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

by Oliver Horovitz

  I’m at the shack window now, waiting for a bag.

  Jobs are assigned during Dunhill Week through a rota system. Caddies sign up for either the Pro List or the Amateur List, then show up at the crack of dawn Monday to get a low sign-up number. Getting a bag isn’t easy. Some caddies just take the week off. Others refer to the tournament as “the Dunghill.” But like most things in the caddie shack, Dunhill Week is usually about luck. You can get a great bag in the tournament. Or you can be like Jerry Van Zyl, the nice South African caddie who showed up at four o’clock this morning to get a low tournament number, and instead got sent to the Compilation Course with a visiting 27-handicapper (the only Compilation request of the day). It’s a caddie crapshoot.

  “Oliver Horovitz.”

  My name is called from the window. I head over to Rob.

  “What’s up?”

  “You’re in the next game out, with either of the gentlemen on the putting green.”

  The other caddies by the window hear this and turn around. Willie Stewart sees it first.

  “Fook! That’s Huey Lewis over there!”

  • • •

  Huey Lewis, the lead singer of Huey Lewis and the News, is stroking two Pro V1s toward tee pegs when I arrive (1.3 seconds later) at his bag.

  “Hi, I’m your caddie,” I say. Huey Lewis looks up at me, sticks out his hand, and grins.

  “Huey!” he announces in a deep voice that seems to say, I played quarterback in high school.

  “Ollie,” I reply in a voice that says, I did not.

  Huey squints his eyes slightly. “You American?”

  “Yeah.”

  Huey thinks about this for a second, then nods. “Cool.” He strokes another putt. “We’re gonna play well this week, Oliver.” He strokes another putt. “We got this.” He strokes another, looks back up at me, and grins. “I’m not here for a good time.”

  And just like that, I’ve got Huey Lewis in the Dunhill championship.

  • • •

  My first practice round with Huey Lewis is, in one word, awesome. In nine words, I can’t get Huey’s tunes out of my head.

  “What do we have in, Ollie?” Huey asks from the middle of the third fairway.

  “We’ve got one forty-two front”—(It’s hip to be squaaaaarrree!)—“and, uh . . . one fifty-seven to the”—(That’s the powwwwer of lovvve!)—“to the . . . uh . . . flag . . .”

  This is Huey’s fifth year playing in the Dunhill championship—he also plays each year in the AT&T Pebble Beach pro-am—and he’s clearly one of the fan favorites. Everywhere we walk, people recognize Huey and yell out to him. Whenever we wait for groups in front, Huey is either signing autographs, or talking to fans, or imitating people’s Scottish accents.

  “What ya doin’ Wednesday, pal?” Huey asks me (in a fake Glaswegian accent) as we walk up the sixteenth fairway.

  “Nothing special.”

  “Ga-reat! Ah fookin’ luv it!” Huey now switches back to American. “I’m playing here again Wednesday morning. Final practice round. You’re coming too.”

  • • •

  It’s Wednesday, and I’m standing on the putting green beside the first tee—with Huey Lewis hitting practice putts toward my feet.

  “Straight back—straight through,” Huey says.

  “Stroke looks good,” I say, casually flicking each ball back to Huey the second it comes to rest (as I think I’ve seen pro caddies do in the past).

  There’s a loud commotion behind the first tee. A crowd has formed. I crane my neck to see who’s arrived and spot Michael Douglas. He’s playing in the Dunhill for the first time since 2006 and is now warming up on the first tee. I’m psyched to see him here. Even being fifty feet away from him is kind of cool.

  “Okay, Ollie, let’s go.”

  Huey Lewis is looking at me.

  “Huh?” I say back.

  “Let’s go, we’re on the tee,” Huey replies. I look at the tee box and recognize the other golfers who are standing there. Holy shit.

  Our group today is Huey Lewis, Tico Torres, Andy Garcia, and Michael Douglas.

  Dazedly, I move our bag onto the first tee. The others see me.

  “Hi,” says Andy Garcia.

  “Hey,” says Michael Douglas.

  “Yo,” says Tico Torres.

  “This is my caddie, Ollie. He’s from New York,” Huey says.

  This is a bizarre Wednesday morning I’m having.

  • • •

  Our pro for the Dunhill is Simon Dyson—a cool blond-haired Northern English guy who actually won this tournament in 2009. Right out of the gate on Thursday, Dyson is a machine. He shoots a 69 at Kingsbarnes, then a 71 on Friday at Carnoustie. On Saturday at the Old—when we’re paired with Martin Kaymer and his dad—Dyson goes 9 under through his first fourteen holes, letting out a schoolboy whoop each time he makes a birdie. Huey’s loving it. Dyson’s loving it. I’m really loving it. When the dust settles, Dyson has carded a 63 and moved himself into a tie for second place.

  It’s now Saturday evening, and I’m furiously checking the European Tour Web site to try to figure out our pairings for tomorrow. I hit refresh for the thirty-ninth time, aware that because of Dyson, we’re going to be in one of the last groups, with either Padraig Harrington, Graeme McDowell, Rory McIlroy, Louis Oosthuizen, or Michael Hoey. The screen refreshes. Still no news. I switch off my computer, head out into town. Midway down Howard Place, I get a text from Greaves. “Holy shit! Ollie and Rory tomorrow! Fooooahhh!”

  We’re in the second-to-last group tomorrow, for Sunday’s final round.

  With Rory McIlroy.

  I do not fall asleep easily that night.

  • • •

  “Hi, I’m Rory.”

  Rory McIlroy is stretching out his hand to me with a big smile. He’s tiny. I tower over him. “Hey, I’m Ollie,” I reply, and shake the hand of the defending U.S. Open champion. It’s a good start to my Sunday afternoon.

  My suspicions are first aroused that today is going to be interesting when Rory holes out his second shot from 134 yards in the middle of the third fairway, for eagle. It’s clear Rory is just outrageously good. He has no fear. He goes at the hardest pins on the course—4, tucked back-left; 11, right up top. His dad, Gerry McIlroy (Rory’s amateur partner), looks on the whole time—proudly, but matter-of-factly. Just another day at the office.

  “Yeah, cheers, Simon, I’ll putt.”

  We’re now on the tiny seventeenth green. I’m holding the flag (and a golf towel that Gerry has given me) as Simon Dyson waits and Rory putts. All the cameras are trained on our group. A huge crowd watches from the grandstand. Huey Lewis stands beside me. It’s surreal. Tomorrow this place will be empty, but at this instant, it’s electric. At this instant, we’re at the center of the golf world.

  I look around at all the crowds, at McIlroy and his dad, at Dyson, at Huey Lewis. I think about how this job can get you inside the ropes, rocket you to the extreme front lines of professional golf, connect you to movie stars and rock stars, Japanese business titans, Rory McIlroy . . . and plumbers who have saved up for years to book their trip. Everyone’s here for the same basic reason; everyone’s made the pilgrimage for the same basic goal—to be at the source.

  I get it.

  • • •

  The Dunhill finishes. St. Andrews empties out once more. The town is returned to the people. Any local can pitch up now to the first tee of the Old and get right out. It’s the town of Uncle Ken and Henry again. And I’m still here. The days are closing in. The nights are getting colder. The wind is chillier. The sky seems to hang lower. You can taste winter.

  Up in the dorms, in the classrooms, the University of St. Andrews students are back in full force. But for the first time, I’m not in their world anymore. I’m a caddie. And I hang out with the caddies. We’re in the final weeks of the season, and I notice a sense of contentment hanging over everyone. When you make it this far into the season, you feel like you’ve accomplish
ed something. It’s a long season, and it’s not easy, but it’s a cool feeling to have “finished it out.”

  I spend my days when I’m not caddying walking around the town, revisiting my old haunts, soaking everything in. I’m here later now than I’ve been since I was a student, and with the tourists gone, I feel a million miles away from New York. I can’t do this forever. I can’t stay here forever. I have to take the next step in my life. But it hits me that I’ve learned so much from this job of carrying people’s golf bags while shepherding their wildest dreams. And it’s possible I’ve stayed at it just long enough to realize what’s really important in this life.

  Suddenly I feel as if Uncle Ken and Henry are standing nearby.

  SIXTY-TWO

  I’m walking up 18.

  It’s my final day in St. Andrews, before I head back to New York City. I’ve decided to play one last round on the Old Course. Aunty Jacqui is in the house—we’ve been packing up the last of Uncle Ken’s things, and this morning, I discovered his old putter. It’s an ancient putter, paper-thin, with a hickory shaft and the name “Vanessa” on it for some reason. Without thinking, I put the putter in my golf bag, to bring it around the Old Course for one more round.

  I’m playing with two Irish guys from Dublin, cabdrivers who have been hit hard by the recession in Ireland (one of them had to stop being a chef) and are here on a package deal with the Old Course, saving money by playing in the winter. They’re incredibly nice and are in total wow mode. Throughout the round, I’ve been helping them out, and I find myself telling them all my best caddie stories. In fact, the guys have been calling me their “St. Andrews hero.” On 12, one of the Irish guys notices the old putter in my bag and asks me about it. I tell them about Uncle Ken. On 14, we see Eck Spence, a cool older ranger, dressed in head-to-toe foul-weather gear. “That’s good that you’re with Ollie, he’ll take care of you,” Eck says to the Irish guys. I also see Neil Gibson and Colin Donaldson, out together on a caddie round, who know I’m headed home tomorrow. “All the best, Ollie, have a great winter!” they yell.

  The light is beautiful as we walk up 18—a low winter light that is soft and muted and gentle, and looks like it’s ten P.M. even though it’s only two P.M. I’ve absolutely bombed my drive, and since we’re way downwind, the ball’s ended up just short of the green, in the Valley of Sin. Walking up the fairway, I realize that I’ve only got a putt for my second shot. And for the first time all day, I decide to pull out Uncle Ken’s putter for this last attempt. Come on, hit it close, give him a birdie! I think to myself.

  I stroke my eagle putt from where Costantino Rocca holed his Daly-tying putt in 1995. But my putt comes up way short. Fifteen feet short. Now I’ve got a tough birdie putt. I give it a read and do some practice strokes. The putt is inside-right, uphill. The light is fading, and everyone in my group is watching. Just like I’ve done a million times here, I look out over the different shops and Hamilton Hall and all the buildings, and soak everything in. Uncle Ken’s putter is so ridiculously thin, it’s beyond difficult to putt with. I don’t have high expectations for this putt. I just want to give it a chance. I stroke the putt. Midway to the hole, it definitely has a chance. I hold my breath, not daring to get my hopes up. The ball charges onward, straight for the hole. Everyone shouts. The putt hits—drops in, dead center. Birdie. Uncle Ken has made one last birdie on the Old. Everyone goes nuts. One after the other, the golfers come up to hug me. My arms are in the air, and I have never felt this good. All at once I’m thinking of when I broke par here for the first time, of all my years in St. Andrews, but mainly I’m thinking of Uncle Ken. I remember Tony Lema’s son playing here and making his own birdie, and suddenly, without hesitation, I yell loudly into the evening sky.

  “I LOVE YOU, UNCLE KEEEEEEN!”

  My voice echoes back at me, bouncing off the R & A, and Hamilton Hall, and the shop where Tom Morris handmade gutta-percha balls and hickory-shafted mashie niblicks. And I’m overwhelmed by a feeling of contentment, and pride.

  Golf. There’s absolutely nothing like it.

  EPILOGUE

  It’s 7:55 A.M., Thursday, September 22, 2011.

  There’s a crowd of over three hundred R & A members, plus townspeople, standing there. Above the first tee. They fan out around the steps. Down both sides of the first and eighteenth fairways. The men wear coats and ties. The women wear petticoats. Everyone’s in their Sunday best. Even though it’s Thursday. They stand there, the R & A members, alongside their wives and children, just as their fathers and their fathers’ fathers have done for hundreds of years.

  They’re all watching us.

  I’m among thirty heavily caffeinated caddies, all trekking out down the first fairway. In five minutes, Alistair Low, this year’s incoming R & A captain, will be swatting his drive down the first. I’m back for another year.

  “Ach, he cannae hit it far, it’s intah the wind!” Rob McCormick, a lifelong caddie nicknamed “Big Raab,” yells (as much to himself as to anyone else). We all take up positions facing back on the first hole from the opposite direction that we normally do, each one of us privately deliberating where the hell this tee shot is going to go. It’s a chilly morning. The Scottish sun, this late in September, has barely risen, and it’s now peeking over the top of the R & A Clubhouse, directly into our faces. It’s blinding.

  I’m at a spot twenty yards past Granny Clarke’s Wynd—about 150 out, which I think is a decent guess for where the ball should bounce (the wind is into us . . . and Alistair Low is in his midsixties). I’m also standing way to the right—almost in line with the eighteenth green. I think he’s going to pull it.

  “This is it, boys!” Scott Bechelli yells. A small roar goes up from the R & A section. Alistair Low has arrived at the first tee. He wears green pants, a dark blue sweater. He shakes hands with three other R & A members. The crowd has swelled in the last few minutes. Looking out, I feel like we could easily be in the year 1870. I know Uncle Ken would be among the crowd as well if he could, watching.

  Around me, caddies stretch, do quick jogs in place now, shield their eyes from the sun. It all looks so distant from our caddie location out in the fairway. And now, after all the waiting, things are suddenly speeding forward. Every caddie locks in—goes quiet, concentrates intensely in his own small world. Because now, in the distance, Alistair Low is doing a single practice swing. And now he’s over the ball, and he’s taking back the club, and making his downswing, and . . .

  BAMMMMM.

  The cannon fires. The ball is away.

  A roar goes up from the crowd, way up ahead, but out here in our fairway, it’s eerily silent. Because every caddie is sidestepping rapidly, frantically trying to spot the ball. And then, as people have described the milliseconds before a car crash, everything slams to slow motion.

  I am running left. My first instinct, before the ball disappeared into the sky, was that Mr. Low blocked it right. If that’s the case, then the ball is going to land thirty yards left of where I am. I charge, searing the sky with my eyes as I move, searching desperately for anything resembling a ball. The seconds are passing in slow motion. And I’m running, running, running . . .

  And then, as if out of nowhere, the ball reappears in the sky.

  There it is. I see it!

  It’s still climbing in the sky, thirty yards to my left, and moving, tracing perfectly against the clouds, as if in slow motion, as if it’s been placed there for me and only me. And now I’m running flat out, sprinting, and the ball is starting to come down, and I’m running, speeding, charging, and now my left hand is up, and I’m getting closer, and now I’m leaping . . . I’m in the air . . . and the ball is falling . . . and . . .

  HOLY SHIT, I’VE GOT IT!

  The ball slams into my outstretched left hand, its momentum halted, and drops down beside me. Dazedly, I bend down, scoop it up, and hold the ball, staring at it, dumbstruck. Silence. My world is this three-foot radius. And now, everything around me is getting louder, an
d people are cheering from everywhere, and the caddies start shouting, “Run it up there!” “Run it in, Ollie!” “Run it in!” I look back at them as the shouts continue. “Run it in!” “You got it!” “Run it in there!”

  So I run.

  I run toward the first tee, clutching a golf ball as tightly as I ever have, running quicker and quicker, into the arena of cheering St. Andreans. The applause builds, and everything gets louder as I approach, as if I’m bringing the torch into the Olympic arena. And I’m smiling stupidly. Ridiculously. I can’t stop smiling. I can’t wipe this stupid smile from my face. Because ever since I arrived in St. Andrews for my first year, every time I walked up the eighteenth fairway, I secretly imagined a crowd gathering around the fairway, like this, behind the green, cheering my British Open victory. I secretly dreamed this, secretly expected it, and was secretly crushed when that dream faded. But in this split second, as I’m running this ball in now, I realize that this is my British Open, this is my story, this is my moment. Behind me, caddies are shouting, “Well done, Ollie!” I run faster and faster now. I know that somewhere up there, Uncle Ken is watching, giggling, and telling Henry.

  * * *

  I reach the tee. I present the ball to Alistair Low. He shakes my hand. “Well struck, sir,” I say, out of breath. “Uh . . . well caught,” Mr. Low replies, sounding a little surprised. I don’t think he was expecting my American accent. Cameras are snapping all around us. A TV crew is rolling. The Royal and Ancient captain for the year 2011–2012 hands me the gold sovereign. We pose for the photos together. Then I stumble back toward the shack, R & A members running up to congratulate me. “Well caught, young man!” “Jolly good catch!” And now I arrive at the shack. And caddies are coming up to me and shaking my hand. Congratulating me. Everyone wants to check out the sovereign. They inspect it like it’s a Game 7 ball in the World Series. My phone is already buzzing with text messages from other caddies who have heard the news. Andrew Rennie, who caught the ball last year, writes, “Well done, champ!” Craig Scott writes, “Immortality.” And now I realize something. The caddies are happy for me. Happy that one of their own made the catch.