly one foot out left. The ball trundles downward, picking up speed. I watch from the other side of the cup, privately praying that I didn’t just screw up Mike’s read. The ball moves faster and faster now. Five feet from the cup, it begins to break. Slowly at first, then harder. And now Randy is backing up. His putter is in the air. And the ball is still turning. Come on! Stay up. Stay up! The ball does one last dive, holds its line, and slams into the center of the cup. It drops in. Birdie! A crowd of twenty-five people behind the green break into roars. Randy is in orbit.

  “Oh my God! Birdie! On eighteen at St. Andrews!” he shouts. Then he does a you-da-man point at Mike. “Great read, Mikey!”

  Mike’s eyes light up. He looks directly at me, as if I’m his big brother who just knocked out the school bully with one punch. “Thank you!” he mouths silently from across the green. I just wink back at Mike. No prob. Then I turn away, and let my caddie mate enjoy the moment. And as the rest of the group now swarms Randy and Mike, laughing and congratulating them, I lean against our flagstick, and quietly watch.

  If there’s such a thing as a caddie torch, I think it just got passed.

  FIFTY-SIX

  “Would you look at those wee pansies . . . by golly!”

  Henry is loving the flowers. So is Uncle Ken.

  “The Taits always do well here,” my uncle says as he putters around the large plant bed, inspecting. We’re at the Hidden Gardens tour, an annual occurrence in St. Andrews known mainly to the Gardeners’ Club members, or to those people over eighty years old. During the Hidden Gardens, roughly a dozen families in St. Andrews with particularly impressive private gardens will open them to the public, with the proceeds going to various charities. The entry fee for this tour is not exactly steep—the garden we’re currently visiting, which sits on the cliffs overlooking the North Sea, cost 30 p to enter.

  “Aye, will you look at that shrubbery pruning!” Henry is impressed.

  I’ve taken a few hours off from packing to accompany my two ancient mates on this tour. Both Henry and Uncle Ken use walking sticks; both wear tweed coats, tweed caps, dress shirts, sweaters, and ties. Henry has brought along a little camera for the tour, which is dangling from around his neck.

  “What time is your flight leaving, lad?”

 
; “Noon, tomorrow. From Edinburgh.”

  “Oh aye. I hope you don’t get caught up in these twisters they’ve been showin’ on the news.”

  “Well, those are in Kans—yeah, I’ll try not to, Henry.”

  “That reminds me, Oliver,” Uncle Ken adds, “you’ll have to bring your bike round later, so I can store it over the winter!”

  “Yeah, definitely. I’ll bring it over after this evening, before the Grill House.”

  And then I have a thought.

  “Hey, guys, can I get a picture of all of us together? I want to send it to Mom and Dad.”

  I give my camera to a Hidden Gardens volunteer, and have them snap a photo of me standing between Uncle Ken and Henry. They both smile brightly, their canes in their right hands.

  “Thanks, guys,” I say, putting the camera back in my pocket. I just fibbed. That picture wasn’t for Mom and Dad. It was for me. I’m going to miss my mates this winter. More than I’d ever tell them. Because as we do one final stroll around the garden—Henry marveling at the pansies, Uncle Ken giggling—I think about how these ancients are getting ever more ancient. I think about how the new caddies down at the shack seem younger and younger every summer, while the veteran caddies get older and older. And I wonder how this all fits into my particular life. Where will I be at age eighty-six? Or even in ten years’ time? What will my life be like? Where is this all heading?

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  I’m in Harvard Yard.

  It’s June. Graduation weekend. Nine months later. All 1,656 members of our class of 2008 have just been shepherded into Memorial Church. Outside, our parents are going crazy—both emotionally and photographically. Tomorrow we’re graduating. In thirty minutes, we’re having our official class picture taken, on the steps of Widener Library. But first, Drew Faust, Harvard’s new president (and first female president—she replaced Larry Summers, who was removed last year after his helpful “suggestion” that women might be innately worse at science than men), is about to give us a private speech here in Memorial Church. No one’s allowed in besides us. No parents. No professors. No other adults. Just President Faust and us.