RUGator

I got fired today. Was sort of cool.

Awaiting my loop today, Mr. Trump rode by. It IS his course, you know.

So I “pointed” to him. His response?

You got it.

I got “fired” as he pointed right back at me.

I loved it.

I loved it because he always makes time to give the caddies a friendly greeting. And to give us some good-natured teasing too.

Can’t make it up.

In case you were wondering, that’s what I do. Well, that’s what the gentleman who I was blessed enough to caddy for today told me. Yeah, God’s work. 

See once he found out that I was a teacher, he deigned my work to be that of a higher order.

“We need more people like you in the world, Mike,” he told me.

And he thanked me for doing such noble work.

As I cleaned his clubs.

And watched him drive off in his Bentley.

1. Caddies DO talk about the players they caddy for. And it’s usually NOT flattering. We know you’ve “never played this badly,” that you “shot 75 two days ago,” and that you’re going to “take care of us.” We’ve heard and seen most of it by now.

2. Never pick up a discarded towel on the golf course. It’s laying there for a good reason. You don’t want to be “Squeezing the Charmin” on the golf course.

3. Curse words function as every part of speech.

4. We are not discriminating eaters. Wait up to 6 hours BEFORE your loop and see how good road kill looks. If we drink any more energy drinks, eat another energy bar, and or have any more caffeine, we’ll blow up.

5. Powder, cards, socks, and tobacco are staples.

6. Carnival workers and caddies are not too distant cousins.

7. Personification of body parts and bodily functions define our speech patterns.

8. Truth is stranger than fiction in the caddy yard, i.e., the turd in the cup, the caddy who lives in a tree, and finding “lost balls” are all realities.

-We had to pay the State of NJ $15.00 to file a form indicating that my mother-in-law owed no estate tax.

-Is the College World Series ever going to end?

-Heard the story of a caddy who lived in a Banyan tree on the golf course where he worked. He’d put his garbage in a plastic bag which he’d hang from a branch every morning for the grounds crew to dispose of.

-Had a golfer I was caddying for (while he rode in a cart and I carried his bag) tell me that, as a teacher, I had a “racket.”

This is how I became a caddy:

“There’s someone down at the range you should meet,” said Keith. He was the head golf professional where I worked as the club’s “starter.”

He told me that warming up was the caddy master at a cloistered old club here in New Jersey. So I made my way to the range.

“How do I play Somerset Hills?” was the first thing out of my mouth. Now I’ve never fancied myself as an assertive type, but the words sort of just spilled out.

He asked me what I was doing tomorrow. “Playing golf at Somerset Hills?” was my response in the form of a question.

I was correct.

And so I did.

Not knowing the protocol, I asked around.

“How much should I bring for a caddy? What should I wear?”

When tomorrow came around, the nerves set in.

I had learned the game as a kid in Florida. Sneaking on the public course near our house, I was forever dodging the rangers in an attempt to hide my modest beginnings. Tomorrow would be an introduction to another world.

Arriving at Somerset, I was greeted, not by playing members, but by caddies. I learned that, on Mondays, the course was closed for regular play. Mondays were “Caddy Days,” i.e., days reserved for caddys. To play the course.

I got paired up with two caddies. Tommy and Chris. Tommy was the reigning veteran caddy. He was in his sixties, having caddied there since he was 14. Chris was a soon-to-be club pro.

They were gracious hosts, showing me around the course, treating me as an equal. All the while encouraging me to join their ranks as a looper.

Standing on the second tee at Somerset, confronting the par 3 “Redan” hole, I was mesmerized by what I saw. I had never encountered a hole like “Redan.”

From that moment, I was better for the asking.

While on the range awaiting my loop, I spotted the Ping representative setting up for a “demo day.” I offered to help him bring his equipment (bags filled with clubs) from his van to the driving range.

“Hey, I know you,” I called out.

And I did.

At least I remembered him.

Many years ago, he worked for Top-Flite Golf. I introduced myself to him one day while he was stocking the pro shop at another club. I sort of felt sorry for him because not many players were using Top-Flite golf balls. I did because I’ve always been a contrarian.

He gave me a dozen of my favorite golf balls. He told me that his job working for Spalding (which was on the verge of bankruptcy) was very stressful. He was hoping to find another position in the golf business for a more profitable company. The prospects didn’t seem too promising.

As a thank you, I sent him a copy of “Leadership for Leaders,” a book generously passed on to me from one of my mentors (Homer Rice, the book’s author). The book had helped me find my way.

Today he reminded me, “You sent me the book. You’re a teacher, right?”

And I left the golf course later with a brand new Ping hat.

Contrary to popular belief, golf is a “city” game.

Off the tee:

Slice city, hook city, shank city, sky city, skull city, thin city, fat city, crushed city, striped city, piped city, bomb city, cut city, fade city, draw city, fast city, quick city, push city, over the top city, pull city, o-b city, spanked city, and even whiff city. All of these towns are heavily populated.

In the fairway:

Chunk city, chili dip city, fat city, thin city, blade city, worm burner city, screamer city, bone city, t-bone city, missed it city, fan job city, short city, bunker city, fried egg city, flew it city, stuck it city, pured city, plug city, get there city, divot city, and yank city.

On the green:

Sally city, pulled city, left it out city, lip city, bomb city, drain city, stubbed it city, inside out city, drop city, short city, blew it by city, horseshoe city, ring around the rosy city, back door city, side door city, go to your room city, go city, and slick city.

Back on the golf course today. Not as a player, but “on the bag” caddying. I’m a “looper.” It’s my weekend gig during the school year; my summer job when “I’m off.”

As a caddy, I spend much of the time with myself; in my own mind. You have to.

Caddies are a different species. Up early, mornings in the “yard” are unique moments. You see the real in people. And there’s usually a lot of moaning and groaning about it.

Caddies, like the players we work for, are usually only happy when we’re miserable. You’d be astonished to know what looping does to the human body. All sorts of foot issues. Blisters, ingrown toenails, ankle, knee, and hip pain are constant companions. We get rashes in places that you’d rather not treat. Powders, ointments, and salves are the caddy’s caddy.

We talk a lot of b.s. too. Not the self-importance kind of stuff. More like the Hunter S. Thompson sort. Talk of mind-altering substances, wannabe wannabes, and tobacco use dominate our sentences.

There’s the waiting too. Caddies have to be patient. And flexible. You’re constantly trying to stay one step ahead of your player and the game they play.

I have a few “rules.” To start, I always try to beat my player to his or her ball. Sort of a pride thing. I want to be ready. I’m also pretty anal about head covers. Not losing them, that is. They’re forever falling off clubs. Keeping tabs on head covers is a job in itself and I do whatever I can not to leave one behind. Lastly, I put a special emphasis on trying to read into what my player needs. Some players want you keep quiet. Some caddies want to talk too much. Not a good mix. Tongue-biting is an art that good caddies learn and adhere to. Other players need reassurance. Not so much that they want YOUR opinion, but rather that they want to know that THEIR opinions are the right ones. Good caddies know that it’s never about them (the caddy). It’s ALWAYS about the player. You’ve got to develop the ability of letting the player believe that he is making the right calls.

For a time, it used to be about me. But as the seasons pass, I’ve become content to live vicariously through my players. And that’s fine.

Thankfully, it’s lonely as a caddy. You fight with yourself, going back and forth between mentally drifting off and focusing on your player’s game. Get too involved and a round can drain you. Stay detached and you’ll quickly lose credibility. It’s not the “calls” you get right that matter. It’s the ones you don’t make and the ones you miss that tend to count. But that’s o.k. too because you’re in it.

There’s a strange collection of us out there looping. There are the “lifers” who do nothing but caddy. Up north in the late spring and summer, many of them fly south in winter to earn a living. Then there are the “kids.” The high school and college students who caddy during their summers. And finally there are the “alter ego” caddies. We’re the ones who have “real jobs” and caddy as a second job to stay connected with the game and to help pay our way.

I do it because the money is good, it delays the inevitable, and gets me out in the open and out of the house. Not that I don’t love my family, because I do. But staying home all day lends itself to all sorts of potential marital discord.

So today I was back at it. Opening day. On an absurdly windy and cold day, we made our way around the golf course. The familiar faces were there too. Members I’ve caddied for over the seasons. Good to see them. And I felt that the sentiment was mutual.

The golf course is civil. People take off their hats upon greeting each other. You hear and see kindly gestures. Curses, guffaws, and “ball-bustings” are also part of the game’s code. But I like it all.

And I was glad that I had another season ahead of me.

Still the greatest sporting event I have ever witnessed.

http://nbcsports.msnbc.com/id/12161738/

Ever.

Sitting in the caddy yard awaiting your day’s work, opens one up to a myriad of weird experiences and thoughts. This day would be strange even by those standards.

Normally the first caddy to arrive every morning, I had taken my spot at about 5:45 am. Alone amongst the deer, trees, and soft summer breeze, I had the golf course to myself. You think about lots of things. Mostly strange things.

I was startled out of my reverie by the screeching tires of a speeding car down the long entrance road. Pulling to a stop in front of the first tee and the pro shop, the car’s door opened to “You Shook Me All Night,” by AC/DC blasting through the speakers as Tim stumbled out. He was the club’s assistant professional. As such, Tim was being groomed for a head pro job. And a good one he’d become. But not just yet.

He had the good looks and build of what you might picture as being the quintessential PGA member. Just not today.

“Mike,” he blurted. “I’m screwed! I’m coming from AC (Atlantic City). Been up all night and I’m still hammered. And I’ve got to play with three members this morning. What am I gonna do?” he asked.

“Play with the pro” was a weekend event that the club held as a way of getting the membership to participate in playing events with its golf professionals. For the most part, it was something that the pros viewed as a necessary evil. And as such, they were never in a hurry to volunteer for the duty. This day would be Tim’s penance, albeit it one he’d have to pull off while still recovering from an all-night gambling and drinking binge. “Part of the job,” they’d often complain.

As one of the veteren caddies, I usually found myself on the bag for the pro during these excursions. They trusted me to comport myself well and represent the club and its pros in an appropriate fashion. It was a good gig too because the pros were always an easy loop (low maintenence) and the members would pick up the tab (which was usually “a buck fifty” or more).

Today though, I’d have my hands full getting Tim around the golf course without him embarrassing himself.

All was going relatively uneventful until we reached the 15th tee. On the way from 14 green to the next tee box, Tim confided to me that, “I’ve got to shit so bad, Mike! You have no idea. I’m not gonna make it.”

I did my best to get his mind off his gastrointestinal distress.

“Let’s just get our tee shot off,” I said, trying to get him focused.

And he did just that, striping one right down the pipe.

“Quick, Mike. Give me your towel. I’m going into the woods. Walk ahead with the group and try to distract them while I go,” Tim pleaded.

I hurried up to the other members of the group chatting it up in a weak attempt to keep their minds off the pro’s predicament.

Luckily, one of the other players had hit his tee shot into the deep fescue rough, so we busied ourselves looking for his ball while Tim busied himself with his business.

Lo and behold, enough time went by that by the Tim came running down the fairway, not a beat had been lost.

Unfortunately, he had also returned with that same towel I had lent him.

Now if you know anything about golf, and more importantly caddying, the towel is the caddy’s most important accoutrement. Without a towel, we cannot clean their golf balls and wipe their clubs, all key ingredients to a successful loop.

But this new reality would test even my time tested abilities to bullshit my way through a round. I had no choice.

To discard it would have left me naked. Keeping it meant carrying around for four holes a cloth clotted with the remnants of last night’s Atlantic City bilge.

I had no choice but to hold my nose (and breath) and suffer in silence.

You should have seen their faces when we were down wind.