The Caddie

by J. Michael Veron

  When we got into the Explorer, I asked Stewart, “Where to?”

  “Today we practice on bermuda greens, so let’s head over to the Baton Rouge Country Club,” he said as casually as if he were a lifelong member there.

  “But that’s a private club,” I protested. In case he missed the point, I added, “In fact, it’s a very private club.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” Stewart said breezily. “I’ve made arrangements.”

  “Here we go again,” I muttered as I put the Explorer in gear. Then I caught the significance of something he had said earlier. “What do you mean, today we practice on bermuda greens? Aside from the Country Club of Louisiana, that’s all there is around here.”

  He looked at me as if I had asked a stupid question. “Don’t you play some events on bermuda and some on bent?” I nodded. “Well, then, don’t you think we should practice on both?”

  I was having a little trouble following him on this one. “Are you saying that we’re going to practice at the Country Club of Louisiana, too?”

  He smiled. “Well, not today but probably tomorrow.”

  I shook my head. “Man, that’s even tougher to get into than Baton Rouge CC. They’ve got a guarded security gate, and you can’t get past unless a member’s left your name there.”

  “Precisely,” he said. “That’s why I’ve made arrangements there as well.” He seemed irritated at my lack of faith in his planning. “You don’t just stroll up to these places, you know.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you didn’t know how to get into a private club.” I hesitated, uncertain of what to say next.

  Stewart seemed to enjoy my discomfort. “You really meant to say that you didn’t see how a caddie could arrange these things, didn’t you?”

  I laughed. “Okay, maybe that did occur to me. You know, it’s not like either one of us is a member of the privileged class at the moment.”

  At that point, we pulled into the parking lot at Baton Rouge’s oldest country club. No doubt, the place was really out in the “country” when it was founded, but the Baton Rouge Country Club was now right in the middle of town, a great convenience for its members. In fact, many of them lunched there on a regular basis during the business week because it was so close to the downtown area. As we arrived just before one o’clock, a small procession of cars was leaving the club, presumably headed back to the office.

  Stewart grabbed my clubs and walked confidently toward the pro shop. I followed meekly along, still a little uncertain that we would receive the warm welcome my caddie apparently expected.

  Stewart propped my bag on the stand next to the pro shop and signaled for me to follow him inside. As he stepped into the well-furnished shop, he hailed the pro behind the counter.

  “Hello, Doug, just wanted to let you know we’re here.” The head professional, Douglas Stutes, looked up and, to my surprise, responded in a friendly tone, “Great, Stewart, good to see you again.” He looked over at me. “You’re Bobby Reeves, right? I remember you from several years back. You were on the LSU golf team, weren’t you?”

  I managed a surprised “Yeah, that’s right.” Then I smiled and added, “Thanks for remembering me.”

  Stutes smiled back and said to both of us, “You guys make yourselves at home. If you need anything, just let me know.”

  Stewart nodded and said, “Thanks, Doug. Appreciate the hospitality.” He touched me on the arm to signal our departure. I waved good-bye and walked out with him toward the putting green.

  Once we were clear of the pro shop, I said, “How’d you know Doug Stutes?”

  He shrugged. “Oh, everybody knows Doug.”

  “Yeah, but not everybody gets to walk out here without a member sponsoring him.”

  Stewart seemed a trifle annoyed with me. “Bobby, I told you that I had made arrangements. Now, do you want to talk about this all day, or do you want to get some work in on your short game?”

  He threw three balls down on the practice putting green. Pointing to a cup about fifteen feet away, he said, “Roll them into that hole.”

  I held my trusty 8802 in my hands. It had an old leather-wrap grip that felt as comfortable as a well-worn baseball glove. While I frequently changed other clubs (particularly wedges), I had stuck with that old putter ever since my dad gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday.

  I missed all three. Stewart kicked them back toward me without unfolding his arms from his chest and said, “What are you trying to do when you putt?”

  I had to think about my answer. “Keep my wrists from breaking and hold my head still.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want you to think like that any more. Golf is about feel. Look at where you want the ball to go and send it there.”

  “But I have to have a swing thought.”

  Stewart stood firm. “No you don’t.” He paused for a moment. “Who was the best putter on the golf team at LSU?”

  That was easy. “Boo,” I said quickly.

  “What impressed you the most about the way he putted?”

  I had to think for a second. Then it occurred to me. “When he got over the ball, he stared at the line like he was trying to burn a path to the hole with his eyes.”

  Stewart snapped his fingers. “Exactly.” Pointing to the imaginary line between me and the hole, he said, “Boo was thinking about where the ball needed to go, not about whether he should keep his head still. If you want to putt like that, you need to do the same thing.”

  He pointed to the three balls that he had rolled back to me. “Try it again. Focus only on the line of the putt, and have fun sending each putt down the line.”

  I figured I had nothing to lose, so I just looked down the line, took aim, and let the blade push the ball at the hole. It went in. I did it again. It went in again. And I did it again. And for the third time it went in.

  “Whoa,” I said, “I think we’re on to something here.”

  Stewart just laughed and shook his head. “Bobby, you’ve got to learn to play this way. One reason you’re making mistakes on the course is because you’re too busy with your mechanics. It’s more obvious with your putting, but I think you do the same thing with your other shots.”

  We spent the next hour on four- to six-footers. Stewart stressed that these were the putts that won tournaments. “When you’re confident with these, your whole game is elevated,” he explained. “Once you become a really good short putter, you’re not afraid of long putts, chips, or pitches. You know you can get down in two. That relieves the pressure and tension, and then your whole game gets better.”

  I frowned. “But I dread these putts.”

  Stewart grinned at me. “Everyone does. Don’t forget that. And everyone feels they have to make them. So they get tense, which makes everything that much harder.” He chuckled and added, “You’ve got to putt like you don’t give a damn.”

  He showed me a little routine to follow before each putt. It was intended to enhance feel by distracting me from mechanical thoughts. It also took my mind off the consequences of missing one of those four- to six-footers. The idea was that I would be too busy following the routine to think of the result.

  By late afternoon I was tired. “This is more golf than I’ve played in one day in a long, long time,” I told Stewart. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever practiced like this.”

  Stewart furrowed his brow. “So how did you practice before?”

  “I hit balls until I found a swing thought that worked, you know, like making a bigger shoulder turn or following through down the line. Then I took that to the first tee and played.”

  He shook his head. “And what did you do when that didn’t work on the course?”

  I shrugged. “If I started hitting it bad, I’d try other swing thoughts until something worked.” I paused. “Sometimes it did; sometimes it didn’t.”

  “Amazing,” he said. “Just amazing.” He swung my bag over his shoulder and began to walk wi
th me toward the car. “I don’t know how you ever got as good as you did.”

  As we unlocked the Explorer and dumped my clubs in the back, I realized that I hadn’t had anything to drink in three days. I was no longer feeling quite as bashful about my freeloading.

  “What do you say we grab ourselves a couple of beers?”

  Stewart’s reaction was unmistakable. “That’s been much of your undoing, hasn’t it?”

  I had handled all of his criticism thus far pretty well, but I felt stung by what he said. “Fine,” I said sharply, “we don’t have to get anything if you don’t want to.”

  As usual, Stewart’s tone didn’t change. “Bobby, you seem to forget that you would have played at Augusta if you hadn’t drunk yourself sick at Garden City. What does it take to get your attention?”

  He shook his head in resignation before continuing. “But I’m not going to decide that for you. I merely made an observation. If you want to drink, I’ll stop and get you a six-pack.”

  For some reason, it didn’t surprise me that Stewart knew about what happened the previous year at the U.S. Amateur at the Garden City Golf Club on Long Island. I had made it to the semifinals but drank too much before the match and got really sick, wretching and shaking like crazy. Not surprisingly, my opponent made short work of me and earned the invitation to play in the Masters that goes to the two finalists of our national amateur championship.

  I could tell that Stewart’s offer to buy beer was a test. And maybe, deep down inside, I knew that he was just as right about my drinking as he had been about everything else. So I reluctantly declined the offer.

  My next test was right around the corner.

  vii

  WHEN I WOKE up the next morning, I found $180 on the coffee table next to the sofa where I slept. For the briefest of moments, I thought of the beer I could buy with the money. But I knew that, instead of making restitution for me, Stewart was testing me again to see if I would do it myself.

  He didn’t say anything about the money over breakfast, and I didn’t bring it up. Afterward, I told him that I had some business to take care of and that I’d be back before long. Stewart acted as if he understood.

  As I wheeled the Explorer out of the parking lot, I felt my stomach begin to churn over the prospect of meeting Boo. But I knew I had to do it, so I drove quickly to his office before I had time to change my mind.

  Swallowing the huge pride that had been such a big part of my problems, I marched into Boo’s office and informed the receptionist that I was there to see him. I was a little surprised when she told me moments later that I could go right in.

  From the looks of his office, Boo was doing well in the insurance business. On one wall were four pictures of the LSU golf team, one for each year he played. On another were various certificates, all properly framed and matted. One was his diploma; the others looked like a bunch of awards and a license or two.

  Boo was sitting behind a large and impressive-looking desk. He stood up when I walked in, but didn’t come around from behind his desk. In fact, he didn’t even extend his hand, but instead greeted me with a reserved expression. I guess he wondered whether I was there to make peace or war. He just said in a low voice, “Hello, Bah-bee,” and briefly paused before adding, “You look good.”

  I smiled to let him know that I wasn’t there to make trouble. “Hey, Boo, it’s good to see you.”

  Without saying anything more, I reached into my pocket and placed the cash on his desk. He looked down at it with a puzzled expression. When he returned his eyes to mine, I said, “I think that’s what I still owe you. You know, the difference between what I took and what the cops recovered.”

  He mouthed the word “Oh” and picked up the cash. I knew I had to say more.

  “Look, Boo, I’m not going to offer any excuse for what I did. I don’t expect you to forgive me, ever. Believe me, I wish it had never happened.”

  He just looked at me, apparently trying to gauge my sincerity.

  “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in the past. And the troubles I’ve had were my own fault. But I’m learning my lesson. I won’t do anything like this again—to you or anybody else.”

  God, it was tough to stand there and feel so humiliated. That’s what false pride does to you. But I figured I had a pretty good ass chewing coming from Boo, and this was the quickest way to get it over with.

  But my dear friend must have felt sorry for the pathetic fool who stood there before him. Not sorry enough to tell me it was okay but sorry enough not to make it any harder. So he just said, “Thank you for coming, Bah-bee,” and let me leave quietly.

  Stewart looked up when I walked into the apartment. “That was quick,” he murmured. Then he got a closer look at me and said, “You’re as white as a sheet.”

  I sat down heavily on the sofa. “I’ve been to Boo’s. I gave him the money.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not much.” I fingered the arm of the sofa absentmindedly “I apologized to him.”

  “Good.”

  “What do I do now?”

  Stewart sat down in a chair across from me. “Nothing. You’ve done what you can. The rest is up to Boo.”

  He leaned over and put his hand on my shoulder. “You did the right thing, you know that.”

  I shook my head. “You know, it’s tough to face some of the things I’ve done.”

  Stewart said nothing for the longest time. Finally, he patted me on the knee and said, “It’s all part of the process, Bobby. You’re on the road back, even if you don’t know it yet.”

  I had to admit, I did feel better. But it was like the way I felt better after throwing up: more relief than anything else. Anyway, Stewart announced that it was time for another day of practice.

  We returned to the cow pasture for another session of ball striking. Stewart still avoided any discussion about mechanics. All he preached was relaxation and tempo. He kept telling me what a good swing I had, that my fundamentals were sound, and that all I had to do was think about where I wanted to send the ball.

  I had to admit that I was hitting the ball as well as I ever had. Stewart even had me cut and draw the ball on alternating shots. Instead of making any mechanical adjustment, he told me just to visualize the ball flight I wanted and hit it that way. At first I couldn’t see how that would work, but a few swings later Stewart had made a believer out of me.

  We had gotten a late start because of my visit with Boo, and it was almost two o’clock when we quit. Stewart wasn’t through with me, though. He announced that, after grabbing a sandwich back at our apartment, we would spend the rest of the afternoon chipping and putting.

  “We spent a lot of time on the putting green yesterday,” I complained mildly.

  “Putting’s an everyday thing,” he answered quickly. After a few minutes, he added, “Do you really think the other guys who’ll be at Q-School are resting every other day?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Whether you want to believe it or not, right this very minute there are thousands of pros just as talented as you who are practicing with every club in the bag every day. If you think you can beat them without working harder than they do, you’d better start looking for a day job now.”

  He then punched his finger into my abdomen. “All that beer drinking did was get you a nice, soft gut. We’re gonna have to work on that, too.”

  “Golf’s not that kind of sport,” I said in protest.

  Stewart growled. “If Arnold Palmer can do 500 crunches every morning at his age, you can get off your fat butt and do a little road work before breakfast.”

  I wasn’t ready to concede defeat, but I knew better than to argue any further.

  After a couple of sandwiches for lunch, we headed out to the Country Club of Louisiana. When the Jack Nicklaus design opened in the mid-1980s, it featured bentgrass greens. Needless to say, a grass that doesn’t volunteer south of the Canadian border was a bitch to maintain in the heat and humidity of south Louisiana, but the club wa
s determined to make it work.

  As a result, the Country Club of Louisiana had the only bentgrass greens in the area. And they were pretty damned particular about who got to play on them. But, since Q-School was usually played at courses with bentgrass greens, we obviously needed to spend some time there. While I wasn’t sure how we would get on, I knew better than to question Stewart as he turned down the drive to the entrance of the club.

  As we stopped at the gate, a uniformed guard with a clipboard walked over to our car and said in a friendly voice, “May I help you?”

  Stewart leaned across me and said, “Yes, my name is Stewart, and we’re here to see Mr. Mackey.”

  The guard looked down at a list on his clipboard. He frowned slightly and said, “I don’t see your name on my list, Mr. Stewart.”

  Without blinking an eye, my friend said, “Stewart is my first name. My last name is Jones.”

  The guard’s face immediately brightened. “Ah, yes, I have it right here, Mr. Jones.” He reached over and punched a button that raised the gate. Pointing toward the clubhouse a distance away, he said, “Mr. Mackey’s expecting you. He’s in the pro shop on the other side of the clubhouse.”

  Stewart thanked him, and I drove through the open gate.

  “How’d you get to know Frank Mackey?”

  He responded as casually as usual, “Oh, Frank and I have known one another for years.”

  I was about to pursue it further when I saw that we had pulled up at the bag stand. An attendant trotted up to assist us, and we handed him my clubs. After I parked the car, I caught up with Stewart as he came out of the pro shop.

  “We’re all set.”

  “For what?”

  “To spend some time on these bent greens.” He surveyed my face as if it would explain why I asked what he considered to be a stupid question. “Why do you think we came here in the first place?”