Life Lessons From a Caddie

What do most parents do when their son is in dire need of some character building?  Give him responsibilities around the house?   Send him to boot camp?  Hose him down in the backyard when he gets out of line?

Not my parents. 

They made me caddie for a bunch of retired, bitter, wannabe golf hacks.  Not wannabe golfers.  Wannabe golf hacks.  I would’ve been smitten with the hose.

Most parents would seethe at the thought of waking up at 4:30am every Saturday and Sunday to drop their kid off 20 miles from home.  Again, not mine.  At least they had the comfort of knowing I was in good company with my fellow caddies and our caddie Master.  These guys were all winners.  Jim lost everything he earned betting against various members.  “Ten Down” Ben would drink 10 Pepsis a loop.  And Lou was just there to get away from his wife and kids.  These three gentlemen were the Head Caddies.  But my favorite of the bunch was the caddie Master, Dan.  This guy still gives me nightmares.  Let’s just say, if golf truly is 90% mental, Dan should take up tennis.  What keeps me laughing all these years is the irony of it all, because, now, as a 26-year-old, I get it.  My parents knew exactly what they were doing.

The Interview

The opportunities to show up to a job interview looking like an unkempt(er) version of John Daly are few and far between.  Had I known seeing a well-ironed polo was, to this group of winners, like seeing someone shoot an Albatross, I would’ve opted for a t-shirt my Dad used to wash his car.  The first person I met when I got to the club was Dan, who possessed the disposition of someone who recently committed murder and hid the evidence in a frequently-used sand trap.  After I repeated my name several times—then sounded it out several more—he remembered who I was and why I was there.  The weirdest interview of all time was underway.

The entire interview process lasted about an hour.  It consisted of a quick meet and greet with the Head Groundskeeper, Al.  And, when I say quick, I mean Dan told Al there was a low-hanging tree limb next to the 16th tee, to which Al replied by giving me a blank nod and driving off toward, I assumed, the 16th tee.  As soon as he was a choke-down pitching wedge away, Dan told me what he thought of Al:  “Al’s kind of like Whistling Straits, a large sum of cash for a huge pain in the…” you get it.  Needless to say, at this point, I was thinking about that refreshing power hose in my backyard.  It’s what happened next that had me feeling like a 20 handicapper standing on the 16th hole at Cypress Hill…baffled.

An elderly couple drove by complaining about something; probably the flower choice in the arrangement next to the 18th tee box, or how the drinking water on the course should be Dasani, not store brand.  Mouth gaping, I checked Dan, whose countenance changed from, well, his, into that of Phil Mickelson on anti-depressants.  After what seemed like no more than five seconds had passed, I saw Dan shaking the elderly man’s hand and hugging his wife.  Then, without skipping a beat, he brought me to a Port-O-Potty at the farthest corner of the course and, like a father figure, explained, “If you think the members are full of (expletive), wait until I show you what’s in here.”  The interview was back on track.

Lesson Learned: How to put emotions aside and deal with people diplomatically.

It’s Who You Know

You would think landing a caddie job interview would be pretty simple.  Especially after knowing the caliber of the best the club had to offer: Jim, Ten Down, and Lou.  Well, It wasn’t.  My parents “knew a guy.”  And by knew, I mean my Mom was blood-related.  Still, from what I understand, it took some pleading.  Not that I blame my Uncle.  The last time he saw me, at a family gathering, I peed my Power Ranger pants.  He simply didn’t want to give his bloodline a bad name by parading his gross nephew around his cherished safe haven.  I get it.  Of course, when he learned I was shooting in the 70s somewhat regularly, he strangely had a change of heart.  Still, after caddying for him a handful of times, not once did he let me hit a shot, offer me lunch at the turn, ask me about my life, or speak to me in general.  In his defense, when it got really hot, like 95 degrees plus, he would take a cart.  The fastest cart I’d ever seen.  I remember thinking that I didn’t know they could (legally) make carts that fast as I ran at full speed down the first fairway, trying to keep up with my lead-footed Uncle.  Did I mention my Uncle was a Lawyer?

Photo via Flickr

Lesson Learned:  Knowing the right people might get your foot in the door, but it won’t get you respect.

A Diamond in the Fescue

Stan was the kind of guy whom you wouldn’t mind dating your sister, because you knew he had zero experience having any sort of intimacy with the opposite sex.  They called Stan “Robo Boy” because of his ability to double-bag for 36 holes without breaking a sweat.  He was also, as far as anyone could tell, mute.  No one had ever witnessed him communicating with another human.  I used to watch the evening news, expecting to see Stan’s facial composite.  He just exuded that “don’t look at me, or I’ll end your life” kind of aura.  Needless to say, Stan wasn’t very close to any of the other caddies.  On second thought, I take back what I said about letting him date my sister.

At the end of every summer, the Country Club closes the course for the Annual caddie Outing.  I remember walking through the parking lot, toward the caddie Shack, clubs in hand, when I heard a loud thud, followed by a slew of expletives that sounded like Tiger Woods after a wayward drive.  It was Stan.  His clubs were laying in the parking lot, and his bag, which looked like a DIY project, was resting in a nearby flower bed.  From the blood running down his leg, it was clear that he took a pretty nasty spill.  For the first time all summer, I felt bad for Stan.  I approached him cautiously, ready to pull out my 9-iron like a Samurai Sword.

“Hey man, do you need any help?”

Stan looked at me as though I was first person who ever spoke to him.

“I got it.  Thanks, though.  Good luck today”.

As Stan finished packing his clubs into his bag and wiping the blood from his leg, he headed toward the putting green.  I walked toward the driving range, brooding over my brief conversation with Robo Boy.  I was kicking myself, because, for all I knew, he was a great guy, and I didn’t even give him a chance.

I finished up my round that day with a 5-foot, left-to-right breaking, downhill putt for a rough 85.  As I walked off the green to turn in my scorecard, still wondering what the hell I was thinking not laying up on the par five 16th, I saw Stan.

“Hit em’ straight today?” I asked, less on-guard than I was during our previous encounter.

“New course record.”  Stan responded as he grabbed his clubs and headed to the back of the parking lot, where the caddies parked (as far away from the fancy cars as possible).  I watched him put his clubs in the back of his car before he drove off.  That was the last time I saw Stan.

“And the winner of the 2002 caddie Open is…” Dan announced excitedly. “Stan”.

I don’t think he knew Stan’s last name, because, after all, Stan was a nobody.

Lesson Learned:  That weirdo who sits at the desk next to you…give him a chance.  He might just show you a thing or two, and he might just be your future brother-in-law.

Cover Photo via Flickr