tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116068742024-03-07T02:54:08.011-05:00The Reluctant Jam BoyI'm a caddie. This means I drink, play cards, and go on rants from time to time. Enjoy.Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.comBlogger139125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-81129971672325982552011-11-05T21:45:00.000-05:002011-11-05T21:45:45.709-05:00Your 18-Year-Old Self<div class="MsoNormal">It happened again yesterday. I caddied for 18 holes, and by the end of the loop, I had barely spoken to the member at all. I think this is the third or fourth time this has happened—where I’m caddying for a couple of guests, and by the time we finish 18 holes, I almost forget the members’ name. I suppose there are a few good reasons for this: the constant wind that makes hearing difficult, the challenging walk and limited strength for conversation, and the fact that I’m still new there, and the members have their go-to caddies. But yesterday I really didn’t have any excuses because it was just me and the member out there. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I carried one bag, and I barely spoke to the member at all. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In a traditional sense, this type of relationship is normal. I mean, I’m there to carry the bag and make the round as easy and enjoyable as possible. My job isn’t to talk. But come on: 13 holes and only three or four sentences between us? He even had to ask me my name before we parted ways. That’s how memorable I was.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He was a nice older gent who mumbled to himself. At times I thought maybe he was talking to me, but I was never sure. I mean the last thing he said to me was “good job,” so I guess everything went alright for him. Maybe he was just old-school, and preferred not to talk to a caddie. Who knows?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What I do know, however, is that he showed me how effective a straight, 220-yard drive can be on this course. Granted, he played the whites, which measure around 6400 without wind. But still: that’s some heavy-ass rough out there with an endless number of funky uneven lies. Mr. Silent gave me a peek at a new strategy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, the poignant moment I really wanted to share was what happened AFTER my loop. I walked into the TV room to find 6-8 caddies lounging about. There was an outing yesterday, and somehow I bypassed all the hoopla when Mr. Silent rolled in. Out of the blue, one of the caddies blurted out: “If your 18-year-old self was here right now, what would he say?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After a moment of silence, where the only sounds came from SportsCenter, answers to this question flew every which way, but they all revolved around the following theme:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“My 18-year-old self would spit in my face and call me a loser. I think being a caddie is the last place I expected to be.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Everyone seemed to sober up in that moment and give a nod of agreement. As strange as this sounds, that answer shocked me. I had always seen a symbiotic relationship between caddies and members: the caddies wanted the lives of the members, and the members wanted the lives of the caddies. I felt this was why so many members and caddies bonded on the course, and as a positive side effect, the caddies were endowed with a superior level of confidence. I mean think about it: in the real world, these CEO’s, celebrities, board members, doctors or whoever else were all masters of their respective domains. But on the course? They’re on our turf.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In short, I always thought of caddying as a fun job to have. Sure I ran into some problems years ago, but overall, these caddies are enjoying their lives, right?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the responses I heard, I wasn’t so sure anymore. But at least SportsCenter was on. Something needed to distract us from the silence. </div>Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-38933701390498327392011-11-04T07:22:00.000-05:002011-11-04T07:22:08.583-05:00Winter Tale<div class="MsoNormal">Sorry for the delay, but the last week has been a little weird.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Last Friday night, Big Bear told me to come in at 7:30 am Saturday morning “unless it was pouring.” I didn’t realize this at the time, but because I live about 30 minutes away from the course, there was a 99% chance that it could be pouring rain at the course but be completely dry near my abode.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, predictably, when I got up Saturday morning I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. About halfway to the course, however, the rain started coming down. When I finally parked, it was windy, freezing, and raining just hard enough to make you think hail might be on its way.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I got into the caddie area, there was only one other caddie there. It was Larry.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What the hell are you doing here?” This is now his way of greeting me every morning. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I don’t know. I heard it might snow today. I’ll probably stay until 9:30 or so just to say I was here—I don’t think anyone will even be playing today.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, me neither. You want some coffee?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So we sat and drank coffee for about an hour. He’s a good guy, and he gave me the skinny on the season at the course: when the busy months are, the fact that I might be able to get on “weekend warrior” status even while I’m working my full-time job, and even enlightened me about a private men’s bathroom nearby. Now that’s valuable information.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then Larry left for some reason. I think he went for a smoke. Then the phone rang. I froze, and ultimately decided not to go near it. I mean there’s nobody playing today, right? Why answer the phone?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ten minutes later, the head pro walked down into the TV room where I was sitting.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, you are here. We got two guys that want to play.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then Larry walked back in: “Hey, what’s happening?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“We got two guys that want to play.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You’re shitting me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No. Mr. Little-Strange and Mr. Weed. They’ll be here in 10 minutes, so you guys better suit up.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then the pro shook his head and left. I stepped outside just to see what the weather was like at that point. It was COLD. I went back inside, where Larry was already getting ready.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hey Tom, if you don’t want to work, that’s fine. These guys tip well, though, so it may be worth your while.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, yeah. I’ll do it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I never complain about getting a loop, but today I was more than a little worried about my health. It was freezing outside, and constant rain and a threat of snow really didn’t seem to bode well either. But, I’m a caddie, and this is the kind of crap some golfers love. In fact, I have a theory that some private club members who play in conditions like this get such a rush that they end up telling their grandkids about the experience some day. I mean, many of these members have more money than they could ever spend—they might NEED to play golf in the snow just because they’ve done everything else in their lives and they need that fulfillment. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mr. Little-Strange pulled up first, and although I tried to be a good caddie and valet his Porsche SUV for him, when I got inside the vehicle I couldn’t figure out how to put it in reverse. Ridiculous, I know. But when I sat down, there were so many lights and vibrations that I felt like the car was on when in fact it was OFF and I merely needed to turn the key. Damn luxury vehicles. So when I got back outside and told the member that I couldn’t put it into reverse, Mr. Little-Strange gave me a look that seemed to say: “Wow you’re an idiot, and I hope to God you’re not my caddie.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After he parked the SUV, I gave him the good news: “Hi Mr. Little-Strange, I’m you’re caddie.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While Larry and I waited outside in the horrific tundra-esque conditions for our golfers—who were most likely inside warming up with a crack-pipe—we admired the 100-pound American flag that normally flies high and graces the club with its sense of pride and direction.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That morning, however, it had become tangled around the pole, and the cold, unforgiving winds were now ripping it to pieces. There was something so sad about the sight. Then I turned around and looked at my reflection in the window, and felt even sadder. Are these douche-bags really playing today?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When the golfers finally came back outside, they were so gung-ho about playing it was scary. They ran down to the first tee like a couple of kids.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What should we play for? $5? $10?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“How about a $25-$50 Nassau?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes! Yipeee!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To add to the fun, I realized after Mr. Little-Strange’s tee shot that not only was he a little strange, but he also couldn’t hit the ball very far. I’m not knocking the guy for that, because golf is hard enough, it’s just that when it’s cold, the ball doesn’t travel very far ANYWAY—and with all of the forced carries off of the tee-boxes, I would need to field these balls a little closer to the infield. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Did I mention it was cold? Larry had given me an extra rain hat he didn’t need, so at least my head would be dry. The problem with the hat, however, is that every time the wind decided to gust—which was quite often, actually—the front of the cap would flip up so I looked like Gilligan, and my entire face was exposed to the elements. It felt like opening up the freezer while a 10-year old doused me with a water-gun.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, we whipped around the front 9 quickly. I wasn’t wearing gloves, so every time I tended the flagstick I thought one of my hands would be stuck forever. By the 5<sup>th</sup> or 6<sup>th</sup> hole I think my hands were almost numb, so every time Mr. Little-Strange tossed me the ball I would just slap it back to him and say “no thanks.” Pulling clubs out of the bag was also fun—I found that using the back of my hands, although slow and stupid-looking, could still work in a pinch.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After 9 holes, the two brave souls—ahem, “douchebags”—went inside for more crack and to “warm-up.” So me and Larry did the same, and went downstairs for more coffee and shredded some layers to air ourselves out. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After about 15 minutes, the telephone rang. I picked it up: “Are they ready for us?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yep. Come on up.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wonderful. After putting on every layer I could think of again, we stepped outside and found that it had started to snow. And I’m not talking a slow, graceful snow. I’m talking fast, accumulation-type snow. Oh, and the wind and cold temperatures were still in full-effect, which I was happy for, because I needed to get my hands numb again to pull clubs out of the bag.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When we got to the 10<sup>th</sup> tee, something finally dawned on Mr. Little-Strange. He turned to Mr. Weed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hey, how are we going to find a white ball in the snow?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This seemed to stump them, so I butted in: “Just follow the trails in the fairway.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mr. Little-Strange was so overjoyed he yelled to the heavens: “Yippee!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There was one small problem with my theory on “following trails in the fairway,” and that was the fact that Mr. Little-Strange wouldn’t be reaching any fairways off of the tee. So that meant careful inspection of the rough, which at that point looked like something out of a Stephen King novel.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Somehow, we didn’t lose a ball for the rest of the round. They picked up intermittently throughout the last four holes we played, which was a Godsend for me and Larry, who were both shivering at this point just to keep warm. When we looked at the clubhouse to see how the American flag was doing, we saw quite an unusual sight: the STARS were now completely separated from the STRIPES. The red and white stripes were wrapped around the pole a good 80 feet above the ground, and the blue and white stars were flapping high above—unencumbered—in the winter breezes. As if this course wasn’t surreal enough: a links-style course with a complete view of Manhattan and the industrial sights of Bayonne, a clubhouse with a Lighthouse built into it, 2-inches of snow and fog so thick we couldn’t even see the water, and now a mutated American flag that was now most likely frozen to the pole a good 80 feet above the ground.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the last hole, to win the match, Mr. Little-Strange used a wedge from 4 feet away and chipped the ball directly into the hole. YIPEE!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All of a sudden, the round was over. The pro came out to greet us after the 13<sup>th</sup> hole, saying that because of the snow he couldn’t let us go any further—we’d be doing too much damage to the grass. Our entire foursome cried hysterically—tears of sadness for the players, tears of joy for the caddies.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember years ago caddying in February in Virginia. There wasn’t any snow, but the ground was so hard that the caddies had to pass around a cordless power drill just to be able to tee-up the golf ball for the members on each hole. I can say, without a doubt, that my experience on Saturday in the snow tops that. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Driving home was a nightmare, and there were so many branches and trees that were down that there were times when I didn’t know if I would even make it back. Later that day, after getting home and changing, the power went out. It wouldn’t come back on until Wednesday night.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Although I caddied yesterday, it was far less entertaining than my experience on Saturday, so I figured I’d relay this story instead. There’s a 40-player outing this morning, so I have to get going. But I hope you enjoyed the read.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cheers.</div>Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-17734172936848557732011-10-24T21:22:00.000-05:002011-10-24T21:22:26.104-05:00You Spinning?<div class="MsoNormal"><i>*The following occurred on Sunday, October 23<sup>rd</sup></i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><sup><br />
</sup></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s no doubt about it—this course has officially made me its bitch.<span> </span>I don’t ever remember being this sore.<span> </span>I think my ankles now have biceps.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">The funny thing was, when I came in around 7:30, I really wanted to work.<span> </span>I did—I thought, “After yesterday’s round with the Carters, every subsequent round should be butter.<span> </span>The weather is supposed to be perfect, and there really isn’t any wind out here right now.<span> </span>Golfers should be having fun and then I’ll have three days off for school so I can rest up.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But TP and Big Bear were nowhere to be found.<span> </span>The wedding the night before must’ve done some damage.<span> </span>I think both of them were there for at least 14 hours yesterday.<span> </span>So an outside staff member named Blue was up top running the show.<span> </span>At first I thought that would be fine, because everyone in any capacity at this club seems to pitch in their fair share and the whole operation seems to run seamlessly.<span> </span>But Blue made me nervous.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">First he told me I would be working at 8:52.<span> </span>Then he came back down 10 minutes later and said it was now 9:30.<span> </span>Then he came down again and said: “You know what, you’re getting out today, but I’m not giving you a time anymore.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The stop-and-go feeling was a little nauseating if I’m being honest here.<span> </span>Not only because I really wanted to work and with all of his switching I started feeling like I may not work, but also because he reminded me a little of me when I started assisting with Caddie Master duties back in the day.<span> </span>I can remember on a few occasions going back and forth with caddies because members were cancelling, changing requests, taking longer to eat breakfast, or whatever else.<span> </span>It was frustrating because I knew that it was my job to get the caddies work, and if it just wasn’t happening the way I wanted it to happen—well, there’s that nauseating feeling again.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Big Bear finally showed up around 9.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Man, I can still taste the Cuervo…that’s not good.<span> </span>And I swear, the next time I go to grab a cart key from the bucket and there ARE NO cart keys, I’m going to grab an outside staff member by the neck and just start bludgeoning him with non-stop right hand punches.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The caddie / staff parking lot is a HIKE up the hill to get to the clubhouse, so having a cart to ride up in is crucial.<span> </span>Apparently Big Bear had thrown the bucket against the ground in anger, shattering it into “ten distinct pieces.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then the phone rang.<span> </span>I’m starting to love the sound.<span> </span>It was my turn to head up top.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">When I arrived at the podium, Blue walked over and pointed at my bags. “It’s a husband-wife, and you’re going to have a great time out there.<span> </span>They’re high maintenance, and don’t give them too much information.<span> </span>And they like to see some hustle.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The bags were trunks, and I noticed as I walked up the steps to the podium that I was still sore and tired.<span> </span>I really wanted to work, but I just didn’t think I had the energy I needed.<span> </span>This is sacrilegious for me to say, but I wanted to try to take it easy out there today.<span> </span>And did I mention the bags were heavy?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was about to assess what I could remove from the bags when the husband-wife came out: Mr. and Mrs. Soccer.<span> </span>As soon as he saw me eyeing the bags, Mr. Soccer stated the following: “The last caddie thought these bags were heavy, but I don’t really think so and I would feel more comfortable just leaving everything in there.<span> </span>What do you think?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You like all 15 clubs including a 1-iron, sir? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I think the bags are fine.<span> </span>You guys ready to go?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The icing on the cake came when Big Bear sauntered up to the podium and greeted the Soccer’s.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">BB: “And how are we doing today?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mr. Soccer: “Fine.<span> </span>Listen, we really want to whip around.<span> </span>How busy is it out there?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">BB: “It’s not busy right now.<span> </span>You’ve only got a twosome in front of you.<span> </span>And you’ll whip around—Tommy is one of my best hustlers out there.<span> </span>He’ll be in front of you all day.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “Thanks Big Bear, you’re the BEST.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sonofabitchoreocookiesareawesomebutnottodaybecauseimightdiebythetenthholeyoubitchassbitches.<span> </span>Now the pressure was really on, and I was hoping some sort of caddie deity was watching over me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After they teed off—and after I was well ahead, thanks Big Bear—I laughed for a second thinking about my initial training as a caddie all those years ago.<span> </span>The owner of the caddie company had taken three of us on the course to complete the last 4-6 hours of our instruction, and he made a comment about caddying for husbands and wives.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“While I want you to work hard for both the husband and the wife, make sure for the first nine holes that you avert your eyes from the wife as much as possible.<span> </span>Believe me, it’s the only way you’ll get both people to trust you by the back nine.<span> </span>Then you can stare at the wife’s ass all you want.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had always found the overall concept particularly useful.<span> </span>These people don’t know who they’re dealing with—a Jedi among Padawan-learners.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">These people LOVED head-covers by the way. They couldn’t seem to get enough of them.<span> </span>At times I felt like I was juggling with two bags on my shoulders.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One really surprising thing about the front nine was that all of my reads…were…perfect.<span> </span>I would have never expected that in a million years, and OF COURSE I’m going to let it go to my head.<span> </span>I need to soak it up while it’s there.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, there was never any reaction from the Soccer’s.<span> </span>So far, there seemed to be a wall between us, one that segregated members from caddies.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then, on number 10, for whatever reason, Mr. Soccer pulled a 180-degree turn.<span> </span>He started asking me about where I went to school, if I played soccer growing up (he and his wife rarely play after Labor Day because they’re too busy watching their daughter play soccer), and mentioned that “I was fast.”<span> </span>So at least I had conveyed some hustle at that point.<span> </span>Then again, that also made me work a little harder on the back nine (for whatever reason), because I guess just needed to make sure they got the point—I work hard for that cheddar.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I said my goodbyes after a successful loop and brought their bags back to the podium, TP power-walked across the porch to get over to me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yo, dude! You spinning?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s caddie lingo for “double.”<span> </span>JUST KILL ME NOW.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, as long as I can get something light.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No worries, I got you.<span> </span>Go downstairs and grab some lunch, and come back up when you’re done.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t mean to sound like a baby, but I was seriously hurting after carrying those trunks.<span> </span>The Aleve in my system had all but worn off after only 5 hours (supposed to work for 12, bitches), so I was forced to pop another just to see if the medication could TOUCH the pain in my shoulders.<span> </span>No joke—I could barely lift my arms.<span> </span>As I walked to the lunch-room—still can’t believe that they have food for caddies here—I contemplated telling TP that I just couldn’t do it.<span> </span>It was the first time in my caddying CAREER that a course had gotten the best of me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I shoved some sort of beef thing covered in crispy dough into my mouth, along with pasta and lemonade.<span> </span>I ate so quickly that my jaw was unable to keep up with my brain after about 5 minutes.<span> </span>I was eating in slow motion at that point, and had no ability to change gears.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I decided that I would commit to the second loop.<span> </span>Just suck it up and deal with the consequences.<span> </span>I figured my chances of dying were slim, so I should just quit my complaining.<span> </span>When I got back up to the podium, TP gave me a weird look.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Did you eat?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Already?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Okay…well just go downstairs and relax.<span> </span>I’ll call you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I guess I broke the sound barrier eating that beef.<span> </span>So I had a little time to let the Aleve kick in, which was just fine with me.<span> </span>When I sat down in the TV room amongst the other caddies, however, word around the campfire was: I might not be going out.<span> </span>Nobody in the room—and there were 8 of us—had been assigned a loop yet.<span> </span>So maybe I’ll be alright.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then the phone rang.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A caddie picked it up, hung it up, and yelled out: “Tommy! Tommy! You’re up!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Glad I had enough time to go up and down the stairs one more time.<span> </span>That really did wonders for my legs.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Turns out TP took care of me.<span> </span>I had a single bag.<span> </span>Not only that, but for the first four holes, my player was showing his kids around the course and I really had nothing to do but walk along.<span> </span>The bag was light, and one of his kids—at the age of 8—sounded like a future PGA Tour Hall of Famer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Not only did this kid drill a 3-wood 130 off a side-hill lie right onto the green, but on a previous shot, he held his finish and said: “I hit that on the toe.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dude, when I was 8, I’m pretty sure the only thing I knew was that I really enjoyed tater-tots.<span> </span>That’s amazing.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">When the player finally dropped off his kids, he wanted to jump around the course and see if he could find another member to give him a ride home.<span> </span>Although the caddying part of it was still easy, keeping up became exponentially more difficult.<span> </span>By our 9<sup>th</sup> hole I was trying to think of a way I could fake hustle while I was actually walking in pain.<span> </span>Turns out you can’t really “fake” hustle.<span> </span>When the member asked me how long I had been caddying, I gave my new answer a try: “A little over a month.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Wow.<span> </span>I knew you were new, but not that new.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay then.<span> </span>I guess the next time I’m asked, I’ll say 2 months.<span> </span>But these members are so tight-nit with the caddies, that even then they may say, “Well that’s funny, I haven’t ever seen you around here before.<span> </span>And didn’t you just say that number 7 was a par 5 when in fact it’s a par 4? Are you lying to me you little punk?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I was finally done for the day, I headed straight to Wendy’s.<span> </span>It’s my new routine.<span> </span>That 99-cent menu is a Godsend.<span> </span>It beats the McDonald’s dollar menu any day.<span> </span>Why? Try buying ONE f-ing thing on that “dollar menu” and see if it ends up being less than $1.40.<span> </span>I dare you.<span> </span>And hello: Monterey Jack cheese and ranch on a chicken sandwich with lettuce? I’ll take four.<span> </span>And fries.<span> </span>And a burger.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another great day.<span> </span>Time for more Aleve.</div>Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-78369609670270337142011-10-22T16:52:00.000-05:002011-10-22T16:52:23.845-05:00The Carters<div class="MsoNormal">I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience when I woke up this morning. The pain was there, sure, but my brain felt detached from it. It was like I was observing my own pain and then saying, “Wow, that must hurt like hell.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stopped to pick up some Aleve and yogurt on my way in this morning. I seem to be falling back into my old routine—I could never seem to eat very much for breakfast when I was caddying, and Aleve would always make me cry tears of happiness. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The owner of the golf club is getting married later this afternoon, and so the parking lot I normally use was unavailable—they needed all the space they could get for valet. When TP tried to explain where I COULD park today, his explanation went something like this: “As soon as you come over the train tracks, take a hard left into what looks like nowhere to go. It’s right next to the 4<sup>th</sup> green.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I knew the train tracks he was talking about, and I knew where the 4<sup>th</sup> green was. As soon as I came over the tracks this morning, I slowed down and looked for the first possible left. I saw one possibility about 30 yards ahead of me, but then I heard honking. TP was directly to my left, signaling for me to turn into…well, nothing. When I stopped, backed-up the car, and looked at the “parking lot,” I realized that unless TP had honked, I would’ve never found it. TP’s shuttle van sat right next to the entrance of the narrowest, most secretive parking lot known to man. The opening provided by the gate was probably only 15 feet wide, and once you pulled up into the lot, you had about 20 feet on either side to work on k-turning or reversing your car in a line down the left side. Spare construction equipment and materials lay scattered on the ground or in piles everywhere. It was like we were in the appendix of the trucking / construction site—it was hard to find a use for this space because of its shape and size. So why not park caddies there?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I got into the shuttle van, TP was laughing with a couple of the other caddies: “No, dude, you don’t understand. The maximum capacity for this club is like 120 people. When that happens, it’s a shit-show. With this wedding, we’re looking at about 300 people. So we’re beyond shit-show status today. I just don’t understand why the owner doesn’t just say: ‘You know what? This is my course, and I’m getting married. No play today.’ But no. We have play on top of play on top of play on top of a wedding.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I took my time signing in, because if the course is really that busy, there’s no rush to assure myself of a loop. I knew I’d be getting out on the grass quickly. So after throwing on an extra layer (it was nippy this morning), my jacket, bib, grabbing a cup of coffee and watching Sergio Garcia take a sizable lead at the Castello Masters in Spain, Big Bear came in and said: “Alright Tom, you’re going with Mr. Absent today. He’s laid back, works on Wall Street, and smokes pot. I just wanted to make up for all of the tortuous loops I’ve been putting you on.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Four things: if every professional golf tournament was held in Spain, Sergio Garcia would win constantly. Is it just me, or is he always right at the top of the leaderboard or winning every event that’s held in Spain? I don’t watch a lot of the European Tour because of the time difference and because the announcers put me to sleep—but I’m pretty sure I’m right about Sergio. Second, Big Bear relayed a story about playing in an AJGA (I think that was the affiliation) event with Sergio the week before he went to play in the US Amateur back when Sergio was 17 years old. Big Bear said on the first hole Sergio drilled a 2-iron “dick high” about 270 yards. “It was a laser.” I think it’s pretty unbelievable that Big Bear was able to play in a tournament against Sergio. Big Bear said he shot 76-72, and Sergio fired a 71-74. “At least I beat him on the second day.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Third, one of the caddies explained the McDonald’s Monopoly game to me. Apparently, it’s impossible to get all of what you need to win if you keep buying food in the same State. He said “they” have done “a study” to prove that all of the spaces you need will come from 3 different States. If this caddie is correct, that means that A) McDonald’s is smarter than I thought, and B) If people can organize flash-mobs, they sure as hell can orchestrate some way of linking people with various Monopoly pieces all over the United States. The overall prize you split may be much lower, but at least you don’t have to drive all the way to freaking Juno, Alaska to get Boardwalk.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fourth, the loops so far have been great. Torturous my ass.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When it was finally time to loop, and the group had completely formed, the only thing that came to my mind was “Carter.” I say “Carter” because when I used to bartend for a few muckity-mucks, it seemed like they were all named Carter. The member seemed like a stand-up guy—in fact, he was the regular for one of the caddies in the car accident, and when he heard the story on the first tee, you could tell how concerned he was. The rest of the group, however, just reminded me of trust-fund babies—Carters. Even after 18 holes, I still didn’t really get to know them that well, so it’s very possible I’m wrong. But I felt I had to go with my gut on this one. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There were two reasons for this belief: there were several occasions when one of my players acted like they were “putting me in my place” because I was a caddie. They also struck me as the type of guys who never really had to work very hard to get into their current jobs. Some of the conversations they had made it sound like they were born into connections, and mom or dad just had to pull a few strings to give them the best possible start. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This may sound harsh, but I really have no interest in getting to know someone—I don’t care how rich they are—who treats certain people differently. I may have a slight crack addiction, but I play to the same handicap and I don’t force my services upon you—so don’t say things like “let the caddie go get it” after you purposefully smack a ball in anger across the green. Sure I’ll get your ball for you, but you’re not scoring any points, buddy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You know, perhaps some of it was my fault for being honest. When one of the players I was carrying asked me how long I had been working out there, I answered “this is my second week.” The look of surprise on his face made me add: “But I’ve been a caddie for 3 years.” I think divulging my inexperience is what made him crack down on me like he did today. So I guess from now on I should lie a bit—maybe extend that experience out to a couple of months, just to gauge the reaction.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s not really like me to let players get to me, but honestly, I felt like I was closed off all day. I wasn’t looking for long conversations with these guys, but to constantly get the cold shoulder does wear on you after 4+ hours. I was just glad I had taken my Aleve.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tomorrow will be better. I feel like I’m finally starting to get a handle on the course, and my reads are getting more exact. Or, maybe I shouldn’t jinx myself. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Take care all.</div>Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-5193214924206010542011-10-21T21:48:00.000-05:002011-10-21T21:48:34.711-05:00So...Much...Pain<div class="MsoNormal">It’s been a long time since I’ve been in this much pain.<span> </span>I did 36 today—a single in the morning and a twosome in the afternoon.<span> </span>I think I only survived the last half-hour of my second loop because of an intense desire not to pass out and die.<span> </span>In short, I’m going to try to make this post short, because right now I’m having trouble lifting my arms above my shoulders.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So what can I say about the first loop that hasn’t already been said? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, the guy was not happy at the start of the round.<span> </span>Remember that whole order of operations I talked about before? Well for some reason, even though the staff knew he was in the clubhouse and rushing to get on the tee, they still sent a threesome and a foursome in front of him.<span> </span>He had signed up for a tee time ahead of all these blokes.<span> </span>So what gives?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well that was his line of questioning from the time I shook his hand until the middle of the first fairway.<span> </span>He didn’t want to bad-mouth anyone, but he also really wanted to bad-mouth someone.<span> </span>The foursome ahead of us on the 1<sup>st</sup> green simply stared back at us, smiled, and continued to take mulligan after mulligan and continue their topographical analysis of the putting surface.<span> </span>My player, Mr. K, was about to explode.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I said: “Why don’t we just skip around them and head over to 3? I saw a twosome heading to that tee but we’ll probably fly right through.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wait a second.<span> </span>I said I wanted this post to be short, because it hurts to shrug right now.<span> </span>So let me fast forward the first round.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the 3<sup>rd</sup> hole, we marveled at a horrible pin location and played through a twosome.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mr. K finally calmed down by the 6<sup>th</sup> hole, and when we got to the green, we marveled at another horrible pin location.<span> </span>Mr. K: “What the hell? What the hell? Does the Superintendent even play golf?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Somehow, my crack smoking didn’t interfere with my green reading.<span> </span>I was ON FIRE with this guy.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes you just click with a player and you can trust his putting stroke.<span> </span>We made some great putts on the front, and I cursed a few times in excitement, to which he replied: “I like that!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When he found out I was studying to be a CPA, he told me that I’d have a better chance finding a good employer if I shoved my head up a cow’s ass.<span> </span>He told me “good luck.”<span> </span>Then he said his wife is a CPA, so I wondered if she had shoved her head up a cow’s ass.<span> </span>Turns out she now works for him, so I guess it’s a regular freaking cow-fest.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My first “bad” read came on 11.<span> </span>“Bad” as in 1-inch offline.<span> </span>Mr. K blamed the wind, and I liked that.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mr. K made 3 incredible pars in a row, and we both marveled at the horrible pin locations.<span> </span>I mean with the strong winds and fast greens, some of these pins are just bad-ass—like “Superintendent Revenge Day” bad-ass.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We skipped back to number 1 after the 18<sup>th</sup>—2.5 hours had passed in 16 holes.<span> </span>I was sweating just about as much as the day I tried to learn vector calculus.<span> </span>After the second hole, he said he had a great time.<span> </span>I hope I get a request from him in the future.<span> </span>A fast-talker and a fast player—I like it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Big Bear advised me that my next loop would be at 1:30, so I had 30 minutes to have a “serious burn.”<span> </span>Dude, keep it down.<span> </span>I don’t want EVERYONE knowing about my crack addiction.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I sat down in the poker room downstairs, had a little lunch, drank a little coffee, and shed a layer.<span> </span>I had been sweating so much that one of my layers—not the initial layer—was completely soaked.<span> </span>As soon as I took it off, I felt much cooler, but then it was almost like I had a fever.<span> </span>I was now freezing.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">My 1:30 canceled, but I hung around just in case some stragglers showed up.<span> </span>TP then assigned me a single, but when I went up to the podium to introduce myself, a twosome showed up out of nowhere and TP assigned me to the newcomers instead.<span> </span>When I looked at the bag-tag on the first bag, I couldn’t believe what I saw.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This player is a member at my old stomping grounds—that great track in Northern Virginia where it all started for me: my gambling problem, my drinking problem, my crack problem, my bad green reading problem, and my caffeine addiction.<span> </span>It was a magical 3 years.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The highly un-magical thing about Mr. Pastime’s bag, however, was that he had 17 clubs, which included two identical 4-irons.<span> </span>One of my eyes twitched slightly.<span> </span>I decided, for the sake of whipping myself into shape, that I would carry this overweight bag and not say a word.<span> </span>It seemed like a smart idea at the time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The other players’ name was so unfamiliar to me that it would take me 18 holes just to come CLOSE to remembering parts of it.<span> </span>I feel as though I’m good with names—but this one was the grand-daddy of all names.<span> </span>Consonants, syllables, and vowels were thrown together in an entropic array that would give Keith Richards a high.<span> </span>Even when this player SAID his name to me when we shook hands, it came out sounding like all the grown-ups on Charlie Brown.<span> </span>It flew by too fast, and I felt very alone and scared.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Alright, time to fast forward the second round so I can take some more pain medication.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So the bags were heavy, I was already tired, and the temperature had dropped about 15 degrees.<span> </span>The sun was already starting to set, and with the overcast sky, I wondered if it would be alright if I screwed up absolutely everything in this round.<span> </span>Well, didn’t WANT to screw up, it just sort of happened that way.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">First off, it’s an entirely different golf course for 5-6 handicappers who can hit the ball over 270 from the tee.<span> </span>I hadn’t thought about how a golfer would play this course if he or she could drive the ball over 220, because that’s all I had encountered so far.<span> </span>Handing a driver to the player seemed appropriate in most situations, and I was always hoping that the ball would carry over certain waste areas, even though I knew exactly where the ball was going.<span> </span>But not with these guys: my yardages would have to be adjusted back to something I would actually hit.<span> </span>That may seem easier, but when you throw in those horrible pin placements and a strong cold wind, you feel totally unprepared for any and all questions they throw at you.<span> </span>And putting? Piece of cake.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Tom, does this putt break left?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Gorgeous putt.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It broke right, Tom.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Wow. <span> </span>So it did.<span> </span>That’s amazing.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">MAN that felt good.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After—oh I don’t know—the 2<sup>nd</sup> hole, the players stopped asking me for reads on the greens.<span> </span>That freaking Superintendent moved SOME of the flags since this morning, and so many times I was looking at putts I had never seen before.<span> </span>Other than my previous example, I usually got the direction of the putt just fine, it was the “amount” of break that alluded me.<span> </span>It did wonders for my confidence.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Did I mention Mr. Pastime had 17 clubs in his bag with 2 identical 4-irons? By the back 9, I was piecing together my last will and testament in my head I was so excited about it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">These guys liked to play incredibly fast.<span> </span>Normally, this is a great thing for a caddie.<span> </span>But I was having trouble keeping up by the time we reached the back 9.<span> </span>Not only that, but they were splitting me on every hole.<span> </span>One of them was always in the fairway, but the other was always NOT.<span> </span>I think I added another mile to my foot-action today—I also think the arch of my right foot just wheezed—and made me feel as though I was holding them up, regardless of how fast I tried to move.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By the end, they both gave me a wink and a good handshake—even though I think I screwed up just about everything I could screw up.<span> </span>I was so happy I had finished I wanted to cry.<span> </span>It was pitch black by the time we walked off the final green.<span> </span>I did think it was important to discover that I could work using sonar.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">The fun wasn’t over, however.<span> </span>Now I had to put their clubs in their cars.<span> </span>Turns out I needed to figure out where the list was to identify their cars, where their keys were, and where someone with a key was to open the bag room because my STUFF was locked inside, which included my car keys.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">But it all worked out.<span> </span>Now I’m just trying not to move too much and hope that when I get tired, I can move from the keyboard to my bed and fall asleep instantly.<span> </span>I know tomorrow morning is going to be even worse.<span> </span>I imagine I’ll tighten up something awful by then.<span> </span>It’s really just my shoulders.<span> </span>Then again, as a caddie, that’s about the worst place you can be hurting.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know I’ll be fine.<span> </span>Tomorrow should be interesting.</div>Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-31458780529099308462011-10-20T20:35:00.000-05:002011-10-20T20:35:52.275-05:00Pulling Something from Somewhere<div class="MsoNormal">When I pulled into the parking lot this morning, there was a familiar caddie waiting in a cart.<span> </span>When I opened my door, he started laughing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Whoa now.<span> </span>Don’t hurt yourself.<span> </span>Slow down.<span> </span>There’s nobody here right now.<span> </span>When you sign your name you’ll be number 2, behind me.<span> </span>I think there are 10-15 golfers on the sheet all day.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sure enough, when we rolled into the caddie room, I was in the 2<sup>nd</sup> spot.<span> </span>I decided it would probably be a good time to get a little reading done, as well as figure out how I would layer up for caddying today—somebody had cranked up the air-conditioning in the basement from “normal” to “North Pole,” which made me forget in the span of a minute what the weather was like outside.<span> </span>So I put on a couple extra layers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I bundled up so much, in fact, that TP—an old friend and the Assistant Caddie Master—looked over at me when he walked in and said: “Hey, Tommy, what the hell do you have on there? You need a blanket and a pacifier too?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So while I struggled to determine my proximity to the Equator, three more caddies came in and told the most unbelievable story.<span> </span>Well, to be honest, it wasn’t the WHOLE story—I was only able to pick up fragments.<span> </span>I didn’t want to pry and get every detail, because I’m still new to the yard and it’s the type of story where I felt it would be inappropriate for me to ask a lot of questions. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In essence, here’s what happened: four caddies went off to play golf on Monday.<span> </span>While driving on one of the nearby highways, something came loose on an 18-wheeler carrying 10 cars.<span> </span>A couple of the cars being transported fell off the back of the rig, and so now two stationary vehicles are in the middle of the road while on-coming traffic is traveling around 65-70 mph.<span> </span>Unfortunately, the car carrying these caddies was only a few car-lengths behind the truck when this happened.<span> </span>The driver swerved to miss the first stationary vehicle, clipping part of it, which sent the four caddies into a spin.<span> </span>They were then T-boned by the second stationary vehicle and slammed again by a car that had been following behind them.<span> </span>One of the caddies broke his arm and fractured his skull, another caddie punctured a lung when his ribs broke, and I think one of the other caddies broke a leg (again, I’m just piecing together fragments of the story).<span> </span>All four caddies suffered memory loss in regards to the accident, and their golf clubs flew out of the trunk and were scattered all over the highway.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Only two “positive” things came of this.<span> </span>First, when the ambulances arrived at the hospital and during their short wait to be seen by doctors, all of the caddies were yelling at each other.<span> </span>Things like “I may have a broken arm, but I could still kick your ass!” Apparently they had the hospital staff laughing hysterically, and one of the doctors even said: “You guys are like…too much for the emergency room right now.”<span> </span>I’m saying that was “positive,” because at least that meant that they were doing alright—well enough to be bitching at each other.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">The second positive thing—very positive—was that a couple of the caddies orchestrated a visit, and after everyone in the room knew the story (more caddies had shown up by then), 5-10 caddies planned a visit to their friends in the hospital after their loop was over with today.<span> </span>That gives you some indication of how tight-nit these guys are, which I think is really special.<span> </span>Out of the 5 or 6 clubs I’ve been a part of, I can think of only one other group of caddies where you could get a group of guys together to do that.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After that somber tale, I sat down in the bag room to get a little reading done and work on one of my books.<span> </span>Then I thought: why does every bag room smell like grass and feet?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hey Tommy! You’re going out with Sanders at 10 with some ‘un-accomp’s.’” It was TP, giving me the lowdown.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">That was another new concept for me: unaccompanied guests.<span> </span>This club allows a member to call the pro-shop and say, “Hey, my man, I got 4 friends that wanna play your course, but I can’t make it.<span> </span>Let them play unsupervised the way God intended, alright?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No problem.<span> </span>What time would they like to grace us with their freaking presence?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m positive that’s how all of those conversations go.<span> </span>At every other private club I’ve ever been to or worked, either the member has to be present or one of the professionals would need to join the group.<span> </span>I suppose this particular club, with its close proximity to Manhattan, would rather show off the goods and attract new members than play the upturned-nose card.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The time was 8:45.<span> </span>Plenty of time to read and relax.<span> </span>So I poured myself a big cup of coffee (another perk I will never take for granted—I mean are you freaking kidding me?), and sat down in the smelly bag room to read over some of my notes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Around 9:15, a caddie flew through the basement door and tracked me down.<span> </span>“Hey! Get up there!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Already? Damn.<span> </span>So I dumped the rest of the coffee, grabbed a towel, and followed the caddie back up to the podium.<span> </span>He pointed down to the first tee.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“They’re already down there.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wow.<span> </span>I didn’t mean to be a freaking SLACKER.<span> </span>In thinking back, however, this is pretty much par for the course when it comes to caddying.<span> </span>Regardless of how “prepared” you want to be, there will always be times when the Caddie Master will throw you a curveball.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Today, I would be carrying two bags.<span> </span>I’m growing up.<span> </span>Mother would be so proud.<span> </span>My two “un-accomp’s” were Mr. Fallback and Mr. Highslice.<span> </span>Both were tremendous people—don’t get me wrong.<span> </span>It’s just that Mr. Fallback liked to fall back on this right foot on the follow through, which led to some wonderfully consistent golf shots.<span> </span>Mr. Highslice, on the other hand, liked to swing on an aggressive outside-to-in path, which produced a surprisingly high slice.<span> </span>I knew that with the stereotypically strong winds on this course, both players would really enjoy their day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My first issue came on the 2<sup>nd</sup> green, where Mr. Fallback had a putt for par.<span> </span>Although the greens here roll true and I don’t feel they’re overly difficult to read, my name is still Tom Collins, and at times the crack I’ve smoked will cloud my vision and make it more than a little difficult to give the correct reads.<span> </span>The additional problem was that the wind actually affected the line of a putt.<span> </span>In many cases today, the ball would be wobbling or move while the players addressed the ball.<span> </span>Anyway, all crack smoking aside, Mr. Fallback had a legitimate chance at par.<span> </span>It was about 20 feet and downhill.<span> </span>He asked me for a read (first mistake) and trusted that I knew what I was doing out there (second mistake).<span> </span>After reviewing the putt from behind the hole, I thought the ball would move about two cups right. <span> </span>I gave him an aiming point, and stepped back.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The ball stayed completely straight, and with perfect speed, stopped EVEN with the hole, two cups out on the left.<span> </span>You have got to be kidding me.<span> </span>So, I searched out-loud for an answer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, I guess the…wind…must’ve held that out there.<span> </span>From down here it looked like it was going right.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then things were cool for awhile.<span> </span>Nobody asked for a read, which made me a little nervous, if only because once a player cuts you off from reading his putts (unless he simply prefers it that way), you can wave bye-bye to a decent tip.<span> </span>But that wasn’t the case here—the players were relaxed, joking, and just wanted to pick-up play, so they just stepped up and hit the ball in most cases.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then we got to the 5<sup>th</sup> hole.<span> </span>The 5<sup>th</sup> hole—without wind—is sort of a joke.<span> </span>I think from the tips it’s a 160-yard par 3, which means that from the blues it runs about 140.<span> </span>The nicely folded pin-sheet in my hand said 30 paces back from the front, so after a quick calculation, I came up with 145 pin.<span> </span>The pin-sheet said back right, and from where I stood, the pin looked back right.<span> </span>The other caddie even chimed in: “Yeah, I like 145.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When we got up to the green, the pin was FRONT right.<span> </span>I’m not sure if I coughed, cleared my throat, farted, or wheezed, but I was taken aback.<span> </span>I looked at the other caddie.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, I wasn’t about to question your yardage on the tee in front of the players…but I could tell that flag wasn’t back right.<span> </span>I could just see too much of it sticking up.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nobody really said anything, so I thought I was in the clear.<span> </span>But then I had another hiccup: I handed my players their drivers for the 6<sup>th</sup> hole.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Without wind, the 6<sup>th</sup> hole is a really short par 4.<span> </span>I think it’s under 300 yards.<span> </span>There’s a waste area with bunkers that runs from the green about 50 yards back towards the fairway, and so from the elevated tee—without wind—you don’t want to hit anything longer than 200 from the blues.<span> </span>The other caddie explained this to everyone in our group, and my players turned around, looked at their drivers and then at me.<span> </span>Again, I think I might’ve wheezed, coughed, or farted—I can’t be sure.<span> </span>Bottom line, I handed them their hybrids.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After watching Mr. Fallback and Mr. Highslice rip their tee-balls high into the wind and land short of the fairway, I did wonder why I hadn’t insisted on drivers for them anyway.<span> </span>But I still felt as though my club selection was premature.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the 8<sup>th</sup> hole, all four players crapped the bed.<span> </span>One player lost a ball.<span> </span>Then another.<span> </span>Then someone hit it in the water.<span> </span>Then Mr. Highslice gave up. Then someone skulled it over the green, then someone three putted, and when it was all over, I think a 7 won the hole.<span> </span>I would have needed a graphing calculator to determine their aggregate score.<span> </span>Laser my ass.<span> </span>Get me something that can add exponents.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">One thing the 8<sup>th</sup> hole did, however, was jumpstart my confidence and get the whole group on a roll again.<span> </span>With a bad 8<sup>th</sup> hole, now players are turning to me for more guidance, I’m feeling better about myself, and everyone is playing better.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When Mr. Fallback asked me about my tenure on that course—as in: “How long have you worked here?”—I had to lie.<span> </span>Well, I tried to avoid a “number of years” per se, and just condensed it to “a while.”<span> </span>During one of my initial loops here, a member asked me the same question.<span> </span>When I responded with: “Oh, about a week,” he nearly choked on his Cohiba.<span> </span>I little white lie never hurt anyone.<span> </span>I’m still running my ass off trying to be a good caddie—no need to introduce any doubt in the fragile minds of my players.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the round, the other caddie mentioned that “you can always tell when you’re caddying for a player who normally rides in a cart, because by the 14<sup>th</sup> or 15<sup>th</sup> hole, their legs get weak and they can’t seem to swing the club as well anymore.”<span> </span>I noticed that this was true of Mr. Fallback on 17, because after his trek up to the green, he just stood over the ball and laughed as he took multiple swings in the deep rough just to move the ball a couple feet. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ll say it again: just tremendous guys.<span> </span>I really enjoyed caddying for them.<span> </span>I’m just glad things got turned around today after the 8<sup>th</sup>.<span> </span>When I came back down to the caddie room after the loop, a hand-written sign was plastered on the entrance to the TV room.<span> </span>To paraphrase, it said: “All hands on deck Friday morning.”<span> </span>Apparently it’s going to be busy tomorrow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Can’t wait. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-14833101022380998942011-10-17T11:18:00.000-05:002011-10-17T11:18:33.618-05:00I Need A WALKER<div class="MsoNormal"><i>**The following is based on experiences from Sunday, October 16<sup>th</sup>.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One of the big differences between caddying five years ago and today is grad school.<span> </span>I’m happy to report that they’re not just handing out master’s degrees—so far it’s non-stop work.<span> </span>For whatever reason, one of my professors made an online assignment due today at noon, even though I won’t have class this week.<span> </span>So I had to finish this particular assignment late last night. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So waking up this morning wasn’t fun.<span> </span>The pink and red sky over industrial Bayonne was certainly a sight, though.<span> </span>When I finally arrived in the bag room (successfully navigating the maze of doors in the bowels of the lighthouse) and signed my name, I was 9<sup>th</sup>.<span> </span>Movin’ on up to the East-side.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I would soon discover, however, that I was in for some good old fashioned couch time.<span> </span>The tee sheet was packed, but Big Bear had to look after his regular guys first.<span> </span>So after about an hour, I decided to sit in the poker room and watch the drama unfold to pass the time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At first, there were only two caddies sitting at the table talking about their fantasy football teams.<span> </span>Now, I’m a man, so I understand the concepts involved with creating a fantasy football team and how the points are determined, but I could barely keep up.<span> </span>The names, stats, and strategies they were throwing back and forth made my head spin.<span> </span>So I just sat there and kept my mouth shut for most of it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unbeknownst to me, another caddie was in the process of recruiting poker players.<span> </span>When this “recruiter” walked back in the room and looked at me, he smiled.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You play cards?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You know, I do, but I had to swear it off for a while because I lost too much money.<span> </span>I know that’s probably music to your ears, but I’ll just hang back for now if that’s alright.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He laughed and grabbed a seat.<span> </span>Two more caddies came in with breakfast and sat down at the poker table, sipping their coffee and bitching in unison: “Hey, are we playing cards or what? We may have to loop soon.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then three more caddies came in, and the table was full.<span> </span>The game could begin.<span> </span>Twenty minutes later, Big Bear waltzed in and started commentating on the action.<span> </span>“What the hell is that guy doing? This is the caddie room.<span> </span>Ignore all logic, thought, and instinct…and just push in all your chips.<span> </span>Don’t think, dude.<span> </span>Act.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The game went on for a while, until Big Bear heard some static over the radio and told a few guys to cash in and head up top.<span> </span>Yet instead of going up top with them, Big Bear took a seat at the table and started playing.<span> </span>Call me crazy, but that fascinated me.<span> </span>I have managed a few caddie programs (or assisted, anyway) in my heyday, and I would’ve never dreamed of sitting down to play cards.<span> </span>There were always people to meet and things to do, and it would’ve been impossible to pull myself away.<span> </span>But I guess after five years at the helm, Big Bear knew the routine cold and could take 20-30 minutes to enjoy himself without causing a hiccup in the first tee procession.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Between hands, Big Bear conveyed a story about one of the caddies in the yard who had been arrested the night before.<span> </span>For those of you who have never worked in a caddie yard, this story may seem outrageous—but this is pretty much par for the course when it comes to caddies.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“So did you guys hear about Miller? We’ve got another arrest to add to the list.<span> </span>What’s he up to now—five for the season? I think that’s a record.<span> </span>Anyway, the guy gets a booty call at 1 am.<span> </span>He lives in like…the worst part of Newark.<span> </span>So Miller puts on a black jacket and a black hat, and there just so happens to be a robbery in the area.<span> </span>Well of COURSE the cops are going to pull him over because he looks like a freaking hoodlum.<span> </span>So they arrest him and take him in for questioning.<span> </span>When he finally convinces them that they’ve got the wrong guy, they run his record and find an unpaid $90 ticket on his file for urinating on the Light Rail (public transportation).<span> </span>So, long story short, he’s not here today.<span> </span>Good old Miller.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Around 10, the phone rang.<span> </span>One of the caddies yelled my name, and it was time for me to get my ass to the podium.<span> </span>As an aside: there’s a sign on the exit door next to the poker room that specifically tells everyone NOT to use that door to go up to the first tee.<span> </span>On my first day, Big Bear told me to go all the way up the stairs and out ANOTHER door, so I’d end up by the putting green.<span> </span>Yet each day so far, EVERYONE goes out the door their not supposed to for a loop.<span> </span>So I just said screw it, I’m doing that too.<span> </span>Walking all the way around the building isn’t really any fun when NOBODY ELSE is back there.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I arrived at the podium, it didn’t look like anyone knew what was going on.<span> </span>I mean sure, caddies and outside staff members were being proactive, going out to meet members pulling up in cars or carts to take their bags and say hello.<span> </span>Aside from that, 10 caddies (including me) seemed to be just standing around on the front porch in the wind—just waiting.<span> </span>On Saturday, I gave a caddie a lift to the Light Rail (different guy, not Mr. Pee) and he mentioned that most of the loops out here are “pot luck.”<span> </span>I didn’t really understand what that meant until today.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After about 15 minutes of interacting with members, guests, and caddies, I finally figured out that I would be working with another caddie named Brandon, and that we’d be splitting a threesome.<span> </span>By now it was about 10:30, and the porch was mobbed.<span> </span>Everyone wanted to tee off at once.<span> </span>The order of operations at this club is as follows: when a crap-load of golfers are chomping at the bit and you can’t send people off of 10 or 14, the first tee order requires that singles go first, then twosomes, then threesomes, then foursomes.<span> </span>As a threesome in the midst of foursomes, we were given the green light.<span> </span>I guess tee-times are more like guidelines here than rules.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Our group consisted of two members and a guest.<span> </span>I would start by carrying one of the members—a thin, 6’7’’ behemoth named Mr. B.<span> </span>The other member was Mr. V, and after watching a few practice swings, I dubbed the guest Mr. All-Wristy.<span> </span>Brandon asked the group what tees they wanted to play.<span> </span>Mr. V said blue, which meant 6,700 yards in 30+ mph winds.<span> </span>I thought to myself: “Self, these must be decent golfers.<span> </span>Nobody in their right mind would play that yardage and punish themselves if they knew they couldn’t handle it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Whiff.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mr. V topped his tee shot into the Sasquatch weeds in front of the tee.<span> </span>What added to the fun was that when I turned around, 30 people stared down at us.<span> </span>All those players and caddies waiting on the porch? Yeah, they had stadium seating for this show.<span> </span>The first tee is on a much lower level, blocked from the wind between two huge mounds of grass.<span> </span>I turned back to my players, and crossed my fingers under my towel.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mr. V striped his second tee-ball, which made me feel better.<span> </span>Then Mr. All-Wristy stepped up to the plate, and snap-hooked his ball into the tall grass.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’ll just drop in the fairway.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At least he’s easy-going about it.<span> </span>Then my man, Mr. B, grabbed a 5 iron and drilled it 215 yards into the wind, right in the center of the fairway.<span> </span>The first hole is only 340 yards on the card, and without wind you only have about 230 yards of runway before the nasty stuff—so Mr. B’s play was understandable.<span> </span>I just couldn’t believe he hit a 5-iron that far.<span> </span>Holy leverage.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Under my “old school” caddie training, I was taught to never lose a players ball.<span> </span>Out here? If you lose less than 5, you’ve either done a great job or you have a plus-6 handicap for a player.<span> </span>Even if you have a perfect line on the ball and see where it stops, there’s still a good chance you’ll lose it.<span> </span>To add to the fun, many shots carry over large mounds of grass—of which there are many between you and the green—and you may not be able to see or figure out which mound of grass holds your ball.<span> </span>The only silver lining here is that you’re bound to find 5-6 balls a round that AREN’T yours, but that will be enough to quell the players’ frustration because then you can say: “Hey, sorry about losing your ball again.<span> </span>But here’s a brand new ball for you to use.”<span> </span>In a sense, the balls you lose and the balls you find tend to wash each other out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Brandon and I talked a bit, and I could tell he had a good work ethic.<span> </span>He said he’s been caddying since he was a kid, and that this course is “night and day” from where he used to work.<span> </span>I had to agree with him—I’ve worked at some clubs where you have to kill yourself just to get a smile out of the members.<span> </span>But here, you can relax a bit and just be yourself.<span> </span>The course is walking only, and so the membership tends to be younger than your average private club.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Brandon forced reads on the players on the greens.<span> </span>That annoyed me at first.<span> </span>Again, it’s just my upbringing, but normally you’re just supposed to read the putt and wait to see if the player asks you about it.<span> </span>You don’t just read the putt and tell him where to hit it.<span> </span>As Brandon proved, however, this was actually acceptable and useful, because the greens here have so many undulations and considerations that the only way to keep up the pace of play would be to take Brandon’s approach.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">I also noticed that I should have complete confidence in my yardages.<span> </span>It’s easy to come to a course like this with 30-40 mph gusts and insane elevation changes and feel nervous about distance recommendations.<span> </span>But I found that despite my rookie appearance, I’m a golfer first and a caddie second, and so I still have what it takes to gauge appropriate yardages.<span> </span>On one of the par-5s, Mr. B had—without wind—205 to the flag for his second shot from the fairway.<span> </span>Water and marsh ran all the way up to the green on the left side.<span> </span>Now, Mr. B is a behemoth, so I knew he could get there.<span> </span>But the wind was gusting at 30-40 mph BEHIND us, and the pin location meant that he would have very little room before or after the flag to stop this ball.<span> </span>In other words, the yardage had to be perfect.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After visualizing the shot myself, I felt that he’d need at least 180 to clear the water, but not too much after that.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’d say your 185 club.<span> </span>If you hit it high, though, you could almost go 175 with this wind.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“How about my 190 stick?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Sounds good.<span> </span>Go with what you’re comfortable with. <span> </span>There’s a backstop after the green if you go long.<span> </span>I like it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s such a fine balance when it comes to giving a golfer information.<span> </span>In the past, I’ve found that if you coach a player too much before a shot, 99% of the time they screw it up.<span> </span>It just adds tension.<span> </span>But if you give too little, then they’re not comfortable with the club selection or target, and they’re usually not happy with the result.<span> </span>As a caddie, you need to find a balance.<span> </span>As an aside, I’ve also found that the truly amazing golfers—scratch or better—can talk with you all day about strategy and not screw up.<span> </span>So I guess my theory only holds up until you start talking about tour quality play. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">With a mighty swing, Mr. B drilled a 7-iron high into the air.<span> </span>The ball landed pin-high about 10 yards left, and bounced over the back of the green into the rough.<span> </span>Considering the crazy wind and the shot he had before him, that was a great swing.<span> </span>I also ended up reading his birdie putt correctly—ahem, dead straight—and he thanked me as he walked to the next tee.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At that point, the other caddie was already in forecaddie position on the next hole, so I ran to get out to the other side of the fairway with him before our players teed off.<span> </span>After the tee-shots, Brandon came over to talk.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Dude, you need to smoke some weed or something.<span> </span>Why are you running around like that?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What, just then? I was just trying to catch up to you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, I mean like…all day so far.<span> </span>Just relax.<span> </span>I told you: this is different than other clubs.<span> </span>Calm the hell down.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had to laugh.<span> </span>Seems nothing has changed.<span> </span>I’m still getting crap from caddies about how I work.<span> </span>What was even more surprising to me was that I don’t consider myself to be in shape yet.<span> </span>I’m sure I’m going to be feeling all this tomorrow.<span> </span>Brandon had one more important tidbit to add:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, and when you carry two on the back, I’m going to stick with Mr. All-Wristy.<span> </span>I think that’s the only way we can speed this group up.<span> </span>Right now I feel like we’re holding up the course.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Good point.<span> </span>I remember in the past that if you’re caddying in a group that’s holding up play, you’re going to catch hell from the other caddies after the round is through.<span> </span>Then again, in order to help speed up play, shouldn’t I maintain my current caddying speed, Mr. Brandon?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The back 9 was much smoother than the front.<span> </span>With Brandon helping out Mr. All-Wristy, we sped up our pace of play and the round was over with before we knew it.<span> </span>It also felt great to give out yardages to the other players, seeing on their faces that at that point, they really trusted my judgment.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The 18<sup>th</sup> was satisfying—now I know what Jay meant on Saturday.<span> </span>This course is a HIKE, and finishing your trek just feels good.<span> </span>Then again, that means that working a double will probably make me cry.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">The longstanding tradition of taking off your cap and shaking hands with players after the round is through is still one of my favorite parts of the day. All cheesiness aside, you really do feel as though you’ve been through a lot with someone at that point, and it’s just a satisfying conclusion to a 4-5 hour relationship.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I started changing back in the bag room, I noticed I was drenched in sweat.<span> </span>Yeah, I’m certainly going to be feeling that tomorrow.<span> </span>Brandon came down with an empty carry bag from Mr. All-Wristy, and then walked into the TV room to talk with Big Bear.<span> </span>I don’t think Brandon knew I was on the other side of the cage when he started talking.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Big Bear, you need say something to your friend.<span> </span>Tell him to take some freaking muscle relaxers or something.<span> </span>He’s running around like a kid out there.<span> </span>It’s ridiculous.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You know something Brandon? Back in the day we called that ‘hustling.’<span> </span>I can’t teach you that.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sitting here now, a day later, I’m REALLY feeling it.<span> </span>My schedule for caddying will be Thursday through Sunday until mid-November, so at least I have a few days to stretch and pump Advil.<span> </span>It’s really been a treat to don the bib again, but I do have to figure out a better schedule for studying.<span> </span>Unfortunately, I can’t recover from late nights like I used to.<span> </span>If I keep this up I might need a walker the next time I work.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Take care all.</div>Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-33670042878646508562011-10-15T20:41:00.000-05:002011-10-15T20:41:57.675-05:00Holy WIND<div class="MsoNormal">From what Big Bear told me yesterday, he works the caddie yard on a first-come, first-serve basis.<span> </span>Just come in, put your name on the list, and unless you’re requested or haven’t worked in a few days, he assigns loops based on rank.<span> </span>I arrived at 7:30 on the dot, and I was 14<sup>th</sup>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For a caddie manager, the math is pretty easy here: one caddie for every two golfers.<span> </span>The absence of carts removes the need for negotiation with members.<span> </span>Upon first glance of the tee sheet, I felt like I would be assigned within an hour or so.<span> </span>A barrage of players was scheduled, and Big Bear had to send guys down to the water to help with people “coming off the boat.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yeah: not only does this place have a helipad, it also has a private ferry that escorts players to the course from Manhattan.<span> </span>I wonder if any of these players even know what a “Dollar Store” is.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, assuming that I would be looping soon, I threw on my bib and started stuffing tees in my pockets.<span> </span>Big Bear called over: “Hey Tommy! You’ll be going out around 11.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh.<span> </span>So I guess there’s no need to rush.<span> </span>I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or bummed about the news.<span> </span>Part of me really wanted to work a double today just to whip my body into shape and get a little bit more of that cheddar, and then another part of me was like: are you crazy? You’re in horrible shape and you’ll probably pass out by the 13<sup>th</sup> hole.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After stowing a backpack with my rain gear in the special “varsity locker” I had received, I grabbed a book I’m required to finish for a grad school class and sat down in a chair facing the flat-screen television.<span> </span>The book has been a fast read, and I only had 15-20 pages left.<span> </span>This shouldn’t be a problem.<span> </span>But then I started hearing the comments I had missed for four years:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Why the hell are they showing High School sports highlights on SportsCenter? That should never happen!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Who wants to play some poker? I got an itch and I’d like to win some money so I don’t have to work today.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“That player makes $14 million a year and he’s complaining that because of the lockout, he can’t afford to feed his kids.<span> </span>Cry me a freaking river.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then, the icing on the cake came when Big Bear came in and started assigning loops.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Big Bear: “Alright, John, you got Abernathie and his kid in 30 minutes.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">John: “Abernathie! What the hell! The guy can’t tip worth a shit!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Big Bear: “You left an umbrella on the course yesterday.<span> </span>I’m going to keep doing this to you until you learn.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">John: “What? That’s once! One time!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Big Bear: “I can think of 10 times this season when you’ve left stuff on the course.<span> </span>And that’s just off the top of my head.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">John: “Alright, alright.<span> </span>Hey new guy! I’m John!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: “Oh hey.<span> </span>I’m Tom.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The interchange between Big Bear and the caddies or the caddies amongst themselves was just too entertaining.<span> </span>But I didn’t want to seem like I was eavesdropping, so I moved to the bag room and tried to read the rest of my book.<span> </span>Out of nowhere, Jimmy V came over and shook my hand.<span> </span>I hadn’t seen him since Vero Beach, Florida back in 2006.<span> </span>Back then, he made the trek from Doral and stayed with me and the other manager to help caddie for a tournament.<span> </span>I remember him showing me his artwork.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hey, Tommy! You remember those freaking members back in Florida? The pro shop was willing to waive all cart fees if they took a forecaddie, and those freaking bitches STILL didn’t take caddies.<span> </span>I just had to get out of there.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now there’s something that holds true regardless of where in the WORLD you caddie: money.<span> </span>Caddies can forget names, but they’ll never forget a tip.<span> </span>Conversations about money are so common, in fact, that I remember there were times in Virginia when I would leave the room or sit in a cart far, far, far away just because I actually got annoyed.<span> </span>It has a similar ring to someone complaining non-stop—after a while, you just have to get away.<span> </span>So far, however, this club hasn’t really had that sort of atmosphere, which has been refreshing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Due to the distractions (welcome, of course), I decided to put the book away and move back to the TV room. <span> </span>Of course the phone right next to me had to ring.<span> </span>Why wouldn’t it? You’ve got a new guy standing next to it who has no idea how this place runs yet.<span> </span>Let’s tell him to do something!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Caddy Yard?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, we need another guy down at the boat and four guys with carts.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Sure, absolutely.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay: I knew about the boat.<span> </span>But four guys with carts? Where? Down by the boat? Up top for valet? Who’s on first?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I ran around, trying to find Big Bear to make sense of this madness.<span> </span>When I finally found him up top, he looked at me over his shoulder in a nonchalant, what-you-have-to-say-cannot-possibly-be-that-important kind of way.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Bear, we need another guy down for the boat and four guys…with…carts…the phone rang downstairs.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah? Don’t even worry about it.<span> </span>It’s probably nothing.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well fine, then.<span> </span>I’m just going to sit back down in the bag room and READ something that makes SENSE.<span> </span>But that didn’t go very well—caddies kept coming up to me and introducing themselves.<span> </span>God DAMN their friendliness.<span> </span>Ah, who am I kidding? I really enjoyed it.<span> </span>It’s already a special treat to get to go back to caddying for a little while.<span> </span>It’s even more of a treat to be surrounded by sincere handshakes and to feel welcomed.<span> </span>I remember I had to put in a good 3-4 weeks on the couch as a rookie just for other caddies to give me the time of day and warm up to me.<span> </span>But here it’s been automatic.<span> </span>I also think it’s a reflection on Big Bear: the caddies really respect him, and seeing as how I’m a friend of his, they’re willing to give me the benefit of the doubt.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The phone rang again.<span> </span>A caddie shouted out: “Tom! Up top!” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It wasn’t 11 am.<span> </span>I didn’t even think 30 minutes had elapsed.<span> </span>Well, I’m not complaining.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I decided to take an extra moment and layer up with my trusty wind-breaker.<span> </span>I’m really glad that I did.<span> </span>The wind was howling when I got up to the podium, and the difference in temperature between sun and shade at that moment was analogous to the sun and shade found by astronauts on the moon.<span> </span>Sun equals 60 degrees, shade equals balls-up-in-your-throat cold.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Today I’d be with another caddie in a threesome, and I was assigned to one bag.<span> </span>Of the three, two were a husband and wife who owned some sort of business that specializes in paint.<span> </span>Not just any kind of paint, however—we’re talking paint specifically for Mercedes.<span> </span>The third in the group was a business associate, and I would find out later that the husband and wife were treating him to a weekend of fun in the city for his 60<sup>th</sup> birthday.<span> </span>When I arrived at the guests’ bag, it was propped up against a wall next to a carry bag.<span> </span>The other caddie in the group is a regular for Mr. and Mrs. Swede, and he had already transferred everything from the guests’ black, ominous cart bag into a smaller and easier-to-carry golf bag.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hi, I’m Jay, and that bag has 17 clubs in there.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wonderful.<span> </span>I mean screw the rule-book.<span> </span>Fourteen clubs does not provide amateurs with enough OPTIONS out there.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">I also noted that the carry bag was devoid of balls.<span> </span>On a course where it’s hard to track a golf ball in CLEAR conditions, I had no idea how many balls a human being could lose out there.<span> </span>I packed in 8, relying only on my rusty ball-finding skills to save me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Jay assured me that the members were the nicest people in the world, and from that first handshake, they certainly seemed to fit the bill. <span> </span>My player? A nice man to be sure.<span> </span>Wanna know what else I was sure about? He was toting a $1,400 camera over his shoulder the size of a football. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not a camera expert—the thing could’ve been only worth $1,150.<span> </span>And don’t get me wrong—the sights around this place are quite surreal.<span> </span>A well manicured, links-style golf course meets the Hudson River and industrial barges and massive ship-building cranes.<span> </span>But bringing something that expensive with you on the golf course WITHOUT a cart just increased MY fun level, I can tell you that.<span> </span>If something inadvertently happens to that camera in these 50+ mph gusts and weeds, rocks, and water, the fair market value of that camera is coming out of my left butt-cheek.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Once we teed off, I noticed something else.<span> </span>Other than my horse being a hell of a nice guy bearing a resemblance to Craig Stadler, he bounced the shaft of the club off of his shoulders on the backswing to initiate the follow through, which meant that he was in complete control of his swing and liked to produce a power fade into these perfect-storm-like gusts.<span> </span>And, due to annoying laws of physics, strong winds exacerbate fades and draws, so I was in for some good old fashioned fun.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">During the first five holes, my player’s ball would go right or way right.<span> </span>It was consistent, but the issue for me was FINDING some of these shots.<span> </span>The grass here works like this: fairway, first cut, Sasquatch second cut, then weeds and tall grass on steroids.<span> </span>Even if you have a perfect line on the ball and see where it lands, there’s absolutely no guarantee you’re going to find it.<span> </span>As I watched Jay work, it made me feel a little better that he would give it the old college try, but then just shrug his shoulders and tell his players to drop whenever they got into trouble.<span> </span>Or, the members would just drop a ball and say not to worry about it.<span> </span>In other words, I didn’t feel I had to be perfect.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On one memorable hole—and forgive me, because although I know it was a par-4 and it was on the front side and I remember how it looked, I can’t figure out what hole it is yet—my player carried an iron just over a rise. <span> </span>I could tell by the flight path that the ball had landed in the deep rough on the other side and had not reached the green.<span> </span>Somehow, I found his ball in 4 feet of grass on a 70-degree angle just before the greenside bunker.<span> </span>At first, I told him to just take a sand wedge, hold his balance, and take a whack at it.<span> </span>But after seeing his stance and the fact that he couldn’t even flick the ball straight up with the club-head if he wanted to—because of the overhanging grass—I told him to just throw it in the bunker so he didn’t break his ankles.<span> </span>I would find out on several occasions today how easy it is to lose your footing and / or slip and twist / break an ankle.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To give you a better idea of how vicious the wind was today, I thought of three good images.<span> </span>First, as I said before, the American flag they fly high above the clubhouse weighs 100 pounds.<span> </span>That flag was stretched to its limits all day.<span> </span>Second, I noticed that a few of the flagsticks were splintering near the cup due to the constant tilting.<span> </span>Third, visualize this: imagine being on top of a bus with a golf bag, and your job is to walk from the back to the front while the bus is moving 50 miles per hour down the highway.<span> </span>I was constantly wobbling and struggling to hold a straight line, and the variation in topography all over the course just added to my fun.<span> </span>I felt like the course was hazing me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the 18<sup>th</sup> hole, the caddie collapsed onto his back, saying, “I can’t do a double today.<span> </span>I feel like I have shin splints in my ankles.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wow.<span> </span>Now that’s a painful feeling.<span> </span>He told me that he had worked for the last 48 days straight, maybe more, because he had lost track.<span> </span>Only a few more weeks buddy, and then you get a whole winter to hibernate.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, today I was finally able to see the entire course.<span> </span>The layout of this course is tricky, because as a newcomer, it’s hard to figure out where you’re heading next.<span> </span>But I think I have it down now.<span> </span>The greens are easy to read, but the speed is something that will take me the longest to gauge.<span> </span>Today with the wind, it was common to knock a 10 foot putt 30 feet by, and have that ball roll off the green into the rough or a hazard.<span> </span>Before today, I didn’t really think the greens here were all that fast.<span> </span>But, as Jay told me on the first hole:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“If the wind picks up, this course is close to unplayable.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I sit here now finishing this post, so many thoughts and feelings are coming back. <span> </span>Muscle aches that plagued me years ago are back for a reunion; agonizing over the editing process of this post, trying to figure out what random rants are useful and what can be deleted; and, most importantly, coming to the end of another satisfying post, looking forward to another day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cheers. </div>Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-53119957639805432732011-10-13T20:34:00.000-05:002011-10-13T20:34:18.787-05:00Setting the Stage<div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t know what to expect.<span> </span>For days now, I’ve been mentally preparing for the worst.<span> </span>Could I possibly work a double if the Caddie Manager needed me to? I mean of course I’d say yes, but I was pretty terrified of dying.<span> </span>The last time I had been to this course was 4-5 years ago, and even when I was in peak caddie form, walking the back 9 with my own bag wore me the hell out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The parking lot for caddies / kitchen staff / any non-members works like this: you pull in, walk over to a line of golf carts, unplug the front cart and take her on up to the clubhouse.<span> </span>I met the Caddie Master in the parking lot at 11 am, and after a heart-felt bro-hug that was 5 years overdue, he saw that one of the kitchen staff members had decided to walk up to the clubhouse.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What the hell is she thinking?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I guess just getting UP to the clubhouse is a hike.<span> </span>Can’t wait to lug two bags again and let this golf course make me its BITCH.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was grey and misty outside with endless cloud-cover, which immediately made my hair stand on end: I won’t be able to follow balls in the air.<span> </span>On top of that, the rough and tall grasses that engulf this golf course are bound to screw me.<span> </span>What are those three golden rules of caddying again? Keep up, shut up, and NEVER LOSE THE PLAYER’S BALL.<span> </span>But 2/3 ain’t bad.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After parking at the clubhouse, “Big Bear” (as he’s known throughout the yard) walked me through the bowels of the lighthouse-style clubhouse to the caddie room.<span> </span>The basement hallways eliminate any sense of navigation, so the next time I try to find my way I know for a fact I’m going to go through a wrong door and get blasted by a boiler-room furnace or experience an Ernest Goes to Jail electrical shock from 30 feet.<span> </span>Sensing my lost-lamb-look, Big Bear tried to simplify my thought process.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Just don’t open any of these doors.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The caddie room is another story.<span> </span>It is dangerous.<span> </span>Not “physical harm” kind of dangerous—just “I’m going to lose a crap load of money playing cards and gambling” kind of dangerous.<span> </span>I suppose this is appropriate with the club’s proximity to Atlantic City, but let me paint the freaking picture for you: one room has an official poker table in it.<span> </span>Part of me wondered if the caddies ganked it from one of the pits at the Taj Mahal.<span> </span>Aside from piles of chips, a stack of football betting slips lay dormant, wrapped in a rubber band.<span> </span>Again, Big Bear clarified.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“There’s always gambling going on here.<span> </span>I’ve seen $1,000 on that table in one hand.<span> </span>You can bet on anything here.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The poker room also houses the bathroom, a refrigerator, and a long table with pots and pots of coffee.<span> </span>On the wall facing the poker room is a dry-erase board with two distinct areas: notes from caddies to the superintendent about busted sprinkler heads, wrong yardages, or anything else that needs to be checked out; the other side was a list of reminders to the caddies: 1. Replace all divots and use sand, 2. Rake bunkers, and 3. Stay ahead of your players (Do you want to be replaced by golf carts?).<span> </span>Call me crazy, but I heard managers yelling at caddies for these things 5 years ago.<span> </span>I’m shocked and appalled that collectively, caddies haven’t figured this crap out.<span> </span>Or maybe I haven’t smoked enough crack yet, and I’m just being too hard on my fellow bag-toting brothers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The lounge area sports a 45’’+ flat-screen and three comfortable leather couches. <span> </span>Lockers flank the entire front of the room, and a huge cardboard flat sat on top of one of the lockers, adorned with some strange arrangement of colors and names which I couldn’t hope to figure out on the first day.<span> </span>Across from the lounge area is the bag room, which Big Bear pointed out makes no numerical sense: “It goes from 20 to 40, then 100 to 200, and 340 is over on the other side somewhere.<span> </span>Just be patient and figure it out.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Behind the stacks of golf bags sat another secret set of wooden lockers.<span> </span>“Take locker 6 in the back there.<span> </span>These lockers are for my varsity squad.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Big Bear then took his leave, and I put some of my things in the locker before reclining on one of the couches and introducing myself to a few of the caddies watching SportsCenter (Again, I’m shocked).<span> </span>At that moment, I remembered something my former caddie-boss told me: “When you first come onto a new yard, you can’t come in like a hurricane.<span> </span>You need to come in quietly and work hard.<span> </span>Eventually, you’ll fall in with the rest.<span> </span>But if you come in too strong, you’re never going to fit in.”<span> </span>So I just relaxed and tried to keep to myself.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Soon enough, TP, another old friend of mine from my Virginia days, walked in the room with two new shirts, a new hat, and a new bib just for me.<span> </span>Turns out he’s Big Bear’s assistant manager. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Tommy! The original! What the hell’s going on with you?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I really missed this.<span> </span>I had forgotten how small the golf industry is, and how I’d probably be running into people I knew, even though I haven’t worked at this club before.<span> </span>We talked for a bit, and TP has really carved out a nice life for himself.<span> </span>In his words: “I take 4 rights and I’m here.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I guess he lives close-by.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After TP left, I put on the bib, hat, stocked up on tees, scorecards, pencils, and a grabbed a bottle of water.<span> </span>I paced back and forth, convinced that I had forgotten something.<span> </span>Towel! That’s right! I’m naked without it out there.<span> </span>But is there anything else? Man, I’m such a freaking rookie.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then the phone in the lounge rang, and some caddie I’ve never met shouted out: “Is there a Tom here?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, that’s me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Head up top.<span> </span>They’re ready for you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Alright then.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I got up top—taking the proper exit door that Big Bear told me to use—I found myself looking at Big Bear, a member, and a caddie all getting ready to tee off on the first hole.<span> </span>Turns out today would be a “shadow loop” experience.<span> </span>I would be carrying Big Bear’s bag, and the other caddie would be tending to his regular member.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Big Bear spoiled me—I think he’s a 1 or 2 handicap, so I really didn’t have to venture very far off course most of the day.<span> </span>Then again, that was a good thing, because then I could focus more on the course, figuring out where to place the bag, and where the hell the next hole is.<span> </span>Unlike most golf courses, the majority of the holes here block your vision from seeing ANY of the other holes.<span> </span>Just about the only thing that remains visible at all times is the American flag by the clubhouse, which I’ve been told is so large that it actually weighs 100 pounds on its own.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Overall, I think I did a good job for a first day back.<span> </span>I found that although this is a links-style course with minimal “cut-thru’s,” I could still stay ahead of the players fairly easily.<span> </span>Granted, I was only carrying one bag and I was always in the fairway.<span> </span>And we only ended up playing 13 holes.<span> </span>And Big Bear’s bag weighed next to nothing.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">I mean who am I kidding? That first day double-bagging it is going to hurt.<span> </span>There’s no way around it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I’m back, baby.</div>Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-69865382307342545322011-10-12T21:51:00.000-05:002011-10-12T21:51:55.729-05:00Hello Again<div class="MsoNormal">I am totally screwed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I haven’t worked out in about a month.<span> </span>When I walked the dog two days ago, I thought I pulled something in my back—don’t ask me how.<span> </span>The weather is getting colder, which means that I’m bound to pull a few muscles even if I spend the next 24 hours stretching.<span> </span>The wind down by the water will dehydrate and wear me out, and I’m sure by the 18<sup>th</sup> hole I will be begging the players to call an ambulance.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, that’s right.<span> </span>After four years of playing the corporate game, I have been presented with a unique opportunity.<span> </span>I get to return to caddying for a short period of time.<span> </span>I was recently laid off from work, and while I scrambled to find another job, I realized that I had a friend from my caddying days who is currently the manager of a caddie program about 40 minutes from where I live in New Jersey.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Where’s my crack pipe? I know I left it around here somewhere.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The job search is going well—in fact, I think I have something lined up in November.<span> </span>But because of the financial strain of the last 6-7 weeks, I needed to find something temporary to pay the bills.<span> </span>My friend, The B-man, got back to me right away, and said he could help me out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tomorrow’s the big day.<span> </span>I visited the course once before, years ago, and although there are a lot of things that amaze me about it, one thing still sticks with me: no carts.<span> </span>While they have golf carts to help people get from the parking lots to the first hole or to the clubhouse, there are no carts allowed on the course.<span> </span>It’s just too damn hilly.<span> </span>That’s good for the caddie program, but that also brings me to my first concern: I might die.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, I’m back to play for a little while.<span> </span>During the years I caddied, this blog was an amazing place to come to every day.<span> </span>If I had a horrible loop, I could bitch about it.<span> </span>If I learned something new, I could share.<span> </span>The feedback and friends I made through this site meant the world to me, and so this short return to the ring is special not just because I get to misread putts or smoke crack again.<span> </span>No.<span> </span>It’s special because I get a chance to interact with you guys again.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not sure how many of my old friends will even see these posts, but if you’re out there, let me know how you’re doing and slap me around a little through your comments.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m a caddie.<span> </span>This means I drink, play cards, and go on rants from time to time.<span> </span>Enjoy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I may not be able to move for 3 days after I caddie tomorrow, but it will be worth it.<span> </span>Cheers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-54598247802065625562009-11-12T02:46:00.001-05:002009-11-12T02:48:28.202-05:00New ProjectHello again.<br />
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You know that old saying from way back in the day: “All roads lead to Rome”? I feel like regardless of the various paths I have chosen over the last couple of years, in some way or another, they have all lead me right back to this website. And that is freakin’ awesome.<br />
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Boy I’ve missed this. I’ve wanted to write something on this blog for so long, but haven’t really had anything happy or exciting to report. What can I say—the office life sucked. Now, I realize some of you may really enjoy your current office jobs, and from reading over my previous posts and feedback I know some of you may hate me when I say bad things about the corporate world. Unfortunately for me, however, the office job I had perpetuated every negative stereotype I could have ever dreamed of, and will make me forever question my reasons for considering that kind of career. Without exaggeration, that place was pure evil, and I feel damn lucky to have gotten out alive.<br />
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But now that’s all over with. I resigned, and didn’t even give it a second thought. When I left the caddying world, it nearly broke my heart. After my experience in that office, there was no way leaving the corporate world would cause me that kind of distress. Leaving a heartless corporation like that was about as emotionally damaging to me as a loud fart. If anything, I felt relieved when it was all over. But enough about that—it’s time to discuss more important things, and update everyone on my plans for the future.<br />
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As some of you may know, I’ve been writing monthly articles for <a href="http://www.universalsportmags.com/">Universal Golf</a>. My Editor, Bobby Nicholson, is awesome. He supports every idea I come to him with, and puts out a great product for the readers. It’s always been a dream of mine to write for a golf magazine, and I can’t thank Bobby enough for giving me the opportunity.<br />
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In February of this year, I found out about the Golf Writers Association of America. After reviewing what they are all about, I wanted to become a member immediately. But that’s not something you can do right away. You have to put together a portfolio of articles, references from current members, a cover letter, and submit your request to a committee who reviews your work and decides whether or not you should be admitted. My status at Universal Golf meant that I would need to apply for an Associate Membership, and I would need to submit 6 articles along with everything else for consideration.<br />
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After I had finished the portfolio, I spent two weeks trying to finish that freakin’ cover letter, running through 9 or 10 drafts in all. It was only a page and a half for cryin’ out loud. But I put everything together, mailed it out, and crossed my fingers.<br />
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A lot of things run through your mind while you wait for a decision like that. I would imagine it’s similar to a recent law-school graduate studying his or her ass off, taking the bar exam, and then waiting to see if they’re actually allowed to practice. My application to the GWAA encapsulated about 9 months of late nights and frustration, so of course I was nervous about their decision. It was funny though—I wasn’t nervous for the obvious reasons. I wasn’t nervous just because I really wanted to get in. I was nervous because I was going to be judged by seasoned golf writers. Everyone’s writing style is different, and you guys know how “different” I can be. By their standards, was my writing good enough? Like I said before, it has always been my dream to write about golf—now I was in a position to have my dream validated. Or not.<br />
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But while I waited for a decision, I continued working on my book. So I spent some time reviewing more of my old posts. I came across some old feedback I had received and it hit me: I had no reason to be nervous. Not because I was sure I would get into the GWAA, but because of how much support I had received over the years from you, the readers. As soon as this epiphany struck my brain, I had an idea. I couldn’t get it out of my head, and I spent an entire night mapping out a plan for 2010.<br />
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Near the end of August, I received an e-mail from Melanie telling me that I had been accepted as a member of the GWAA. I can’t tell you how happy that made me. I figured now that I was in, I might try something…<br />
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So I applied for media credentials as a writer for Universal Golf, keeping my new GWAA status as an ace up my sleeve in case I needed additional help, even though Melanie had warned me that GWAA membership does not denote instant approval for press passes. I first applied for credentials at the Tour Championship. That request was promptly denied, as there were “too many other requests.” Basically, that was a nice way of them saying that they’ve never heard of me or Universal Golf, so why should they let me report on the event?<br />
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But then I applied for credentials at the Turning Stone Resort Championship, and got an e-mail back a few days later saying that my week-long press pass would be waiting for me when I got there. Holy shit-balls. The event was being held at a course only about an hour from my hometown, a course I had even played before, and I would finally be able to get back home and visit my parents. This would be awesome. Fire up that crack-pipe bitch!<br />
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The weather was absolutely horrendous for most of the week—I wouldn’t have been surprised if a few old codgers in the area built their own Arc’s. But despite the rain, wind, and cold, I had a life-changing experience. I sat down at the computer after each day and typed until I passed out. Because of the sheer volume of words I had cranked out after my effort, I outsourced to an editor to check over it and make sure my crack-smoking tendencies hadn’t corrupted the transcription. Once completed, I put it all together in the form of an e-book, ready for download. It’s free, and my hope is that this 50-page account will help jump-start my plan for 2010. <br />
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I keep talking about this plan…what exactly do I have in mind?<br />
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I want to be on the road next year, sleeping in my car if need be, and follow the PGA Tour. By living out of my car and bringing a brutally honest and sarcastic approach to my experiences throughout the year, I envision being able to bring the readers a perspective of the PGA Tour they won’t be able to find anywhere else. My new ability to score press credentials for many of the events will also allow me to interview players and get inside the ropes (I’ll have to make sure I shower), which will add a nice dimension to my experiences as well. In short, I want to write the kind of articles I would love to read, with all of the humor and pain that a normal golfing experience is known for.<br />
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A detailed plan for 2010 and dissertation on "golf writing today" is included on my new website, and you can peruse it <a href="http://www.thereluctantjamboy.com/">here</a>.<br />
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I have concluded that my normal writing style and voice is too unpredictable for the mainstream golf media. Now I’m completely fine with this, because it’s just who I am. But that also means that I can’t really expect to get a lot of support from sponsors along the way either, as they will no doubt be afraid of some of the things I might say, and would be reluctant to have their names attached to my work.<br />
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So this means that my sole supporters will be my readers—which is actually what I would prefer, because then I would be acting more like your representative at these tour stops rather than a spokesman for sun-block (or whatever else). As you may or may not know, I don’t really like advertisements, and would like to keep them off of the new site as much as possible. So to pay an editor, get gas, eat food, and take an occasional shower, I will need to raise something on a monthly basis to get by. That’s why I felt e-books would be appropriate. That way, you won’t have to read about every tournament if you don’t want to, and each e-book will be as cheap as I can make them—somewhere around $2 apiece. <br />
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Reading about my seven-day experience at Turning Stone will give you a good idea of what my writing will look like throughout next year, and I hope you like it. <br />
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Overall, I get this strange feeling that my coverage of the PGA Tour will parallel my original experiences as a caddie. This site chronicled my daily experiences lugging bags around, yes, but I believe it also walked you through my evolution as a caddie and as a writer. I sucked as a caddie at first and my writing seemed forced (at least to me), but soon I felt like I got the hang of things and my writing seemed to improve exponentially in the second and third seasons.<br />
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Similarly, following the tour in 2010 will inadvertently be taking you through my growth as a golf journalist. Because let’s face it: I’m a newbie. I don’t know the first thing about interviewing players (as you’ll see in my account of Turning Stone) or even what I’m allowed to do with my press pass. In essence, while polished golf writers are waking up in a nice hotel and taking a rental car to their cushy seat in the press room, I’ll probably be waking up to the sound of a police officer tapping on my window because I’ve parked where I wasn’t supposed to. I feel these differences will enrich the experience and my writing, which will be much more enjoyable for everyone. Well, more enjoyable for the readers, anyway.<br />
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I also like the idea of e-books because I like to write until I feel I’ve reached the end of my story. It was hard for me to post about my daily caddying experiences in less than 5-7 pages at times, and honestly, I don’t want to feel guilty about writing my heart out. <br />
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Finally, my book. Between my old posts, notes on the computer, journal entries, index cards, and voice recordings, it takes me a little over a week at 12+ hours a day to get through everything. Maybe that’s why this is taking so long. At first, I felt that stringing together some of my old posts with commentary would be sufficient for a novel. But after a lot of reflection and a thorough review of my notes, I feel there’s a lot more meaning behind my three seasons as a caddie. In fact, I firmly believe that my current pursuit of a career in golf writing was a direct result of the clash between my caddying memories and my struggles in the office. My battle to keep a “real job” made me question absolutely everything about my life, and the resulting answers are now the backbone of the book.<br />
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Granted, I want the majority of the book to be an honest account and tribute to my days as a caddie, but I feel I would be remiss if I didn’t also include some of my experiences from the office, as they helped me to choose my current path. Finding a “calling” was always an epic struggle for me, and I feel constructing a book that will always remind me of how I solved that problem would be of great value to me and to those who read it. <br />
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My goal is to have a complete draft ready for an editor before next year, and you guys will be the first to hear when it’s finally done. A part of me just wants to self-publish it in the form of an e-book, but I might go through traditional channels first just to see if someone can push me to improve upon what I’ve already done.<br />
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The first two events that I could potentially attend (seeing as how I can’t drive my car to Hawaii) would be the Bob Hope Classic or the San Diego Invitational, both starting in mid-January. The events overlap in next years’ schedule, which is actually great for me because I would guess that my “newbie” status as a golf writer will exclude me from press credentials for the Bob Hope. But who knows. <br />
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But aside from all that, I hope everything is well with everyone, and I hope to hear from all of you during next season.Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-89212295712346713632008-09-16T20:57:00.001-05:002008-09-16T21:00:10.744-05:00Final PostIt’s sad for me to think that the last time I posted something here was over a year ago. After all of the great experiences and fun I had working on this blog, to end on such a bad note was just heartbreaking. This site, and the experiences linked with it mean too much to me to just abandon it and leave everyone in the dark as to my whereabouts and what I’m up to. <br /><br />But, that’s exactly what I did. I blame life for being a little bitch and getting in the way. But that’s beside the point. Let me fill you in on some of the highlights…<br /><br />In November of 2007, I told my boss of 3 years that I would not be back the following season. It was an extremely difficult decision for me to make. At the time, I told him it was because I wanted to go to law school. But that wasn’t the real reason I left. To quote my boss, “We’re only doing this because it’s fun. The minute it stops being fun, we move on.” It sounds sacrilegious to say, but I just wasn’t having fun anymore. The long hours, the thankless members, guests, caddies, managers…even struggling to make ends meet while driving 400-plus miles a week got old after a while. I could go on, but I won’t. Because as much as I could criticize the position I was in, I was also surrounded by great friends and experiences. For every week or two of ungratefulness and physical pain came a day or two of beautiful weather, generous members, and a card game with fellow brothers-in-arms.<br /><br />Like I said: it was a gut-wrenching decision to make. But the way I figured it, I still had some growing up to do and some more exploring as far as my dreams were concerned, and I had reached the limitations of the caddie-world. I’d like to think, that at some far-off point, I could return to my crack-pipe and morning coffee, riding the couch at some beautiful—and caddie friendly—golf course in the future. Perhaps that is what heaven looks like.<br /><br />So, in short, I decided it was time to leave. Granted, thinking is much easier than doing, and I’ll never forget the day I cornered my boss in his house to deliver the news. But, as I walked back to my car, I started to feel lighter. I knew I had made the right decision.<br /><br />Early the next morning, my boss called and told me that I couldn’t leave. He said there was too much work left to be done, and that I was the only one with any motivation to do it. He needed me to complete a management training program as well as develop a business plan to get the company on track and set some goals for the future. He told me that if I decided not to come back the following season, he wouldn’t be upset, as long as I helped him complete these tasks now. I knew it would be a lot of work, but I also knew that winter was coming and I had forgotten to land another job before I decided to leave my first one. So to continue working for him throughout the winter wouldn’t be such a bad idea…at least in the short term.<br /><br />I worked for a solid 2 months and finished both projects, and when the time came for the company trip—a vacation that would signify my decision to stay with the company—I decided instead to decline, saying that I was leaving for law school once again. This time, however, the reception of the news wasn’t taken so well, and I haven’t heard from my boss since. That was in February of 2008.<br /><br />And that was when the housing market and rising oil prices really started to affect the economy as a whole. Jobs became scarce, grocery bills went up, and regardless of how hard I tried, I could not…get hired...anywhere. I think I sent out a resume to everyone and your mother, and your mother definitely threw out my resume. <br /><br />This was also around the time when I bombed my LSATs. Somehow, I managed to drug myself the morning of the exam by using eye-drops specifically made to relieve dry eyes during allergy season. So I was drowsy through the whole bloody thing. I guess I’m just thankful I was even able to finish in the time allotted. What can I say? My eyes were dry and I grabbed the nearest eye-drops I could find. But the problem now, you see, was that my main reason for leaving my job—or the reason I gave my boss, anyway—didn’t really apply anymore, seeing as how no law school would take me. But hey, I’ll take these extraordinary circumstances as a sign that for right now, maybe I wasn’t meant to go to law school. <br /><br />Meanwhile, I bussed tables at a restaurant on the weekends and worked on my writing, feeling that there was a story in me somewhere. At one point, I thought my luck had changed and almost landed a job with Citigroup selling coffee futures, but the company-wide hiring freeze complicated things and the job fell through at the last minute. Or maybe it was just my addiction to caffeine and crack that blew it for me. Damn background checks and drug-screening… <br /><br />But just when I thought I would have to rely on credit cards for the rest of my life, I got a break: I landed a job at a tax resolution firm, helping clients rectify tax liabilities with the Internal Revenue Service or a particular State taxing authority. At first I felt I had found the perfect job, but realized very quickly that no, that was simply the recession talking, and that in reality, I was getting paid approximately 8% of the money I was MAKING the company every day. <br /><br />Welcome to the corporate world, Tom. <br /><br />Fortunately, however, in sticking with my writing, I just finished a screenplay and am currently working on a book about my experiences as The Reluctant Jam Boy. When the book is finished, I’ll be sure to let you guys know. I should also mention that so far, 70% of the book is new material, consisting of things I either couldn’t include with the site or didn’t get around to posting. Maybe even 80%, depending on how I end up putting the whole thing together. <br /><br />So that’s where I am. Working for the man, but keeping my chin up and writing like a maniac. In addition, I’ve started writing for a new online golf magazine called “Universal Golf,” which launched on September 1, 2008. You can check it out at <a href="http://www.universalgolfmag.com/">www.universalgolfmag.com</a>.<br /><br />I’ve also started a new blog called “<a href="http://underthelimit.blogspot.com/">Under the Limit</a>.” Although not about caddying, I’m hoping to bring a Jam-Boy-esque feel to my writing. The content will highlight my daily and weekly struggles to work on my golf game. My end goal—and the whole reason why I’m even putting this painful process online—is to lower my handicap enough to be eligible for a local qualifier for the US Open. Right now, the limit on qualifying is a 1.4 index, and so I have a lot of work to do to whip my 6 handicap into shape. But, seeing as how I’m now a member of the office class and have Saturday’s and Sunday’s off (which hasn’t been the case in 5 years), my weekends will be spent somewhere on a golf course working on the ol’ golf game.<br /><br />Now, I’m not delusional. I know how hard it will be to lower my handicap to that degree. You and I both know that achieving this goal is next to impossible in a short amount of time (let alone FOREVER), and so although I’d love to talk about how great it would be in a year’s time to report that I’m trying out for the US Open, I doubt that will happen. But hey, it’s something I’ve always wanted to do and you can’t blame me for wanting to try. I’m certainly going to give it my best effort.<br /><br />But that, ladies and gentlemen, is that. I can’t thank you enough for stopping by and giving me your feedback during this crazy journey, as I have already seen after reviewing my posts that my writing has improved dramatically because of it. I’ve also met some great people, and I hope to talk to you all for a long time to come as I work on my next blog. <br /><br />Take care everyone.Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-92182308297112552172007-07-16T21:11:00.000-05:002007-07-16T21:12:23.146-05:00Adventures in ManagementThe last few days have been frustrating, depressing, and then somehow very positive. So at the moment, I don’t really know how I feel. What happened? Well, I guess I can put it quite simply: the owner does not want me to be a Caddie Master. <br /><br />This really came as a shock to me. I mean…why not? Haven’t I been working hard? Didn’t I help you get the Ritz account? At first, I was definitely confused. How could I not be put in that position? Will I ever be in a management position with some long-term job security? What the hell?<br /><br />But after talking it over with the boss and getting a little feedback from some of the other managers, I’ve realized that there are bigger plans for me. I don’t fully understand the full scope of it yet—because we are such a small company and the idea of growth is a foreign concept—but I’m slated to be a territory manager someday. <br /><br />Someday. <br /><br />Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered to even be considered for such a position. But right now, that position is nonexistent. Right now, our company isn’t big enough to support it. So it’s a little frustrating. But after giving it some thought, I realized that the harder I work and the more I can standardize the operations of this company to prepare it for growth, the faster I’ll assume this new title. It is a little scary when I think about it—if I don’t succeed with my recruiting efforts, management training and financial duties, this company will not grow, and I will not have a job. But I think it will be worth it in the end. <br /><br />And there is so much going on right now. Half of my week is spent filling in for the other Caddie Masters’ so they can get that much needed extra day off. The other half is spent driving around to the different golf courses evaluating caddies, reading over 401k documents, writing about management techniques to help with the new management training program and then trying to find time to caddie. If I have the energy. <br /><br />To add to the stress, my management skills aren’t what they used to be. Well, let’s be honest. It is entirely possible my management style NEVER really existed to begin with. But I was informed recently that I tend to think more like a caddie than a manager. Now, while that is a fair piece of criticism, I’ve had a hard time figuring out just exactly what that means. Is this even something I can fix?<br /><br />(Plus, if I’m currently collaborating with the other managers to piece together a Management Training Program for future employees, I can’t be having issues with my OWN management style, right?) <br /><br />Up until this point, utilizing a caddie mentality has really helped me through a variety of jams. People tend to give me some slack when they see that I’m working hard. The only problem is, when you’re wearing a nice golf shirt and kakis and are responsible for trying to work 30 caddies, hustling and trying your hardest to be everywhere at once simply appears amateurish and unprofessional. I’ve been told I look “inexperienced” and “out of control.”<br /><br />Well that’s nothing. You should’ve seen me when my crack addiction PEAKED.<br /><br />Now, in all seriousness, I do have a very good idea of what needs to be accomplished day-to-day, but I’m sure to the average observer I look lost. And probably a little hyper, too.<br /><br />And that’s a hard thing for me to say. I feel like with the history of this site people know me as this bitter, tough, “been-around-the-block” type of individual. But unfortunately, when it comes to management, my people-pleasing tendencies rise to the surface and I come off as weak. I’m sure of it. And as a manager, that’s a horrible trait to have. <br /><br />I think part of my problem comes from not being able to trust that other people can help me do my job. I guess I’ve always come from that school of “if you want something done right…” and so I just try to do everything on my own because that’s the only way I KNOW it’s going to get done. One Caddie Master told me recently that I need to “just take a deep breath and survey the situation” before I dive in and try to figure things out. <br /><br />Well again, that sounds great in theory and all, but what exactly does that mean? When you’re working at a club with NO tee times and 40 people show up out of nowhere, it’s hard to take your time and look calm when all you want to do is dive right into the fray, grab some bags and start taking names. But I suppose now I have to try something else.<br /><br />Another facet of my management style involves a “first-come-first-serve” approach with the caddies. Being a caddie myself, I know how much it sucks to wait around all day for a loop. I just figured I’d reward the guys who got up at the ass-crack to help me out.<br /><br />Unfortunately, the result of my kind efforts is a higher probability of unsatisfied players. The fact that I’ve only pissed off one player here or there so far is just dumb luck. Here’s the problem: if I’m assigning caddies on loops simply based on the order they arrive, I’m assuming two things. First, I’m assuming that all caddies are created equal. Well we know that’s horse-shit. Some are great, some suck, some can’t be put with women, some are hung-over, some can’t read greens (ahem) and some just come to play cards with the other caddies. Second, I’m assuming that the PLAYERS are arriving in an order which will perfectly tolerate each and every caddie. <br /><br />What I mean is, if the first caddie to show up is hung-over and the first player to show up is a party-animal who just LOVES war stories, the two will get along. But if the first player to arrive is a devout-Catholic-man-hating FEMALE and you use that same hung-over caddie, you could have a problem on your hands.<br /><br />I hate to sound like an Econ-dork, but as an aside, that’s sort of how money evolved out of the barter system. People realized that in order for the barter system to work, a “double-coincidence of wants” needed to arise. Meaning, if somebody wanted to trade a goat for a few wooden wagon-wheels and the local Carpenter wanted to trade a few wooden wagon-wheels for a goat, a trade could be made. Otherwise, you were up Shit Creek without a paddle. Money was created as a medium of exchange avoid this problem.<br /><br />Well, even though cash is certainly King, I think the medium of exchange in my situation is the attitudes of the members. The attitudes should determine the caddies’ selected. I can’t let the order of arrival set my sheet for the entire day. Now that I think about it, this is a pretty simple observation. But when you’re slammed and you just KNOW one of your caddies has been waiting for over 3 hours, it’s hard to tell him no. But I suppose I can’t feel too badly for him. If a caddie has an attitude problem and there are only a few members I can work him with, he has no right to complain if I have to make him wait around for an appropriate loop.<br /><br />Man, listen to me ramble. I guess what I’m realizing now is why there are whole sections in bookstores devoted to Management Techniques. Hell, I think there are even Undergraduate MAJORS dedicated to that field. It’s a little harder than I thought. I miss those laid-back crack-smoking days of old. I wonder how my dealer is doing now without me. Probably can’t buy his kids as many presents during Christmas-time.<br /><br />But tough muffins for that guy. I’ve got bigger fish to fry now. <br /><br />Well, take care all. Let’s see how my schedule plays out for the rest of the week.Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-66547132854703053242007-07-12T07:09:00.001-05:002007-07-12T07:09:59.511-05:00IBF And The CBS TowerAs much as I hate to say it, I do not enjoy going to golf tournaments. And when I say “golf tournaments,” I mean PGA Events. Well, perhaps that’s a little too focused. I suppose I should define it as: ANY golf event where the gallery and $5 hotdogs are a factor. And yes, I do realize the novelty of attending such an event. I’ve just realized over the years that I really enjoy seeing as much of the action as possible. And to those of you who have been to a few golf tournaments before: wouldn’t you say it’s annoying when you’re watching a particular player and 4 holes over you hear a roar from the gallery? Wouldn’t it have been nice to have SEEN that shot live?<br /><br />So I just prefer watching golf on TV. I feel like I can see more of the action that way. But today was different. Today I’d try to meet up with Ian Baker-Finch and thank him for the experience I had a couple weeks ago.<br /><br />Saturday of the AT&T National. I’ve never been to Congressional before, but I’ve met plenty of the caddies who work there and I couldn’t wait to see what they had to walk on everyday. Because from the pictures I had seen, the course looked beautiful.<br /><br />And yes, the course (which I think was the Blue Course, because Congressional has two golf courses you can play—even though I have no idea where they would FIT another golf course) is certainly well manicured, but I do not envy the caddies who have to walk it. It is very large, hilly and devoid of cut-throughs (areas where caddies could make up some ground and get ahead of their player(s)). I think the biggest reason why I felt sorry for the caddies was the crowd space. That extra 10-20 yards of rough that separates one hole from another can really add up after awhile. I’m not saying I couldn’t work there, I’m just saying I can see why I hear of so many complaints with the caddie program. They’re all tired and they just want to go home.<br /><br />Speaking of caddies, I did get to see Stevie Williams in action for a little while. Out in front and hustling on every hole. I guess he really is “super-fit” like everyone had been saying. He even had Tiger laughing hysterically at a few points. No wonder Tiger pays him so well. Seems like a terrific caddie. At times people would shout from the crowd, “Yeah Stevie!” I was psyched for him.<br /><br />Now on this particular day I didn’t arrive at the course until about noon. Right as I was about to pull into the front gate, I realized that there wasn’t any parking near the golf course. I would have to drive about 10-15 minutes away and be shuttled back to the action.<br /><br />About 45 minutes later I was back at the entrance to the course, map in hand and ready to find the 15th hole. I was meeting the boss-man around 2:30 at the base of the CBS Tower. We would then go up together and see what Ian was up to. That was the plan, at least. The original plan also included a nice bottle of red wine to thank Ian for his glowing review of our service, but we soon realized that there was no chance tournament security would let any sort of food or beverage INTO the golf course. Oh well. I asked somebody nearby what time it was. 1:30. I actually had a little bit of time to take in my surroundings. I had entered the grounds right next to the 5th hole. Well let’s see here: what group is approaching 5? I looked up I saw a wave of people surrounding the 4th green. I didn’t even have to check the pairing sheet. Tiger was about to putt out on 4. I crossed the 5th fairway and found a good spot right next to the trail from the 4th green to the 5th tee. Let’s see if this guy looks as ripped as he did during the U.S. Open. <br /><br />Nope. Guess the camera adds a few muscles. But he still looked quite determined to win. He kept his eyes on the ground in front of him as he moved. I smiled as I remembered that I had caddied recently for his attorney. What a small, small world we live in.<br /><br />I would’ve walked with Tiger for a few more holes if it wasn’t for the massive horde of people moving with his every step. Every single solid spot for any sort of observation was already well-scouted out and taken. In fact, if you found yourself moving right alongside Tiger, you would literally be carried by a stream of people towards the green. It was just this big, sweaty, enthusiastic mass of people all jockeying for a good position before Tiger’s upcoming shot.<br /><br />But I can’t really get pissed, because if it wasn’t for Tiger, this tournament wouldn’t have taken place and I wouldn’t have a chance to visit with Ian Baker-Finch.<br /><br />So I pressed on.<br /><br />Speaking of a small world, I ran into a caddie I haven’t seen in over a year. He was a part of my crew down in Florida. He must’ve screwed me over about 5 times before he left, saying he’d be back to work the following day but never actually showing up. Fortunately for me, his home course is now apart of the company I work for, and so when he screwed me over that last time I promptly called his home course and told them he needed to be suspended for being an asshole. The guy ended up quitting a month later. And after that, nobody had heard from him. It was just so weird running into him now. You could tell that he really didn’t want to talk to me. I think he was still pretty mad about his last month with the company. But hey, it’s hard for me to feel bad for a guy I was consistently trying to work. Can’t say I didn’t try.<br /><br />So anyway, back to the story. I finally made it to the tower on 15, but spent the next 15 minutes watching players’ attempts at the par-3 10th because my boss hadn’t shown up yet. And by the way, the 10th hole is just perfect for a gallery. It was like an ancient Greek amphitheatre on grass. Granted, I had an umbrella and a 300-pound woman in my way, but I could still see where 75% of the other patrons were sitting and enjoying themselves. And after trying to visualize just how good the views were from THEIR seats, I decided to live vicariously through some of them as I waited for my boss.<br /><br />Tiger missed another putt. I didn’t actually get a chance to SEE him miss, but the crowd keyed me in by releasing a somber “ohhh.” Upon hearing her mating call, the woman in front of me finally moved. At least now I was able to catch a decent view of Tiger looking pissed as he walked off of the back of the green. At least I didn’t miss that.<br /><br />Then I saw my boss. He hadn’t noticed me yet, and so I had a brief moment to take in how he was REALLY feeling before he tried to act all tough and pretend like it WASN’T hot as balls outside. He was huffing and puffing and literally RAINING with sweat. He raised a hand and wiped the sweat off of his forehead, and it literally acted like a squeegee as a pint of water hit the ground. Then he saw me wave.<br /><br />“Hey, Tom. What’s up? Have you gone up yet?”<br /><br />“No, I was waiting for you. I thought we’d head up there together.”<br /><br />We both glanced at the entrance to the tower.<br /><br />“Where are the guards?”<br /><br />We both looked around. There wasn’t a badge in sight. The only people around were passers-by who probably wouldn’t have cared one way or another if we ducked under the rope and went up. For a moment we considered making a break for it, but we didn’t want to inadvertently piss anyone off and risk being kicked off of the golf course. <br /><br />Finally, my boss spotted a guy with a “CBS Sports” logo on his golf shirt. <br /><br />“Are you in charge here?”<br /><br />“Umm…maybe…what can I do for you?”<br /><br />“Ian told us we could just go right up and see him, but we didn’t want to just barge up there without anyone knowing about it.”<br /><br />“Oh. Sure. Let me just check and make sure he’s up there.”<br /><br />We didn’t have to wait long.<br /><br />“Yeah, he said it was fine. Just head right on up. But try to be quiet, because he could very well be on the air.”<br /><br />“No problem.”<br /><br />And so we ducked under the rope and made our way up the tree-fort-like TV Tower. One thing that kept running through my mind on the way up was: we didn’t even give him our names. He has no idea who is coming up to greet him. Part of me thought that was pretty cool, because that meant he was generous with his invites. But then another part of me started to worry that somehow the open-ended invite might mean that he really didn’t care that we were there. Now, I would understand, because he’s announcing LIVE and he definitely needs to keep his mind on more important things. But I guess I was just hoping the euphoric, elated feeling I had left the golf course with two weeks ago had followed me to Ian’s booth.<br /><br />As we neared the top, a tarp flap hung over the staircase, forcing us to duck and lift. This really did feel like a tree-fort. We tried to be as quiet as possible, not knowing what awaited us on the other side.<br /><br />There were three people up top: the camera-guy, a “statistician,” and Ian Baker-Finch. Ian and the guy next to him both had on headsets and were looking through the plastic window on their cubicle-esque desk to see Chris Couch tap in his par. It was kind of a neat setup they had going. To Ian’s left was a high-def TV with the live broadcast on display. Surrounding the TV were pictures of a couple of holes, pin sheets, course descriptions and post-its with all sorts of random notations. The man to Ian’s right, known as the “statistician,” was assigned to feed Ian all kinds of random facts and figures about each player so Ian would have some material to work from. The camera-guy spotted us.<br /><br />“Oh, hey. You guys here to see Ian?”<br /><br />We nodded.<br /><br />“Well, go ahead. Tap him on the shoulder. He can’t really hear you guys right now.”<br /><br />We both approached him slowly. It was like we were both afraid to touch him. We were like two med-students working with a cadaver for the first time.<br /><br />Finally my boss sacked-up. The tapped him briefly. “Hey, Ian?”<br /><br />It took him a second, but he remembered us. He smiled and quickly slammed his finger down on a button in front of him. “Oh, hey guys! Glad you could make it.”<br /><br />“We don’t want to interrupt anything, we just wanted to say hello.”<br /><br />“Oh, nonsense! Take all the time you want up here. Just try to be quiet. If I have my finger on this button here, that means we can all talk. If not, anything we say might be heard on the air.”<br /><br />The button he was referring to is known as the “cough button.”<br /><br />Then he proceeded to give us a bit of a tour.<br /><br />“Now, here you go. Take this headset. Don’t put it on your head, cause you’ll go deaf, but if I turn it up here…there we go…you can hear the producer directing the entire staff as to how the show will go.”<br /><br />We paused for a moment to listen. Over the headset, we heard somebody counting down.<br /><br />“5…4…3…”<br /><br />I started looking around, wondering what was going to happen. For some reason, I focused on the TV. It was currently showing a nice background shot of the 10th green.<br /><br />“2…1…And go.”<br /><br />Suddenly, a digital scoreboard flashed on the screen, blanketing the background shot of the 10th. <br /><br />“Go ahead, Nick.”<br /><br />And like clockwork, Faldo started commentating on the leaderboard. Well that was neat. Kind of weird, but neat.<br /><br />As soon as Faldo finished, they cued the screen back to some of the action on the course. They were replaying some of the great shots of the day so far. Ian hit the “cough” button again.<br /><br />“Hey, you guys hear that over the headset? Right there! You hear it?”<br /><br />I looked at the boss. We didn’t know what he was talking about.<br /><br />“There it is again! Faldo’s eating! Every time he’s not on camera he’s got something in his mouth! I mean seriously: lunch is at 12:30, Nick. Eat your lunch, and then focus.”<br /><br />He took his hand off of the button.<br /><br />“Hey, Nick? You eating again?”<br /><br />We couldn’t hear the response, but Ian smiled and continued to give him crap.<br /><br />“Well I don’t care if the lunch was superb. Stop smacking those lips. It’s annoying.”<br /><br />And that’s the way it went for awhile. Ian would do some commentating, stop to tell us a little more about how he did his job, and then he’d turn and go back to commentating again. After awhile my boss said he had to go. So he thanked Ian and walked out. But I decided to stay a little longer. I mean hey, Tiger’s group is 3 holes away, and this was a pretty sweet view.<br /><br />When Tiger finally arrived on the 15th tee, it was neat to hear Ian talk as I watched the play in progress.<br /><br />“Here’s Tiger…with a 3-wood…hitting a stinger up the left-hand side. Perfect.”<br /><br />Tiger had just placed his 3-wood about 10 yards further than his playing partners’ driver. After the downhill tee-shot, the hole moved back up a steep grade to a fairly small green. The tower was placed directly behind the green with a perfect view of each player coming up the slope. I was wondering if any player had hit the tower yet. <br /><br />And just then, Stadler slammed his ball 20 yards over the green into our tower.<br /><br />“I guess Stadler misjudged that one…but 20 yards off is a little excessive. That’s just inexcusable.”<br /><br />Oh. So I guess it’s not our fault that there’s a giant TOWER behind the green. But hey, that means free relief for Stadler. <br /><br />“And just look at this crowd. They’re swarming the green now…all trying to get a good look at Tiger.”<br /><br />Tiger’s ball was near the back fringe so I felt like I was literally standing OVER him while he paced back and forth, trying to figure out which way it was going to break. Now, I knew it was straight. But that’s only because I had just watched 7 groups come through and it seemed like everyone was putting from identical locations. He must’ve looked at that putt for 5 minutes.<br /><br />The crowd was deadly silent. He took the putter back.<br /><br />Another somber sigh. Tiger missed his birdie attempt and the crowd started to disperse. While I waited for the movement to subside, I tried to find an opportune time to thank Ian. But he was well into the telecast now, and I couldn’t really find a good moment to interrupt him. So after about 20 minutes, I finally decided to force the issue.<br /><br />There was a list of golf courses on a piece of paper to his left that I had been staring at for a while now. The list included the new Jack Nicklaus course I had just caddied on, and so I decided to use that to say my goodbyes. I tapped him on the shoulder.<br /><br />“Hey Ian?”<br /><br />“Oh, hey. You heading out?”<br /><br />“Yeah…thanks so much for everything. I know you have some things to get to, but I just want to thank you for hooking me up with a new job. I hope to see you there.”<br /><br />And I pointed at the course on the list. He smiled and nodded.<br /><br />“Alright mate. See you there.”Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-51003246147716163912007-07-01T23:31:00.000-05:002007-07-01T23:32:46.940-05:00The Milestone LoopThere have been some extenuating circumstances recently that have prevented me from getting to a computer. I now have a new job within the company and I feel like I’m in the middle of a whirlwind. It’s going well and I’m having fun, but it just seems like everyone is pulling me away from my computer and out of the house these days. So this post has taken me about a week to complete. I apologize for the length, because this is not a quick read. I took my time with this one because it documents a milestone in my caddying career, and I really wanted to share it with you guys. So grab a cup of coffee, some lunch, or whatever else and relax. I hope you guys enjoy it.<br /><br />Okay. So I guess to start out with, I should let everyone know about a “changing of the guard” that has happened recently with the management of my company. One of the managers has not been doing his job for some time now and the owner finally stepped in and relieved him of duty. I was slated to be his replacement. <br /><br />I ended up saying yes to the offer, because I’ve decided that if I’m going to be in this field for a while, I need to try and cut back a little bit on how many times a week I work as a caddie. So starting next week, I’m going to be Caddie Master-ing at 3 different clubs, 3 days a week. I get a chance to meet a crapload of people and STILL get 3-4 days a week to caddie. Plus, I finally get health benefits. So at least I don’t have to wake up in a cold sweat every night, wondering if my crack-pipe does in fact carry with it a truckload of consequences.<br /><br />So that took place a couple of weeks ago. I was a little reluctant to accept the job at first, because I had such a horrendous experience in Florida being a Caddie Master and I really didn’t want to experience that again. But the other Caddie Masters firmly believed that my new experiences would be positive. I would spend the next few days trying to psyche myself up for all of the new responsibilities.<br /><br />Then on Sunday I walked past the owner as he was talking to one of the senior caddies. I didn’t catch a lot of what they were saying, but I did pick up on important key phrases like: “I can’t believe we’re going to get this opportunity,” and “I wonder what the course will look like.” I just figured my boss had an opportunity to play a new golf course. I just dismissed it. Good for him.<br /><br />Ten minutes later while I was unwrapping one of the healthiest-looking sausage, egg and cheese biscuits I had ever seen, the owner came into the caddie room and addressed the Caddie Master.<br /><br />“Hey, make sure you know Paulie’s taking off Tuesday to be with me [the senior caddie he was speaking with earlier]. Tom, you’re coming too.”<br /><br />Now I was curious. The boss-man walked out of the room. I put down my ever-so-fattening McDonalds breakfast and ran outside to see if I could catch up with him.<br /><br />“Hey boss? What do you…you know…need me for on Tuesday?”<br /><br />“Oh, it’s pretty cool. There’s a new Ritz-Carlton course opening up about 30 minutes from here and the owners are going to be playing it for the first time. They need some caddies sent over. I figure you, me and Paulie can take care of them. I don’t know if they’ve signed with anyone yet [a company to run their caddie program], but I might be able to use our performance as a sales-pitch.”<br /><br />“Oh. Wow.”<br /><br />“Yeah. Do you know where the course is?”<br /><br />“Yeah, I think so.”<br /><br />“Plan on being there around 7. We’ll walk the course and zap some yardages so we’re at least a little prepared for the round.”<br /><br />So here we go again with another pressure loop. This time, however, the loop’s sole purpose was to help my company get another account. And as a recently promoted manager, I felt like the pressure was REALLY on to impress. To add to the stress, my boss would be caddying right alongside me. But, seeing as how he was the one who trained me to begin with, I figured that if anything bad happened, it wouldn’t be my fault. Or at least that’s how I tried to reassure myself.<br /><br />On Monday, I walked into work thinking it was just going to be another normal day. Some water, a little fruit and a muffin. Then I heard something ridiculous.<br /><br />“Hey Tom? Did you hear who’s teaching up at the driving range?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“Annika Sorenstam. Apparently she’s giving a clinic for the big Merrill Lynch group that’s going out today.”<br /><br />My mouth dropped. <br /><br />“You’re kidding.”<br /><br />“Nope.”<br /><br />“You’re fucking kidding me. She’s at the range?”<br /><br />“Yeah.”<br /><br />“Now?”<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“Holy crap.”<br /><br />At that moment I realized I had to meet her. She has always been one of my idols, and I was nearly pissing myself. The Caddie Master came in on a cart.<br />“Hey Tom? Finish up your meal and I’ll take you over to the range as soon as you’re done.”<br /><br />GREAT. AWESOME. THAT’S EXACTLY WHERE I WANTED TO GO ANYWAY.<br /><br />I have never destroyed a meal so quickly in all my life. I was burping and farting as it went down. I was praying that the bathroom had some Febreeze in it so I could freshen up a bit before meeting Annika. Then again, do Swedes even shave their pits? Maybe the smell would attract her. I was torn. <br /><br />So after diving into my locker to grab a bib and a towel, I raced outside to hop in the cart. <br /><br />On the way over, I couldn’t stop verifying the information I had received.<br /><br />“Annika is here today?”<br /><br />“Yeah. I’m taking you over to the clinic now. You should be there for an hour or so.”<br /><br />An hour? Oh my Lord. I’ll surely have to take a dump before then. Sorry about the smell, Annika.<br /><br />“She’s really here?”<br /><br />“Yes. What are you, deaf?”<br /><br />I SMOKE ROCKS!<br /><br />We pulled up onto the range and I saw her immediately. I couldn’t move.<br /><br />“That’s really her.”<br /><br />“Yeah. Her and Ian Baker-Finch are teaching the clinic. You’ll be with him today.”<br /><br />“Me?”<br /><br />“Yeah. Ian and Annika are going to skip around the golf course and try to play with each of the groups for at least 2-3 holes.”<br /><br />I was way too over-stimulated at that moment. I needed to double-check.<br /><br />“So wait. So…I’m going with one of the Merrill Lynch groups and I’m going to take care of Ian when he comes through?”<br /><br />“No. You’re just with him today. Just him. Your job is to drive him around and help him make it to each group.”<br /><br />“Oh. Okay.”<br /><br />Nothing against Ian, but I was a little disappointed at that moment because I realized then that my chances of meeting Annika were going to be pretty slim. There was no way Ian and Annika would be with the same group on the same hole. I would have to try to find another moment to meet her. So at that point I just prayed for an opportunity.<br /><br />I walked over and joined a few of the other caddies watching the clinic. This was the first chance I had to get a good long look at Annika. She was shorter than I thought she would be. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I guess the media has just done a good job of making her larger than life. She had a very graceful way about her. Every time she spoke and gestured with her hands, it looked like she was conducting a symphony. Her voice was quiet and shy, and every time the wind kicked up we lost what she was saying. You could tell the mic-guy doing the audio for the clinic was just sweating BULLETS. I watched her hit a few drivers with that smooth, deliberate swing of hers. Just beautiful. Ian kept commenting to everyone about how much he loved her impact position, where her head was already starting to look up at the target. All three drives I witnessed were dead at her intended target with a little draw. Got me thinking about my own swing. Why oh why do I try to hit the ball so hard? Why can’t I focus more on tempo?<br /><br />Then my attention turned from Annika to Ian. God he was tan. I think that’s why his eyes and teeth looked so white. And boy oh boy was Finchy a smooth operator. His knowledge of the golf swing just oozed out of his pores. The audience hung on his every word, and he finished off every sentence with an award-winning smile. As Ian and Annika started making their way over to the bunkers to finish up the clinic, the Caddie Master tapped me on the shoulder.<br /><br />“I think now you should go over and clean his clubs. And don’t be surprised if he uses a rangefinder out there today. Last time I caddied for him that was all he used.”<br /><br />Normally, I’d probably be a little disappointed hearing that news. I think everyone here knows how I feel about rangefinders. But hey, it’s Ian Baker-Finch. He can do whatever the hell he wants with me. Well, almost anything. I wonder if he smokes rocks.<br /><br />Just as an aside—I know this is stupid, but for some reason I just couldn’t figure something out: Ian Baker-Finch. Do I call him Mr. Baker-Finch? No, that sounds weird. Do I call him Mr. Finch? No. For some reason that doesn’t sound right either. Should I call him Mr. Baker? IBF? What? I’ve never caddied for somebody with a freakin’ hyphen in their name before. Why oh why does this happen to me NOW? Why couldn’t this have happened on a day when I was caddying for some rich widow named Mrs. Golden-Trophy or something? <br /><br />So I walked over and started polishing his Callaway’s. They were forged cavity-backs with steel 6.0 rifle bubble-shafts (didn’t know they made steel bubble shafts—I guess they could’ve just been fat shafts), and as I looked at some of the other clubs in his bag, I could tell he liked to keep all of his clubs in MINT condition (Although, now that I think about it, I suppose ALL pros would like their clubs kept that way). So I started scrubbing away, even making an effort to get out all of the dirt stuck inside the NUMBER on each iron. Just as I was finishing, the crowd around the bunker began to disperse and Ian started to make his way over to me. After a few handshakes and pats on the back for the participating players, we made eye contact.<br /><br />“Hey, I’m Tom. I’ll be taking care of you today.”<br /><br />“Oh, excellent mate. I’m Ian.”<br /><br />“Nice to meet you Ian.”<br /><br />Thank God. Ian. I’ll just call him Ian. He had a good firm handshake and a sincere smile to boot. He walked away for a minute or two so some of the other players could get in some last minute pictures before everyone broke away to tee off. But before long I had his bag on the back of a nearby cart and we were making our way down to the first tee.<br /><br />“Any chance we could get some waters, mate? I’m sure I’ll be drinking like a fish today.”<br /><br />“Yeah, it is pretty hot. No problem. I’ll be back in a minute.”<br /><br />Now, I knew where every freakin’ bottle of water could be found ON the golf course, but I had no idea where any of the waters were in the clubhouse. That meant dealing with the food service staff. Great. And I’m not sure what all of you have experienced, but one thing I’ve noticed is: if you’re inside the clubhouse eating, the service is great. But as soon as you need even an ICE CUBE brought OUTSIDE the building, the service becomes snail-like. Well, here goes nothing. I found an outside staff member and asked him to radio in. <br /><br />As Ian mingled with some of the more important guests, I saw a foursome materialize on the first tee. I, of course, panicked. I was sure that caddying would be a very minor part of today, and so I was still a little confused as to how I might go about “helping” Ian out there. The way I saw it, I was simply a logistics consultant, helping him get to as many of the groups as possible before all 10 of them finished 18 holes. So I found the Caddie Master and asked him if the group on the tee was where Ian should start.<br /><br />“I have no idea what’s going on right now.”<br /><br />Look, I know it’s a mad house around here, but I NEED you right now bud.<br /><br />“Is that one of the Merrill Lynch groups on the first tee?”<br /><br />“I think so.”<br /><br />“You think?”<br /><br />“Yeah.”<br /><br />Okay. Well at least I know now that panicking isn’t out of the question. Ian glanced over at the first tee and then back at me for some kind of a sign. Should we be over there? Well, I don’t really know Mr. Ian Baker-Finch. But what the hell. Let’s take a risk.<br /><br />“You ready Ian?”<br /><br />“Oh yeah. Let’s go.”<br /><br />Crap. Ian wanted water. Where the hell was food service? But just then the outside staff guy I had approached a moment earlier came around the corner with a cooler in his hand. I could’ve kissed him.<br /><br />“Thanks so much.”<br />“You’re welcome. There are 6 in there. I filled it with ice because only half of them are cold.”<br /><br />Perfect.<br /><br />“Oh, are those the waters mate?”<br /><br />“Yep, here you go Ian.”<br /><br />“Great. Is that our group teeing off right now?”<br /><br />“Yeah.”<br /><br />“Well, let’s see if we can catch them.”<br /><br />He grabbed his driver and ran over to the tee. He called out to the group, who had just finished teeing off.<br /><br />“My wife’s been telling me for years I need to learn how to follow directions. Sorry I’m late.”<br /><br />Good save, Ian. And that was the start of our time together. For the first few holes, I didn’t really say very much. I knew he had business to attend to, and I just wanted to be the grease that kept his whole plan in motion. He was in the business of entertaining clients. At least today. A little lesson here, some jokes there. And then there was the recurring question.<br /><br />“So, Ian: if you only had a few days to live, where would you play golf?”<br /><br />“You know, I’ve been hearing this a lot today. And most people have been suggesting courses like Winged Foot, Oakmont, etc. I have to say, those are all great courses, but they kick the living crap out of you. If I only had 3 days to live, why would I want to punish myself? I think I’d choose a course like Cypress Point or National Golf Club. Some place enjoyable.”<br /><br />After seeing almost half of the groups, we stopped for lunch. And that’s when I saw her again: Annika. She was eating, signing autographs and trying to hold a conversation with 3 people at the same time. It was impressive to watch. I was pretty sure that if I ever tried to do something like that, a violent and gassy seizure would ensue. That’s way too much to handle at once. But she still remained very calm and collected. The caddie assigned to her for the day was standing next to me. <br /><br />“So, how’s Annika? Is she great?”<br /><br />“Oh, she’s fine. We’re just doing a lot of standing around today.”<br /><br />Okay then. Not really the long-winded, enthusiastic answer I was looking for. But it’ll do.<br /><br />I just stood and stared. Impolite? Yes. But her back was to me, and I figured hey, when will I ever get to see Annika up that close again? I wanted so badly to tap her on the shoulder and say hello, or wish her good luck, or ask her to marry me. But like I said, she had her hands full with the Merrill Lynch people and I didn’t want to interrupt them. I’m sure they paid her a huge sum of money just to show up, and I wasn’t about to take away any of their time with her. Then again, that still meant I hadn’t actually MET her yet. And as soon as I had that thought, she climbed back into her golf cart and drove away, riding off into the sunset. Which I thought was really weird because it was only 1:34 pm. But I guess it was just destiny.<br /><br />At about 1:45 pm the sun came back up, yelled, “PSYCHE!” And Ian finished his lunch. It was time to get back to work.<br /><br />After a while Ian started giving me free reign over his copy of the tee sheet. At the start of the round, he had the sheet in his pocket and would refer to it as he was talking to himself, deciding on his own where we should go and then telling me which hole to try. But by the time we had seen a few more groups, he handed me the sheet and gave me a chance to show him how useful I could be.<br /><br />“So where are we headed now Tom?”<br /><br />“Well, we have two choices: we can either play 18 again with the group who just finished 17 or jump back to 16 and spend a little more time with Mr. Smith’s group. We haven’t really seen a whole lot of them today.”<br /><br />“Right. Back to 16 then.”<br /><br />And after a few more quick lessons and a few more canned “I’ll see you guys inside for a nice cold one” responses, we were back in the staging area saying our goodbyes so he COULD in fact go inside for a nice cold one. Surprisingly, it was a very busy day. I really admired how well he was able to keep his cool even after all of those lessons and after all of those pictures. I mean we just FLEW around the golf course today. I think it would be impossible for anybody BUT a professional golfer to keep their head on straight and continue to hit solid golf shots during a crazy day like that. This guy certainly knows the business he’s in.<br /><br />“Tom, thank you so much. Are they looking after you inside?”<br /><br />Oh, yes. The tip. I had completely forgotten.<br /><br />“Yes, yes they are. Please don’t worry about it.”<br /><br />“Well, I had a great time. And I don’t care if they are looking after you inside or not. I want to at least make an effort to look after you. Here you go. Thanks so much for all your help. Have a cold one on me.”<br /><br />I certainly will.<br /><br />That was Monday. Although I didn’t know it at the time, Monday was actually the “warm-up” to the main event: Tuesday. Without exaggeration, Tuesday will probably go down in history as the greatest caddie round of my life. <br /><br />At the start, Tuesday was a little crazy because I was headed to a brand new golf course and it didn’t really have an “address” per se. It was simply designated with a “star” off of a road I was only slightly familiar with. I think Captain Jack Sparrow had a better idea where he was headed as he jumped into the Leviathan’s mouth. <br /><br />Amazingly, I ended up finding the golf course without a problem, but the entrance threw me for a loop. I was expecting a grand old club house and a lavish driveway, but what I didn’t realize was that the clubhouse hasn’t even been BUILT yet. It’s merely a drawing in somebody’s OFFICE at this point. So those two or three smaller white houses near the gate? Yeah. Should’ve stopped there. But no. I decided to press on and keep going. <br /><br />About 10 minutes later, as I was driving around yet ANOTHER ridiculous turn DEEP into the 900 acre property, I got a phone call from Paulie.<br /><br />“Tom? Where are you going? I saw you blow by the clubhouse like 10 minutes ago.”<br /><br />“Oh crap. THAT’S the clubhouse? I’ll be right back.”<br /><br />So I flew back down and around the course. I tell ya, if that place ever wanted to raise some money prior to the grand opening, they could always hold a rally race down these hills. Twists and turns everywhere and I could almost get up around 50 mph before I started to poop my pants. After dodging a few golf maintenance vehicles and missing a few forest creatures, I made it back to the temporary clubhouse.<br /><br />Paulie had already grabbed a cart, and the Superintendent was standing by to guide us over to the first tee. The boss was running a little late, so we figured we’d go through the first few holes and then meet up with him as we made our way over to 4. I’m not sure if it was because this was a brand new course or because he was just a nice guy, but the Superintendent was fantastic. He told us a little about the history of the course, some of the tricky holes to watch out for and a general idea of how to get around. Then he just left us. I never would’ve thought he’d just trust us enough to leave us to our own devices. Then again, what could we really do to the golf course? It’s not like we had any Carl Spackler explosives handy.<br /><br />The course is a Jack Nicklaus design. I’ve never seen one of his designs before, but from what I could gather from the website, the goal of the course was to try and imitate Jack’s precise nature. In other words, only careful shot-making and course management would be tolerated. And that description was exactly right. We were shooting various targets from the Championship tees (which would be playing around 7300 yards), and I tell you: you could NOT hit a drive any further than 280-290. If you did, you would run through the fairway into a hazard. Bunkers were well placed; the greens were the size of rare postage stamps and the thick rough and fescue were just unmerciful. If you didn’t hit every single one of your intended targets, you were fucked. I can’t wait to hear what the slope and rating for this course will be.<br /><br />Now, from a caddies’ perspective, the course was impossible. The owners would later claim that this is a “walking course,” but I just can’t see how that would be possible when the average walk from green to tee is around 80-120 yards. For instance: the 9th green to the 10th tee? 300 yards, straight up a hill. The course was beautiful, yes, but you simply have to ride in a cart. Well, that, and snort bug spray. Those little bastards were just ITCHING to violate my tear ducts.<br /><br />As we approached the 3rd hole, a cart was making its way down the fairway towards us. It was the boss. He had on his aviators (incredibly large sunglasses) and looked like he had just rolled out of bed.<br /><br />“So what’s goin’ on boys?”<br /><br />“This course is sick. Very beautiful, very difficult. I hope we get a chance to play it.”<br /><br />“Well that’s what they were talking about over the phone. They’d love for us to come back. The even hinted that we might be able to play it today.”<br /><br />Well, that did sound great, but I had a feeling we were in for a long day. There’s no way in hell I wanted to work for 6 hours and then be punished for another 3-4. But who knows. Maybe I’ll have the energy.<br /><br />So there we were, Paulie at the wheel, me with a rangefinder and the boss-man shouting out targets for me to hit.<br /><br />“What is it to that big tree on the left? How far is it just over the hazard? What is it to the front of that bunker?”<br /><br />I was actually starting to feel a little worn out ALREADY. But I think we were getting some really valuable yardages recorded. The boss has been caddying for 18 years (not so much recently, but still) so you have to think that at least SOME of the obscure targets we were recording would come into play. I also have to say, that after seeing the golf course in its entirety, it will undoubtedly serve as a great training aid for any golfer who steps up to play it. It will force players to hit to specific spots. They have no choice. If they’re too long, their either in a bunker, a hazard, or deep rough. If they’re too short, they’re either in a bunker, a hazard, or deep rough. There are even a few holes where being on the wrong side of the fairway completely blocks you out from a decent approach shot into the green. At a quick glance, the course looks very forgiving, if only because it’s so big. But once you take note of some of the yardages, you’ll quickly realize how tight and unforgiving the course really is. My hat is off to Jack Nicklaus.<br /><br />So with all of our recorded yardages in a little notebook, we made our way up to the driving range to meet two of the owners. According to the boss, today would be a fivesome: the three owners (two brothers and the father), the CEO of Ritz-Carlton, and Ian Baker-Finch. The two brothers were practicing at the range. As we pulled up, all three of us seemed to get out of the cart, take off our caps and extend our hands simultaneously.<br /><br />The brothers seemed nice enough, but we quickly realized how business-oriented they were as a dump-truck pulled into the main entrance and came to rest on the cobblestone drive. The younger brother grabbed his phone and dialed a number.<br /><br />“Excuse me fellahs. I can’t fucking stand this. Yes. Winston? Would you get out here please? There’s a fucking truck parked on our new driveway. I want the driver’s name, license plate, company name and a phone number. If he damaged that driveway at ALL, we are NOT paying for it.”<br /><br />And, just as quickly as he had turned it on, he took a deep breath and turned his hardcore business-side back off.<br /><br />“Sorry. I just can’t stand things like that.”<br /><br />My boss quickly responded.<br /><br />“No, I wouldn’t be able to stand it either. This is quite a facility you guys are putting together.”<br /><br />“Oh yeah? Did you guys like the course?”<br /><br />“Loved it.”<br /><br />“Oh, and I spoke with a friend of yours yesterday. Mr. Big? You know him, right?”<br /><br />My boss froze. Mr. Big was the owner of one of the largest caddie companies in the United States. <br /><br />“You do realize we’re competitors, right?”<br /><br />Insert awkward pause here.<br /><br />“Oh, no. I’m sorry. I thought you two worked together.”<br /><br />“Nope. I own a caddie company which runs 4 out of the top 6 programs around here. I’m not saying you need to do business with me, but I’d love to get a lunch with you next week.”<br /><br />“Oh, yeah. No problem. I’d love to.”<br /><br />“Alright. Well, we’re going to go back to the parking lot and start getting ready to caddie. We’ll be back in like 10 minutes.”<br /><br />“Okay, great. Ian and Mr. Carlton should be here shortly.”<br /><br />The boss perked up a bit.<br /><br />“Yeah, Tom caddied for Ian yesterday.”<br /><br />“Really? How did that go?”<br /><br />“Great. Ian has no idea Tom’s here today.”<br /><br />“Oh really? Well that’ll be a nice surprise.”<br /><br />And then we took our leave. Back to the parking lot to get ready. My boss was already feeling confident.<br /><br />“A meeting with one of the owners next week? Well, I already got what I wanted out of today. I think I’ll get out of here and let you two handle the fivesome.”<br /><br />Pause.<br /><br />“Just kidding. I know you two could handle it, but I still want to be here if these guys end up wanting to talk business with me. Although, they might not want to. It sounds like Mr. Big already has a contract started with them. This may be a lost cause.”<br /><br />Just as an aside: none of us knew this at the time, but the owners of the club already had a contract from our competitors on their desk, ready to sign, THAT DAY. There was almost no chance we were going to get a contract started with these guys for the benefit of OUR Company. But again, we didn’t know this. We were just there to caddie, and to hope.<br /><br />Back in the parking lot, I felt like I was getting ready for the Super Bowl. I was taking my time with the sun-block, making sure to carefully spray the brim of my cap with bug-spray, talking with Paulie about some of the yardages we recorded; I even targeted a few of the trees nearby with my rangefinder to see how fast I could get a yardage. I found out rather quickly that I wasn’t really that coordinated with it. I couldn’t seem to get the laser on my target. Whenever I tried to click the button I’d twitch, causing the laser to neuter one of the nearby squirrels. Sorry little buddy, but you’re taking one for the team today. I think the biggest problem was that I had an older rangefinder. I couldn’t just shoot the flagstick and get a yardage. I had to aim for the base of the pin and hope that I hit a yardage close to what the actual yardage was. The only problem with THAT is, if there are any crazy undulations in the green between me and the flagstick, my rangefinder becomes useless. Great. Well, even Superman had to deal with kryptonite.<br /><br />After getting water for our towels, we walked back over to the range. The two brothers had just finished their warm-up routines and told us they’d be back shortly with Ian and the rest of the group. For a moment or two we just stood and stared at each other. We were all anxious to get going. None of us wanted to wait around. My boss spoke up.<br /><br />“Paulie, throw me a few of those balls. I want to get a feel for how fast these greens are rolling.”<br /><br />Well, at least that’s a good way to pass the time. The practice green behind us looked amazing, and so we all decided to get a feel for speed. For about 3 minutes we were all focused and zoned in on our respective lines, trying to get an idea of how a ball might react on the course. After that, however, we stopped being productive. It wasn’t long before we all started lobbing balls across the green to see if we could hole out. We ended up doing that for 20 minutes. That was a long 20 minutes. I couldn’t wait until everyone got back. <br /><br />Right when I started walking back to the parking lot to grab my crack-pipe, the fivesome made their way over to the range: the two brothers, their father, Ian Baker-Finch and the CEO of Ritz-Carlton.<br /><br />I froze at first. For a moment I felt as though I didn’t belong. Well, either THAT or I just felt like I was plastered right in the middle of a Dali painting. This whole thing felt way too surreal. Mr. Carlton was riding with Ian. It’s like I didn’t know what to say to them. The golfers all parked their carts and sat there staring at us for a moment. Fortunately, my boss snapped me out of it.<br /><br />“Tommy, get over there and introduce yourself. Break this tension.”<br /><br />“Hey Ian. What’s goin’ on?”<br /><br />“Hey, I know this guy! Tom! Nice to see you.”<br /><br />“You too.”<br /><br />“See, NOW we get to have some fun…no more lessons or schmoozing…just golf and good company.”<br /><br />“Yeah, I have to say I was impressed with how professional you were yesterday.”<br /><br />“Well, that’s how you can tell you’ve found yourself in a good job. You’re willing to put in the overtime.”<br /><br />And with that, he offered me his signature smile and grabbed a couple clubs to start warming up. I turned around to find that my introduction had done a world of good. Now everyone was introducing themselves. Next I approached the CEO.<br /><br />“How are you? I’m Tom.”<br /><br />“Tom? The name’s Carlton. Ritz-Carlton.”<br /><br />“Nice to meet you Mr. Carlton.”<br /><br />Weird. I wasn’t nervous anymore. I had this strange feeling wash over me, like I suddenly realized that these guys were on MY turf. <br /><br />I just met the CEO of Ritz-Carlton. I was amazed at how comfortable I felt at that moment, because you could just sense how powerful the guy was. His handshake, his chiseled smile and even his glare were Hogan-esque. If you were to run into this guy on the street, you would know he was important. He seemed a little distant at first, like he really didn’t have any interest in meeting me at all. And, well, I’m sure there’s some truth to that. But honestly, that’s the way I wanted it. I wanted a challenge.<br /><br />As the group started warming up, I somehow found myself around Ian and Mr. Carlton throughout the entire practice session. I looked over at Paulie, who was already joking around with the brothers, and my boss was at the far-end of the group trying to get to know the father. After cleaning a few of Mr. Carlton’s clubs, I carefully backed away from their cart and made my way over to the boss.<br /><br />“So how are we doing this? Who do you want me to take?”<br /><br />“I think you should go with Ian because you went with him yesterday. Paulie will take the two brothers, and I’ll take the father.”<br /><br />“You okay with that?”<br /><br />“Me? Oh, absolutely. I’d rather take a backseat on this loop anyway. You guys are the one’s that’ll have to impress. I’m the owner. I can’t be the one doing all the work. I want you guys running the show.”<br /><br />And with that, the fivesome finished their warm-ups and walked back to the carts. After an obligatory: “Are you on, Tom?” We all made our way over to the first tee.<br /><br />On the way, I noticed a rather ornate sign with the letters “CH” inscribed on the face. Ian spoke up.<br /><br />“What’s that sign for? The Clubhouse?”<br /><br />Well, I guess that answers that question. One of the brothers’ answered excitedly: “Yeah, and oh boy, you should see some of the drawings we have in the office for it. I’ll show them to you when we get finished.”<br /><br />I started chuckling to myself. Only a private club would do something like that: stick a $700 sign in the ground just to show everyone where the new Clubhouse is going. Wouldn’t a little paint on a stick suffice? Oh well. I guess if you’re going to build a private golf course, go big.<br /><br />There were 9 of us in all: 5 players, 3 caddies and a cameraman. The camera-guy brought up the rear of our little procession, and he had even strapped down a ladder to the back of his cart in case he needed to get a funky angle while we were out there. And may I just say, this guy HAD to be on something. He had a permanent joker-smile tattooed on his face and from the moment we all met him till the moment we all parted ways, he never stopped moving. As soon as we arrived at the first tee, he quickly jumped out of his cart and bounced around the group snapping pictures of our every move.<br /><br />To add to the confusion, once the brakes on the carts were engaged, everyone decided to talk at once.<br /><br />“See how beautiful this is Ian?”<br /><br />“Is that the green up there? That puny thing?”<br /><br />“Yeah, isn’t it great?”<br /><br />“You should’ve seen how much earth we had to move for the left-side of the fairway.”<br /><br />And as they talked, they all started to pose. It looked like an old-school Madonna video. One of the brothers would carefully place his hand on Mr. Carlton’s shoulder, they’d both gaze heroically out into the horizon and one of them would extend an arm and point, as if there was something very interesting happening out in the fairway bunker on the left. But, the more they posed, the more photos that crazy camera-guy (who was driving a Benz by the way…ahem…can anyone say: “misappropriated funds”?) fired off. <br /><br />After about 5 minutes of embracing Dadaism, they all got together on the tee box for a “normal” looking shot of the group. The three of us hung back on one of the other tee-boxes and watched. Then we had an idea: why don’t we pose as well? I’m not sure if this actually made it into one of the pictures, but the three of us put our arms around each other and smiled for the camera. Because even though this was a historic day for these fellows, it was also a historic day for us. We were going to be a part of something special.<br /><br />A few minutes before the first ball was in the air the group decided that they wanted to walk most of the time, and that meant the three of us would be driving the golf carts. We didn’t realize it until later, but that was quite a gift. Driving a golf cart or riding on the back of one is the ONLY way a caddie can survive a loop at this course. For lack of a better term, it was a Bear.<br /><br />One of the brothers’ kicked it off. “Would you like to know where to hit it Ian?”<br /><br />The round had begun.<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />Oooooookay.<br /><br />“It has always been a belief of mine that a good course designer shows you were to go. And as you can see, Jack has illustrated nicely that staying right is the best play.”<br /><br />That comment threw us off for the first few holes. As a caddie, if you’re carrying a bag or running in front of a cart, it’s easy to show a little hustle and impress the group. But when you’re just DRIVING the golf cart? It’s hard not to look like a lazy asshole. All of the yardages we had recorded earlier gave us the credentials to offer some advice as to where a player might want to go. But now Ian put a stop to that. So regardless of how much we had tried to prepare by analyzing the course, picking out specific targets to aim for and calculating carry-yardages, we were back to simply being in the right place at the right time, yardage in hand. It might be a little difficult to actually LOOK like we were working out there. <br /><br />At first it seemed like we had lost control of the group. I think as caddies we were just trying to do too much. We had never caddied together, much less under these circumstances, and it was like we couldn’t yet trust each other to do certain tasks. When I say “tasks,” I mean things like raking bunkers, getting divots, etc. We would jump on another players’ divot and replace it, even if the other caddie was just about to do the same. The term my boss uses for this is “over-caddying.” It happens when you don’t find a groove and can’t seem to get comfortable with the group. And until my bosses’ player—the father and part-owner of the golf course—skanked a few into the hazard, we were in danger of missing that all-important groove completely.<br /><br />The fourth hole at this club is destined to be the number 1 handicap. It’s a long, downhill par 4 that dog-leg’s left around a pond. Even after a solid tee shot (280-300), you’re still left with 160-180 yards over a lateral hazard to a narrow green. That’s off the Championship Tees. Ian and Mr. Carlton both KILLED their tee shots and then followed them up with solid approach shots to be on the green putting for birdie. The father, however, ran into some trouble.<br /><br />First he was in the pond. Then he skanked his third shot right into the fescue. My boss lost that ball. Then the father skulled his “5th” shot straight into the lateral hazard in front of the green. I had a great line on it, but the weeds surrounding the hazard were so thick that 1) it completely covered the hazard so I almost stepped onto a drop-off that would’ve meant my demise, and 2) you couldn’t even see the ground. I looked for a few minutes, then the boss came over and looked for a few minutes, and then the players tried to look. But it was no use. My boss had just lost 2 balls on one hole. He has always preached that the number one rule of caddying is to NEVER lose a players’ golf ball. I think the rulebook is out the window today, gentlemen.<br /><br />But like I said before, I was grateful that the father had played the 4th so poorly, because it temporarily segregated my boss from the rest of the group. That meant me and Paulie could now completely focus our attention on our own guys and start to get into a bit of a groove.<br /><br />That being said, now I had to pee. I quickly handed Ian and Mr. Carlton their driver’s and took off down the cart path. I had to find somewhere to go. That’s when I realized how well Jack had framed each hole on this golf course. There was nowhere to hide. There weren’t any trees or bushes to step behind. Those only came into play if you went into a hazard. So I pulled up along the fence on the right and decided to take the initiative. I was now the first caddie to ever take a piss on this golf course. I mean hey, if this is a day for firsts, I’m making my OWN mark on this golf course.<br /><br />When I turned around, I saw my boss on the left side of the hole in the rough. I guess he had the same idea. He had parked his cart sideways and was standing behind it making his mark as well. The funny part was that he was still looking back at the tee-box, which meant he was still TECHNICALLY forecaddying. Now that is the mark of a successful owner. The ability to multi-task.<br /><br />It was at this point in the round when the three of us starting working together. No more working separately or overlapping on duties. One of the brothers would launch a divot over in my direction, I’d quickly toss it back to Paulie as I was making my way over to help my players’ with yardage. While on the green, one of the owners would hand me their extra clubs, and after I had organized them for an easy hand-off, I’d give Paulie a signal and he’d start making his way over in my direction. As we crossed each other on the green, we would make an exchange and I’d grab the flag. While tending the flag, I’d remind my boss about the ball mark his player had made on the front of the green. As my boss moved to fix it, Paulie had just finished his read for one of the brothers, and I was already in position to tend the flag. Hey, it may not seem like anything special, but you have to remember that we never work together on the course, and for all of us to be that in sync and focused was quite a treat. I felt like I was in a ballet.<br /><br />Paulie and I were able to score some more points with our players over the next 2-3 holes as the boss moved from a hazard, to some weeds, and then back into a hazard with the father. Again, not a great situation for the boss, but it really helped me and Paulie to focus on our players and make them feel like we could help them with anything they needed. There were even a few moments when I lost sight of my boss completely because he was down over an embankment sifting through fescue. It wasn’t until he slowly peered over the crest of the hill that I realized where he had gotten off to. And then, upon seeing that one of my players was about to hit, he quickly lowered his head back down and disappeared in the high grass. He reminded me more of a sniper than a caddie at that moment.<br /><br />And before we knew it, the front nine was over with. We hopped on the carts and they drove us up that long, treacherous hill where a lunch had been prepared for the 5 of them. I’ve never seen anything like it. The tent that was set up for them was the size of a small apartment, and it came with a chef, a maitre d’ and 3 other guests to join them for lunch. They had propped up professionally-framed pictures of the golf course for browsing, and laid out a spread of gazpacho, lobster, shrimp, salad, 3 different types of wraps, potato salad, a variety of desserts and 3 or 4 other items whose purpose and origin are still a mystery to me. They also had a small bar of refreshments. It was ridiculous. The CEO sent my boss back over to the parking lot for some of the beers from his cooler. After the boss was on his way, the CEO came back and told me and Paulie that he actually wanted the ENTIRE cooler to be brought over. We were grateful for the errand, because we were both too afraid to grab something to eat unless our boss was present. When we returned, the fivesome sensed our anxiety and told us to please eat whatever we wanted. And so we just destroyed what was left. I think I had 2 wraps, lobster, a chocolate tort and some sort of avocado salad. I’ve never felt so plump. I was kicking myself as I swallowed the last few bites because I had forgotten—for those 15-20 minutes of flavorful bliss—that I still had to caddie. I started stretching and PRAYING I wouldn’t have to find a bathroom before the day was done. Meanwhile, my boss just sat in the background, unable to eat because he claimed his body wouldn’t be able to handle it. He said that if he HAD tried to eat anything, even a sunflower seed, he would’ve shit his pants.<br /><br />Driving out into forecaddie position on 10, I was feeling very good about what we had accomplished so far. We had found a groove, the players were starting to rely on us more and more, and even the camera-guy was backing down because he had just about had his fill with pictures for the day. But now we had another variable thrown into the mix: unexpected delays for course critiques. <br /><br />It started at lunch. I overheard one of the brothers ask Ian: “So Ian, now that we’ve finished the first 9, what do you think of the course?”<br /><br />I honestly don’t remember his exact response, but it was very positive. And now that pandora’s box had been opened, the brothers’ felt more and more confident to ask Ian’s opinion about almost everything the group encountered.<br /><br />“What do you think of this green?”<br /><br />“Is this bunker big enough?”<br /><br />“Do you like how the trees frame the fairway on this hole?”<br /><br />And for a while, Ian was enjoying the enquiries because he has always wanted to get into course design. He told me that the day before.<br /><br />“I just think playing golf, designing courses and having a good glass of wine with some friends would be a great life.”<br /><br />Yes, that would be pretty nice. I wanted to get a little more out of him, though.<br /><br />“Well, you’ve probably seen so many different golf courses by now that you have a good idea of what you really enjoy playing.”<br /><br />“Oh yeah. I think designing a golf course would be a great way to express myself.”<br /><br />So Ian was really getting into the whole “critique” aspect of his round. And on the 11th hole the Superintendent and a few of his assistants joined the group to hear some of these critiques and offer up some suggestions.<br /><br />But prior to this spat of constructive criticism, I ran into a little bit of trouble on 11. The 11th hole on this course is a super-long par 5. I think it’s over 630 yards on the card, and it’s downhill the whole way. The drive down the cart path is even a little treacherous. I was going full speed, and at about 250 yards out, the cart path makes a short, 90-degree right-hand turn to avoid a 20 foot drop-off into some rocks. If I hadn’t hit the brakes in time, I’m sure I would’ve flown off of the embankment. I think they might need a guard-rail there. <br /><br />So anyway, Mr. Carlton’s ball ends up in the weeds on the right. That’s where the boss was stationed. He finds it immediately and throws it back out into the rough. In fact, this was the beginning of a trend that carried through the rest of the round: my boss was going to make every effort to give these guys decent lies. Ian bombed his drive right down the middle, about 280 yards from the creek that guarded the front of the green. <br /><br />As they pulled up, Mr. Carlton stepped out and looked to me for a sign.<br /><br />“It’s just over here by the edge of the fescue.”<br /><br />“I know.”<br /><br />He sounded angry. Maybe I’ll steer clear of this guy for a little while. I had made a great find for him on 10, and I thought he would be in a good mood by now. But I think all of the course analysis was starting to ruin his enjoyment of the day. You could already tell his game was suffering because of it.<br /><br />Ian bombed a HYBRID 250 yards right down the middle. He was in a perfect location to make birdie. But that’s precisely when my kryptonite punched me in the face.<br /><br />Remember the issues I was having with my rangefinder? Well, the 11th pin was up front, sitting just BEHIND an undulation in the green. So to combat this, I decided to try and aim for a point just behind the pin. I would be estimating.<br /><br />“How far we got Tom? Like 45?”<br /><br />My rangefinder kept reading 62. I lowered the device slightly and looked for myself. It really did look 45. I clicked the button again. Nope. 62. Maybe I’ll just subtract a little bit so he becomes a little more comfortable with the number.<br /><br />“Well, I keep getting 57 from here.”<br /><br />“Really? Well…okay.”<br /><br />And sure enough, he flies it right over the flag.<br /><br />“Well shit. That wasn’t 57. Give me another ball.”<br /><br />Then he sticks it to 3 feet.<br /><br />“Yep. 45 yards. I can usually guess the yardage pretty well from this distance. You might want to check the batteries on that thing.”<br /><br />“Yeah, sure.”<br /><br />No, the batteries are fine. It’s just old and I’m an idiot.<br /><br />So great. Now he’s a little shaky with my yardages. That’s the last thing I wanted to do today. I’ve even heard of tour caddies who have been fired for screwing up a yardage. I mean, I guess I could see why. Every missed shot costs these guys money.<br /><br />On 12, which is a 430 yard par 4 straight up a hill, Ian hit his first drive in the crap on the left. We’re talking HEAVY shrubbery. But I had a good line on it. I was on the right side of the fairway, and so I bolted to try and find the ball as quickly as possible. <br /><br />This is a brand new course, so I knew that regardless of what ball I found in there it would have to be Ian’s. That was the only thing I had on my side. As soon as I jumped into the weeds I realized I was in for another challenge. Thorns and blackberry bushes started tearing up my legs. But as long as my movements were quick and I kept moving, I didn’t seem to notice any pain. I got to work immediately, kicking and sweeping my feet through the greenery. I covered one of my hands with my towel so I could tear through the thorns without fear of any scratches. But after five minutes of an intense search, I still hadn’t found anything. I still hadn’t even seen the ground. That’s how thick it was.<br /><br />“Tommy! Get back over here and look for my man’s ball! It’s over by this post and shouldn’t be very hard to find! I’ll take a look for you. I had a good line on it too.”<br /><br />So I ran back across the fairway and started looking for another ball. As I looked down, I noticed that both of my legs were covered in blood. I took a moment to try and wash most of it off with my water bottle, so as not to make my towel look “messy.” At this point, Ian and the rest of the group had made it into the fairway and were making their way towards the carts. Ian had already played another ball just in case we weren’t able to find his first one. My boss started yelling.<br /><br />“Hey, Ian? You playing a Callaway?”<br /><br />“Yep.”<br /><br />“Right here.”<br /><br />Somehow, he had found Ian’s ball. And that was amazing to me. He would later tell me that he found it underneath the weeds I had already trampled over. He used a technique he learned while caddying at Shinnecock—just put your feet close together and shuffle around until you feel something round. It was a phenomenal find, but Ian wanted nothing to do with it.<br /><br />“I’m not going to play it out of there. You can just pick that one up.”<br /><br />“Oh, I figured as much. I just wanted you to respect the find.”<br /><br />Ian laughed. “Yes, I certainly do.”<br /><br />Then he turned to me.<br /><br />“So what do we have here Tom?”<br /><br />I was currently in the process of trying to use my rangefinder again. But after a couple of unsuccessful tries, I put it back into my pocket.<br /><br />“Screw this. I’m finding you a sprinkler head.”<br /><br />Ian started laughing again.<br /> <br />“What does it say over there?”<br /><br />“148 center, and that is where the pin is located today.”<br /><br />“Alright.”<br /><br />And he sticks it to 10 feet. The Superintendent and three of his assistants were all relaxing on a bench behind the green, watching all of the approach shots. And that’s when our round got REALLY slow. On holes 12, 13 and 14 the Superintendent, the brothers and the father all bombarded Ian with questions about how each hole was laid out. At first you could tell Ian was really getting into it, but by the time we reached 14 Ian started finishing his critiques with: “You know, that’s what I think, but I’m not the designer. I wouldn’t listen to me if I were you. I’m just enjoying the golf course.”<br /><br />On 15 Ian and I had a quick moment together I’ll remember for some time. Like I said, he was just being BOMBARDED with questions, and I felt bad for him. On one of the previous holes, Ian referred to a small mound in front of the green as a mistake. He felt that it wasn’t necessary. His exact words were: “Well, I don’t know what the technical term is for it. I suppose you’d call it a WART or something. But I don’t think this was meant to be here.”<br /><br />So on 15, while Mr. Carlton was walking across the fairway to hit his shot and the brothers were looking for their balls in the weeds on the left, I decided to try and lighten the mood. <br /><br />“So how are you doing Ian? Enjoying the course so far?”<br /><br />“Oh yeah. Very nice. I just wish I could play golf and not have to think about anything else. But I’m a guest today. I need to put in my two cents when they ask for it.”<br /><br />“Yeah, they’ve really done a nice job setting this up. But what the heck is with the floor of these carts? Did they armor-all this to make it look better?”<br /><br />“Yeah, I think they did.”<br /><br />“Well that’s smart. My feet have been slipping all day today. I can’t believe I haven’t been thrown from the cart yet.”<br /><br />He started laughing. “Oh yeah?”<br /><br />“Yeah. No wonder the greens look so shiny. Maybe they armor-all-ed them too. I KNOW they must’ve armor-all-ed that ‘wart’ back there for you.”<br /><br />“Haha. Yeah, that was pretty crazy, right? I didn’t want to make them feel bad, but that just looked weird.”<br /><br />“Well don’t worry about this green up here. When I saw it this morning, I told myself that it was the only normal-looking green on the course.”<br /><br />Every other green on the course is super-small with undulations galore. This green was large and almost completely flat. It almost looked out of place.<br /><br />“I think you may be right.”<br /><br />Well at least now he was in a better mood. And the rest of the round went off without a hitch. We rode back up with them to the parking lot, hopped off and shook hands. <br /><br />“Mr. Carlton, really a pleasure to meet you.”<br /><br />“Yes, thank you Tom.”<br /><br />“Ian, thanks so much. It’s been a great couple of days.”<br /><br />“Yeah, mate. Are you guys leaving now?”<br /><br />“Well, yeah, I guess so. Believe me, I’d love to stay and hang out with you guys, but I’m sure you have some important things to take care of.”<br /><br />“Oh, okay. Well I’ll tell you what: I’m going to be announcing from the 15th hole on Saturday and Sunday of Tiger’s tournament. If you guys can make it over, just come to the tower and tell the guys at the bottom that you’re ‘Finchy’s mates.’ They’ll let you come right up. I don’t even care if I’m on the air. I want to see you guys there.”<br /><br />“Wow. We’ll be there.”<br /><br />Then me, Paulie and the boss walked over to the parking lot to change out of our bibs and talk about the day. Needless to say, we were all pretty amped. About 15 minutes later me and Paulie took our leave, and the boss decided he’d walk back to say thank you once again to the owners for allowing us to come. I can’t make direct quotes because I wasn’t there, but apparently the owners asked Ian and the CEO what they thought about our service, and they both agreed that we should be given a chance to run the account. And after my boss left, one of the brothers’ went into their office and tore up the contract they were about to sign with our competitors.<br /><br />There are still a lot of things that need to fall into place, but I might be the next Caddie Master at this course. <br /><br />I’m going to stop there, because in Microsoft Word this post is already over 22 pages and I think that’s a little excessive. But to those who have reached this point, thank you so much for reading, and I will definitely be posting again soon. This new job has just blown me away with all the new responsibilities recently and I’m still trying to ground myself. But I hope everyone is doing well.Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-17579939764140657902007-06-03T21:20:00.000-05:002007-06-03T21:21:15.542-05:00Inspired By BukowskiI’m going to try something a little different for this post, because there are a lot of crazy things happening in my life right now and I’m at the point where I think just boiling down one of my posts into a Bukowski-esque form might just get to the root of my opinions a little faster. Who knows, this may even be a little easier to read. <br /><br />I was also bitten by a “rather aggressive” Lonestar Tick yesterday while desperately searching for an errant tee shot and I’ve been a little on edge with fears of Lyme Disease (the “rather aggressive” part is a quote from a website that had a picture of my attacker). So I’m feeling a little poetic at the moment.<br /><br />So here we go: an attempt to write like Charles Bukowski.<br /><br />Sometimes Aleve just isn’t strong enough.<br />I find bruises<br />No idea where they came from<br />A social worker would cringe<br />From the sight<br />My knees<br />Don’t feel supportive right now<br />It’s a balancing act to stay upright<br />Maybe I shouldn’t have had that<br />Extra cocktail<br />Last night.<br /><br />But there’s a light at the end of the tunnel<br />A familiar face<br />A favorite player<br />An Argentinean from Miami<br />Three friends in toe<br />All avid in their love for this great game.<br /><br />It has been months<br />Maybe even a year<br />But the member still remembers me<br />I suppose the feeling is mutual<br />I still don’t really know him all that well<br />But I respect him<br />He respects me<br />I feel obligated to caddie<br />Balls to the wall<br />Till I hurt even more<br />Poor logic, perhaps<br />But the company and the tip always make it<br />Worthwhile.<br /><br />I’ll be with them for 3 days<br />18, 36, 18<br />72 holes of pure joy<br />It helps to silence my fears<br />Of a serious job<br />And security<br />For the moment, anyway<br />Other caddies look at me<br />Like I stole something<br />Like I might not be worthy of such a loop<br />I find comfort<br />In knowing<br />That I care enough<br />To know that I am not entitled<br />I am grateful<br />This player-assignment was not my choosing<br />I will not take this gift for granted<br />How could anyone?<br />Good golf and good money?<br />I suppose only non-golfers would argue<br />Otherwise.<br /><br />The member allows me to call him<br />By a nickname<br />The others I try my damndest to pronounce correctly<br />Although not that difficult<br />I try to show their culture the proper respect<br />So I accent the same letters they do<br />One of the players<br />I still have no idea<br />His speech was rushed on the first tee<br />I hope that before the 72 holes are up<br />I’ll have it<br />Not to foreshadow too much<br />But it took me 70.<br /><br />The golf they were playing<br />Took the form of a Match-play Championship<br />Two-footers were not even close<br />To a gimme<br />Lockjaw was a common debilitation<br />I don’t know Spanish<br />I can only count to 10<br />But I could easily decipher<br />The cursing<br />A missed putt<br />Caused the body to shake<br />The arms to reach to the heavens<br />And utter every bad word<br />Ever learned<br />On a school bus<br />Or elsewhere<br />On one occasion<br />After an important putt rocketed past the cup<br />One of the guests yelled and screamed<br />For a good 30 seconds<br />After a moment of silence<br />The member smiled and turned<br />“Would you like a translation, Tom?”<br />“No, I think I get the picture.”<br />Almost makes me want to learn Spanish<br />So I can be just as eloquent<br />When I decide to drop the F-bomb<br />Although I suppose<br />“Wanker”<br />Would work just as well.<br /><br />One of the teams dominated<br />For 3 of the 4 rounds<br />I<br />Myself<br />Was impressed at my own ability<br />To focus<br />In 95-plus degree heat<br />Reading putts that would<br />Normally make me second guess<br />Without flinching<br />I was Neo from The Matrix<br />I saw lines beneath the grain<br />The nods of approval<br />And pats on the back<br />Never felt so rewarding.<br />I wanted to do a good job<br />This was my favorite member<br />For no other reason<br />Than he respects me the most<br />I mean hell<br />I must’ve been focused<br />Because I did not even feel<br />Or sense<br />The Lonestar Tick biting the<br />Shit<br />Out of my leg<br />When I was in the trees looking for<br />That errant tee shot<br />It took me over 2 hours to realize<br />That she was even there<br />Fears of Lyme Disease<br />Call into question my lack of<br />Health Insurance<br />I think now I might be motivated.<br /><br />By the time the last<br />18 holes<br />Came my way<br />The forecast was for<br />Rain<br />More rain<br />And severe rainstorms<br />But they came from Miami<br />A little water<br />Would do nothing to deter<br />The last match of the weekend<br />Besides<br />The two underdogs still needed<br />A win<br />I know I wanted to see it, anyway<br />I was hurting<br />My legs couldn’t seem to move faster than<br />A speed walk<br />My mind tried to compel them<br />But Mr. Lactic-acid had something else<br />To say<br />About that.<br />By the 3rd hole<br />Visibility was poor<br />I could only see about<br />100 yards in every direction<br />The rain felt like the massaging jets of a Jacuzzi<br />Bill Murray’s famous “I’d keep playing. I don’t think the heavy stuff’s coming down for quite a while.”<br />Came to mind<br />I think for the last 5 holes they were carrying<br />Me<br />The wind and cold had slowed me down<br />To an embarrassing walk<br />I didn’t want to let down my member<br />But he just smiled and applauded my efforts<br />As his cart fish-tailed off of the fairway.<br /><br />By the time we reached the 14th<br />The match was over<br />My underdogs had finally won<br />Big time<br />Despite my poor reads on the greens<br />Now, normally<br />I just accept the fact that I suck<br />Don’t get me wrong<br />I still try<br />But let’s not kid ourselves here<br />I over-analyze<br />For 54 holes<br />Believe it or not<br />I was flawless<br />But the last 18 holes were just ugly<br />Even had a few going the other way<br />It was surprising that they still asked me<br />For anything<br />Part of me thinks the member was just<br />Being kind<br />Telling his players to trust me<br />Blind<br />They had to have known I was tired<br />You can’t fake running like Forrest Gump<br />At least I had more time to take a breather<br />And better scenery<br />Than he did.<br /><br />By the end<br />They were all so grateful<br />Sincerely happy<br />Normally it would be hard to tell<br />But they spoke Spanish<br />They could’ve said a million things<br />Behind my back<br />If they didn’t like the job I was doing<br />I’m sure they would’ve stopped asking<br />For advice<br />But regardless of all the Spanish<br />The cursing<br />The remarks on the side of the green<br />They still put their trust in me<br />For whatever reason<br />Regardless of how water-logged and tired I was.<br /><br />I will always treasure<br />Those final handshakes<br />That last eye-to-eye glance before<br />A player and his caddie part ways<br />Never to meet again.Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-55245425765233305742007-06-02T05:30:00.000-05:002007-06-02T05:31:05.267-05:00Evolution At Its Best: Mr. SafariYesterday I met quite an unusual fellow. <br /><br />I was assigned to a group with four walkers. The member in the group wanted one caddie per player. I guess he wanted to impress one of his clients. I was assigned to this “client,” whom we’ll call Mr. Safari. I really want to call him that because he just so happened to be wearing one of those stupid hard white hats with the three small holes in the front, the sort of thing normally reserved for dirty men with mustaches running around Africa trying to blow away an animal with an elephant gun. He had one ball marker on either side of his brim, and they looked more like crown jewels than practical tools for a golf course. He was wearing a light blue striped golf shirt and light blue shorts, which only accentuated his manliness. And shoes? Why black Nike high-tops of course. What else would you use to round out a well planned ensemble?<br /><br />His bag weighed a ton. My boss has this philosophy which he bestows upon every new recruit that walks through the door: there’s no such thing as a single being too heavy. Meaning, if you’re only carrying one bag for 18 holes, it shouldn’t matter how heavy it is. Over the last 3 years, I’ve modified that statement. I believe for the most part he’s right, but I’d say about 10% of the time he’s dead wrong. Today would be one of those times. It was a cart bag with Dangerfield-esque qualities. He had everything in there: a couple dozen balls, a few cell phones, a pair of shoes and 16 clubs. <br /><br />“I really don’t want to take anything out of my bag.”<br /><br />Is there any particular reason you feel this way? No? Do you LIKE being kicked in the nuts?<br /><br />I looked over at the member, who seemed to be pleading with me with those big, puppy dog eyes. He wanted to please his client. So I took a deep breath and nodded. I wouldn’t want something as small as me changing a bag out to be the catalyst for screwing up a big business deal for this guy. I don’t think that would ever happen, but I just had a feeling I should pick up the bag and keep quiet. Then, suddenly, a hand comes out of nowhere and grabs two wedges out of the bag. It was my boss.<br /><br />“I’ll just take these. They’ll be waiting up at the cottage for you.”<br /><br />I froze. I looked at Mr. Safari to see his reaction. A long moment passed and then he finally nodded and said, “Yeah, whatever you guys need.” Well that’s just great. That’ll save my back a bit. I guess my boss had already assessed the situation long before I arrived on the scene and decided to help lighten my load.<br /><br />Mr. Safari grabbed his belly-putter (with the cute matching light-blue grip) and said, “Oh, by the way. I have a rangefinder, but I left it on the range.”<br /><br />Well, that’s too bad.<br /><br />“Well, I guess I could—“<br /><br />One of the outside staff guys butted in: “On the range sir? Whereabouts?”<br /><br />“Almost in the middle of the range on one of the club-stands.”<br /><br />“No problem. Be right back.”<br /><br />Great. Please HURRY. I can’t WAIT for this guy to double check me on yardages all day.<br /><br />Ten minutes later the staff-member returned with the rangefinder and we all moved to the first tee. It took Mr. Safari a good 10 minutes to make his way over to me and take his driver, because he was just too busy playing around with his rangefinder. It looked like he was getting yardages to everything. Yay! Let’s point it at stuff! He aimed at the beginning of the fairway, over the bunker, on the edge of the fairway, in the trees on the right and even at the porta-john in the woods on the left. I guess he wanted to prepare just in case his diaper didn’t hold out.<br /><br />But the fun didn’t start until we reached his approach shot.<br /><br />“119 to the front and 135—“<br /><br />“Whoa whoa. You need to understand something.”<br /><br />Dramatic pause. <br /><br />“Um…yeah?”<br /><br />“I need you to say ‘watermelon’ before I hit the ball.”<br /><br />“‘Watermelon?’”<br /><br />“Yes. My swing can become jerky at times and I need to hear that so I remember to swing smoothly.”<br /><br />“I’m sorry. ‘Watermelon?’ I don’t get it.”<br /><br />“W a t e r – melon [backswing-follow thru]. It just sounds nice, doesn’t it?”<br /><br />“I guess so.”<br /><br />“My wife prefers: ‘margarita.’”<br /><br />Yeah, I would prefer one right now myself.<br /><br />So I gave it a shot: “Alright sir. Water-melon.”<br /><br />“Thank you, Tom.”<br /><br />Well that felt weird. I felt more like a dancing dog in a tutu than a seasoned caddie. This sucks. And of course he whiffed his next shot. How could he NOT. He’s focusing on fruit.<br /><br />His third shot ended up on the green, pin-high left. As I ran to retrieve his “manly” divot, he yelped: “Wait. Tom? I like to have a club in my hands at all times. Could you please hand me my putter?”<br /><br />“Okay…”<br /><br />“Great. And just remember: after every shot, try and guess what club I’ll need next. I want to hang onto that club all the way to my next shot.”<br /><br />Wow. Holy fruitcake.<br /><br />“Okay.”<br /><br />So I handed him his putter. I finished replacing his divot and ran ahead to fix his ball mark on the green. Upon our next encounter, he decided to allow air to pass over his larynx once again.<br /><br />“Alright. Here’s the way I want this done. You start on the other side of the hole. Then, as I stand up from reading the putt on THIS side, I want you to stand up and switch spots with me. When I get up from reading my putt on the OTHER side, I want you to point to a spot you like. Then, I’ll tell you whether I like it or not.”<br /><br />Holy crap balls in heaven. Just putt the ball already.<br /><br />After a long, drawn out ballet which reminded me more of a synchronized swimming routine than a display of green-reading, I finally picked a spot.<br /><br />“Okay, I like it.”<br /><br />He lipped out, a squirrel farted and two of the members in his foursome were already over on the second tee. I had a strange feeling that at this precise moment, Ben Crane was playing golf somewhere in America and sensed the pace of our round. I envisioned him whipping out a Scotty Cameron and declaring: “There can be only one.”<br /><br />Upon completion of the first hole, I ran into my forecaddie position on the second. I told one of the other caddies in the group about the whole “watermelon” request. He had his own backswing-follow-thru trigger.<br /><br />“Go – FUCK-yourself.”<br /><br />Not bad. Although, we both thought the follow-thru might feel a little rushed if that particular keyword was used. So I opted not to suggest it.<br /><br />When we arrived near the green on the second hole, he already had his 60-degree wedge in hand.<br /><br />“Where is this one going, Tom?”<br /><br />Well, he didn’t want to go long. Anything short of the hole was perfect.<br /><br />“Just try and land it on the front of the green and let it roll out. Anything short is good.”<br /><br />He lined up and hit the shot. It was perfect, but the aim was a little off. The shot finished about 2 feet right of the hole. He tapped in for par and then approached me for his driver.<br /><br />“Next time, POINT to where you want me to hit the chip. Otherwise, I’ll have no idea what you’re talking about.”<br /><br />Quiet you! Otherwise Ben Crane will hear and come to kick us in the nuts!<br /><br />But regardless of how things were going, I knew that he couldn’t keep this up. There’s no way a player—who is not a professional—can laser in yardages, debate them, analyze to the inch where to place the ball around the greens and look at bogey putts for 5 minutes without cracking at reaching an I-don’t-give-a-rats-ass attitude. And by the time we reached the 7th hole, I was right.<br /><br />“How far, Tom?”<br /><br />“157 front and 174 flag. Make sure you get it up onto the upper tier.”<br /><br />“Got it.”<br /><br />That’s it? No other questions about the wind? The lie? The Bush Administration? Really? No rangefinder double check? Awesome.<br /><br />And 83-88 strokes later, we tapped in for a glorious bogey on 18. He had been defeated 3 ways on the Nassau and had slowed down our round to a painful 5 hours and 15 minutes. We were slow? Yes. Was the bag heavy? Absolutely. But did Ben Crane kick us in the nuts? No way. And that was just fine by me.Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-44500171668862367942007-05-26T20:59:00.000-05:002007-05-26T21:02:55.143-05:00Really Really Long PostFor the longest time I have wondered: what does it mean to be a senior caddie? When will I know I’ve reached that status? Is it an age thing? I can smoke a LOT of crack before I pass out. Does that count?<br /><br />Well, today it hit me: regulars. Look on any of the tours. Even though the caddies may be traded around and work for different professionals, they have all reached a point where they’re only working for one or two people in order to make a living. I know things like skill, dedication and hustle are all important qualities to have, but by landing one or two players and then keeping them around, week after week, I believe you’ve obtained “senior caddie” status. <br /><br />I mean think about it. You cannot even HOPE to get requested unless you are able to perform your duties with a high level of proficiency. I don’t care if you’re Dave Chappelle. If you’re a funny man and your players are cracking up after every swing, that’s great, but that will not hold their interest in the long run. Pretty soon they’re going to get tired of raking their own bunkers, getting their own yardages and hitting their balls offline on the greens. I know of two or three “senior caddies” that have been yelled at by their “regulars” recently because they were not doing their job. I don’t care if the member is a huge Redskins fan and you happen to know every stat on every player that ever stepped on the field. Eventually, the players are going to wonder why they’re paying you.<br /><br />Over the past 3 years I’ve had my fair share of requests. To this day I still occasionally go out with the same people. But for the most part, I’m a free agent. I’ve talked to a few of the caddies before about this and they all keep telling me that being a free agent is the way to go. They say that once you have a few regulars, there will be days when all of them will be playing at the same time, and then you have to decide which one to go with. And that can be tough. You’re bound to piss off somebody. <br /><br />But I still think I’d like to have at least one regular guy. One guy that appreciates my service, but still just wants to get to know me and have fun out there. I can already see why it’s a huge deal when professional golfers and caddies split up. They aren’t married, but I’m sure it can feel like that at times.<br /><br />“Why didn’t you caddie for me on Tuesday?”<br /><br />“You needed to call me. You never call me anymore.”<br /><br />“I call you.”<br /><br />“Yeah, but it’s only when you need something. You never just call to chat anymore. That hurts, sir.”<br /><br />It may sound ridiculous, but that really does happen. One of the caddies I work with was flown out to work for his regular in the Byron Nelson Pro Am this year. Five days, all expenses paid. Another caddie I know was working on his senior thesis and his regular gave him the keys to a penthouse in New York City for a week so he could finish his research. Those are just two examples. I could give you a dozen more. So while I understand some of the inherent problems with having a few regulars out there, I would still love to be in that position someday.<br /><br />And then it happened. Or, at least I THINK it happened. Last Saturday, I ended up caddying for a member who usually only shows his face during the Member-Guest at the end of the season. He’s based out of California and doesn’t really get a chance to travel. He just split up with his wife because she was cheating on him. She also has a drinking problem. He’s a monogamous guy and doesn’t want to deal with it anymore. <br /><br />I found out all of this by the time we reached the 6th hole. Honestly, I was flattered by his candid responses. It’s been about 3 years since I tended bar, and so I haven’t delved into that little aspect of customer service in a while.<br /><br />“So where are you from?”<br /><br />“California. But I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be there because my wife and I just split up. Oh, and how far do I need to carry this ball so it barely clears that front bunker?”<br /><br />This guy transitions better than I do. <br /><br />“Hit a low 145 shot to keep it under those limbs…and don’t worry…there are plenty of fish in the sea.”<br /><br />Then, a perfect shot.<br /><br />“Aww yeah! That shot was the tits!”<br /><br />“The tits?”<br /><br />“Oh yeah. Because there’s NOTHING wrong with tits.”<br /><br />I love this guy. It’s rare to meet someone who can go from talking about the aftermath of a recent divorce to laughing hysterically at a lucky shot from the trees. <br /><br />I was pretty tired on Saturday and I knew how hard I would be working the rest of the weekend so I spared myself some hard work. But for one reason or another, I impressed this guy enough to get a request the following morning. <br /><br />Now we’re on to Sunday. Now this wasn’t your normal Sunday of golf. Monday and Tuesday would be host to the main event: an invitational tournament where the best 4 golfers from each club would be competing for a special designation—sort of a “king of the private clubs” trophy. So Sunday was always an automatic double shift because of the regular play in the morning and then a barrage of practice rounds for the tournament in the afternoon.<br /><br />I was really happy to be going with Mr. Sarcasm again in the morning. It was a three-way split, meaning I’d only be carrying two bags for 9 holes. That was phenomenal, because I knew regardless of the weather, a sudden pandemic or giant twinkie-people taking over the earth, I was going to be working a double. I appreciated the opportunity to save my strength a bit before the real work began. But one of Mr. Sarcasm’s guests was special. Not like…blue bus special. I mean he was borderline celebrity. At least in my opinion. I’m going to be very careful about what I say about him, because I’m sure he’d appreciate some confidentiality, but I just have to share this little tidbit with all of you.<br /><br />He was Tiger Woods’ attorney.<br /><br />Apparently he just got back from playing with his famous client at the K Club in Ireland. He’s in his late 40s to early 50s, about 6 feet tall, and makes fun of absolutely everything. I think Mr. Sarcasm said it best: “Baldy’s got the attention span of a ceramic dog.”<br /><br />Somehow, that comment made sense to me. And yes, his real nickname is “Baldy.” Well, either “Baldy” or “Barney.” Mr. Sarcasm suggested I call him that because his golf swing resembles Barney Rubble smashing a rock with a stick.<br /><br />He’s around a 16 handicap and hits the ball a mile or a foot in every direction. But he has a great attitude about it. He just makes fun of himself and everyone around him. All in good humor, of course.<br /><br />On the 5th hole Baldy was looking for his ball in the left rough, but he was searching about 50 yards ahead of where the ball actually was. When I told him where his ball ACTUALLY was, here were the responses, in chronological order.<br /><br />Baldy: “Crap! I’m an idiot.”<br /><br />Mr. Sarcasm: “You know what? It takes a special someone to think they’ve hit a ball that far. I love your optimism.”<br /><br />Baldy: “How much you wanna bet I put this on the green?”<br /><br />Mr. Sarcasm: “Which green? There are two you could potentially hit.”<br /><br />Baldy: “Oh be quiet. Fairways are for sissies.”<br /><br />And it went on like this all day. The other caddie in the group must’ve said “I’ve got to write some of this down” to me like 10 times throughout the round. On the 14th hole one of the other members of our threesome was down on the lower tier facing an impossible putt. Really, his only goal should’ve been to get the ball on the upper tier, but instead he wanted a read.<br /><br />“It’s actually pretty straight. Put it out about 3-4 feet left of the hole. Right here.”<br /><br />“Really?”<br /><br />“Yeah. And try to get a good feel for the speed with your practice strokes. Make sure you give it enough.”<br /><br />Typically, players coming up from the lower tier do one of two things. They either hit the putt way too hard and the ball ends up over the green, or they get scared and try to finesse it up the hill resulting in a putt which rolls back to their feet. This player accomplished the latter. I spoke up again.<br /><br />“Same thing. Not a lot of break. Just make sure you get it over the hill.”<br /><br />Baldy chimed right in.<br /><br />“DUHHHHH! Good call Tom! Are you a professional caddie or something?” He started laughing. “I mean how freakin’ obvious is that?”<br /><br />“Well, he didn’t do it before. I just wanted to make sure this time.”<br /><br />On the 15th hole Baldy found a caddies’ nametag in the grass. But instead of putting into his pocket or giving it to one of us, he slapped it on his chest and started yelling, “I’m CHUCK now! The guy has GOT to be a better golfer than I am.”<br /><br />I didn’t have the heart to tell him that “Chuck” has Parkinson’s.<br /><br />Overall, it was a great experience being with him. There were even a few moments throughout the round when he threw out his two cents about some of the players on the tour, their relationships to each other, and some factoids about Tiger’s mannerisms.<br /><br />“Outside of tournaments, [Tiger] the guy is hilarious. Non-stop jokes. He’s really a great guy.”<br /><br />Well, I’m sold. It’s nice to hear that a player like Woods is just as genuine and approachable as one would think.<br /><br />And to top it all off, Mr. Sarcastic wants to work with me again. Granted, he’s not out very often, but we really got along well. So at least there are hints of senior caddie-ness starting to show.<br /><br />I was a little surprised by the afternoon loop. After looking at the tee sheet in the morning, I would’ve figured the boss would just lob an apple up into the air and I’d catch it as I ran by to get back out in the first fairway. But as it turned out, I waited around for about an hour after my first loop. In fact, there was a chance I wouldn’t be working at all.<br /><br />So I got up and started making my way to the snack machine. I was bored, and I felt like chewing on something light before I was sent out again. As soon as I stepped out of the doorway one of the staff guys in a golf cart flew across my field of vision going full speed. The cart jumped the curb and slammed into the snack machine, smashing it up against the wall and spinning it around as the steel legs scraped big gashes into the floor. The table sitting next to the machine didn’t stand a chance. It buckled like paper from the blow of the cart, and all of the food and drinks on top of it were thrown into the air. Soda cans exploded on the concrete floor and the staff member was thrown out of the cart. Fortunately, the cart was now pinned between the snack machine, the table and the wall. The staff member got up, jumped back into the cart, threw a case of water bottles out and locked the brake into place.<br /><br />My first reaction was a little strange. For some reason I was immediately convinced that this individual had purposefully ran the cart into the vending machine. I can’t imagine why I would think that, seeing as how we were all really busy and that cart would certainly be needed for players this afternoon. I instinctively ran over and asked if he was okay.<br /><br />“Holy crap. I’ve never had a traffic ticket in my life. Now look what I’ve done.”<br /><br />Two long, rather unpleasant-looking scratches ran across the front of the cart. The snack machine had a huge dent on the bottom and half of the springs inside had popped out. A variety of snack items had fallen into the tray, and I think $3 to $4 worth of change had dropped into the coin return.<br /><br />The outside staff guy just put his hands on his hips and looked at me, his mustache twitching slightly.<br /><br />“One of those cases of bottled water fell on the accelerator. There was nothing I could do.”<br /><br />We just stared at each other. One of the 2-Liter bottles of Coke that previously resided on the table was still bubbling on the floor, spraying sweet sweet carbonated syrup into the air. An image kept running through my head. All I could picture was that staff member’s face, petrified, as he slammed into the snack machine. And all I could do was laugh. And laugh. And laugh.<br /><br />In fact, when I walked up to my car to grab a spare pair of socks, I was still laughing. Two members in a cart drove by me and waved. The woman looked at me like I was crazy. I don’t know why I thought it was so funny. I guess it was because I realized I would never see anything like that again. And having a front row seat for it? I guess God really does like me.<br /><br />But God added a little twist to the equation. The members that drove past me in the parking lot? I would be caddying for them. And both of them were insecure high handicappers. They just saw me laughing hysterically. Not a good first impression.<br /><br />When I introduced myself, the woman spoke up immediately.<br /><br />“I saw you laughing in the parking lot. We’re not very good at golf. Are you going to be able to handle this?”<br /><br />I had to act fast. The group was staring at me.<br /><br />“Oh, yes, yes. One of the staff guys slammed a cart into the snack machine. I’ve never laughed so hard in my life.”<br /><br />The woman started laughing.<br /><br />“Really? How the heck did that happen?”<br /><br />“A case of bottled water fell on the accelerator. There was nothing he could do.”<br /><br />Now the whole group started laughing. Whew. At least now they wouldn’t be watching me like a hawk.<br /><br />They were a nice group, but a combination of things, like worrying about tomorrow and the fact that they didn’t care about yardages or even FINDING their balls, made my job fairly unimportant. The only thing that kept me focused was that the member kept asking me for reads on the greens.<br /><br />“Help me out on this one friend.”<br /><br />He was very courteous, but there really wasn’t anything I could do for him. The Superintendent had cut and rolled the greens late this morning, and at this point they were rolling around an 11-12. He was long most of the time. So regardless of what I said, I was usually off by quite a bit. The greens were just too fast for him. Little did I know they were only going to get worse.<br /><br />Monday. Finally, here we were. The big show. Twenty-Two teams, four great golfers on each team, 54 holes to determine the winner. Today would include 36 holes, 18 of which would be a two-man better ball net, the second 18 would be a modified alternate shot. I wouldn’t find this out until later, but the Superintendent would be cutting and rolling the greens after every ROUND. At the start of the tournament, they were rolling around a 12.5. I have never seen the course look this good.<br /><br />The boss-man had given me the opportunity to pick my team. Apparently, whatever team you were assigned to traditionally invited you to play their golf course at some later date. Upon hearing this, I did what any other self-respecting golf fanatic would’ve done. I chose the team from Oakmont.<br /><br />Upon first meeting the players, I didn’t think there was anything to worry about. The highest handicap on the team was a 7, and everyone else was around a 1 or 2. The previous evening I had even spent a little time researching their golf course, just so I could have something to talk about with them if we ever got bored out there. For instance, did you guys know that off of the back tees at Oakmont there’s a par 3 that plays over 280 yards? I couldn’t wait to ask them about it. <br /><br />Each team was paired with two caddies. The other caddie in the group was my old roommate from Florida and the new Caddie Master at one of our new accounts in Maryland. The only thing I’ll say about him for the remainder of the tournament is that when our players showed their true colors and things started getting a little rough, he chose to stay with the only player who kept a good attitude about him. So his experience in the event was a little different than mine. I, on the other hand, ended up with quite a fight on my hands.<br /><br />As the head pro from our club introduced himself and welcomed everyone to the event, he threw out the one small factoid that put me in a tough spot: rangefinders were going to be allowed. Upon hearing the news, one of the members of my team crapped his pants and started sobbing with joy. Helping that guy with yardages and club selections would be out of the question. And, after getting to know the other players, I could tell that they would rather listen to him than to me.<br /><br />Now, normally I’d say, “Great. I won’t have to work very hard. They’ll be taking care of the yardages. I just need to replace a few divots and make an occasional read on the greens. Nothing to it.” But honestly, I had been psyching myself up for this event for a long, long time. I had been bringing out two or three balls with me every time I caddied to make sure that any question I had with a read on the greens could be later understood after a few extra rolls. I wanted to show these players how much I was worth. I thought this was only fair, seeing as how they were going to be charged an arm and a leg for my services, regardless of how much they utilized me.<br /><br />But for the first round, I literally did nothing. I ran everywhere, I had every yardage and read on the greens ready for them to use, but they never asked. They hardly even noticed that I was there. But, I kept my cool. After the whole “Velvet Cuddles” incident a few weeks ago, I didn’t want to make a big deal about this in the caddie yard. But as it turned out, it was the other caddie in the group who spoke up.<br /><br />“Dude, they’re not asking for ANYTHING from you. That’s fucked up.”<br /><br />“No, it’s alright. I mean, they have a caddie. Whether they choose to use me or not is their business.”<br /><br />“Still. It seems irresponsible of them not to at least ask you SOMETHING. I mean, it’s not like they play here regularly.”<br /><br />I just shrugged and laughed it off. After the first round was over with, and grabbed a bite to eat. The course was nice enough to provide a lunch for the caddies, knowing full well we had a big day ahead of us.<br /><br />At the start of the second round, the other caddie in the foursome came over to me before we all teed off.<br /><br />“Hey, Tom? I heard about what they’re doing to you out here. Let’s fuck with them.”<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />“That guy with the rangefinder? Regardless of what he says, give him a yardage. And as he’s walking past me, I’ll give him a yardage too. Maybe we’ll learn to break him of that habit.”<br /><br />I wasn’t exactly sure what this was going to do, but I have to admit, I’d rather try to have a little fun out there than simply run around this course and say nothing. The next hole was a par 3. I got the yardage and walked over to the cart as they were pulling up.<br /><br />“183 pin and 167 to clear that front bunker.”<br /><br />The player pulled out his rangefinder, shot the flag and mumbled: “182.”<br /><br />The other caddie (my hero, Scott) immediately walked over to him and said, “What do you get for a yardage with that thing? I get 182.”<br /><br />He paused. “Yeah. 182.”<br /><br />Scott looked back at me and smiled. “Oh, great. Thanks.”<br /><br />I just stood off of the tee box and watched. When everyone had made an attempt, I started jogging up towards the green. Scott quickly caught up.<br /><br />“That guy’s an asshole. I say we do that all day until he puts that damn thing away.”<br /><br />I just laughed. “Well, alright. Not sure what good it will do though. I’m sure he sleeps with that thing.”<br /><br />The next hole was a par 5 where players need a good lay-up yardage to set up an easy third shot. I walked off the yardage to the bunker and calculated a yardage with the uphill and wind. They pulled up and he instantly grabbed his rangefinder.<br /><br />“It’s 194 to the front of the last bunker on the right. With the wind, I’d play a 185—“<br /><br />“It’s 196 to the front of the bunker.”<br /><br />“Okay.”<br /><br />I stepped back. Scott’s players were nowhere near us, yet he still ran over to say hello.<br /><br />“What do you guys have to that last bunker on the right? 194?”<br /><br />The guy with the rangefinder just blinked. “196.”<br /><br />“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” And he ran back to help his players. Mr. Rangefinder just stared at Scott for a moment, and then looked back at me. Did he understand what we were doing?<br /><br />Scott and I tag-teamed Mr. Rangefinder for the next 5 holes. He must’ve received at least 20-30 yardages in TRIPLICATE at this point. And then, on the 9th hole, Mr. Rangefinder finally turned to me and asked: “How far do we have Tom?”<br /><br />The heavens parted and somewhere a puppy farted happily.<br /><br />“176 front and 198 to the flag. Playing at least one club less with the wind.”<br /><br />“Thanks.”<br /><br />And this turned into: “Hey Tom? Have a look at this putt, will ya?”<br /><br />How did this work, Scott? Have I told you you’re my hero already?<br /><br />“I see two-cups left to right. Just tap it, because it could easily get away from you.”<br /><br />“Thanks.” And he made it.<br /><br />In fact, for the last 5-7 holes, they consulted me for everything. And something amazing happened. They actually started playing better. I’m not trying to make an argument for caddies everywhere, but I will say that I can’t believe they didn’t realize this simple fact sooner: the less you have to think on a golf course, the better you’ll play. Period. <br /><br />By the end of the second round, my team was in the middle of the pack. Probably not in any position to win, but still had a chance to make some noise with a good final round tomorrow.<br /><br />Tuesday. For the final round, I would not be caddying for Mr. Rangefinder. Surprisingly, I was a little disappointed. I had made quite a bit of progress with him so far, and I was hoping I could actually CADDIE again today. Instead, I would be caddying for the worst golfer on the team (a “7” handicap who was playing like a 25) and the golfer who hardly ever spoke. I mean hey, what’s the worst that could happen?<br /><br />Just as an aside: the greens were now lightning fast. By noon when the stimp-measurement was taken, the greens were rolling at an incredible 14.4. <br /><br />For most of the round, it was business as usual. I wasn’t helping them on the greens (which somewhat concerned me because at these speeds it was a different golf course and I would’ve liked to warm up on them a bit), but I was helping them with all of the club selections. And despite a few whiffs off of the tee from the 7 handicap, we were playing pretty well.<br /><br />Then we came to the par-3 11th. Oh number 11. Honestly, the only place you can land it is on the green. If you’re even an inch short, the ball will roll back into the water. If you go a little long, it will bounce off the back of the green and end up in the water. If you’re a little right, you’ll usually catch the bunker or end up with an impossible flop from the deep rough. <br /><br />The only saving grace is that it’s not the longest of par 3’s. From the back tees it’s only about 176 to the front. Only. Today, the tees were a little up and it was 159 to the front and 181 to the pin. Obviously, the wind plays a huge role in club selection. For some reason the wind always swirls around the cove and it can change from a helping to a hurting wind after only a few practice swings.<br /><br />I was stressing out. I wanted to give my players a golden yardage, but the wind kept changing direction and with the greens as fast as they were, only a perfect shot would stay on the green from this distance.<br /><br />Okay. Well, they have to get over the water. So that means at least 160. They don’t want to go long, so that means less than 180. There was a little wind in our face. Or was it helping? No, it was definitely in our face. But it wasn’t crazy. Just a little wind to make you think you needed an extra club. I finally made an executive decision.<br /><br />“Tom, how far do you think it’s playing?”<br /><br />“175. Hit a good 175 shot and that will be perfect.”<br /><br />“Are you sure? That kind of puts me between clubs.”<br /><br />“What are the two distances you’re between?”<br /><br />“170 and 180.”<br /><br />“That’s a tough one. Well, I guess it all comes down to how confident you are in a solid shot. If you hit a really good 170 shot, that will be fine. But you have to hit it really well. Or, you can opt for a smooth 180. Just pick the shot you feel most comfortable with.”<br /><br />“I don’t think I want to pure my 170. Let’s go with the 180 club.”<br /><br />Sounds good to me. Now, I hate to admit it, but I think this hole is going to give me an ulcer someday. Whenever the conditions are a little tough, I hold my breath and mentally try to control the ball flight so that my player lands safely on the green. Sometimes I try to push the ball so hard with my mind that my face turns beat red and my stomach cramps up. Psychotic, yes. Necessary? Absolutely.<br /><br />He didn’t catch it all. I could hear it. It was a little on the toe. I held my breath and tried to push the ball so hard that I thought I needed a new pair of shorts. But it didn’t work. His ball landed just short of the green, and the ball rolled back into the water.<br /><br />He straightened up and just glared at me. “That wasn’t the right club. I needed more.”<br /><br />Now, normally, I would’ve asked if he had mishit it at all, but this wasn’t a normal player. He was a good golfer and a special guest of the club. I had to take the subservient route. I just stared at him and kept my mouth shut.<br /><br />And I knew he was wrong. Because the next player to hit put it just OVER the green. The other caddie asked him: “How far did you hit that?”<br /><br />“I hit my 185 club. I needed to hit a little less.”<br /><br />I looked over in Mr. Silent-but-deadly’s direction. He didn’t even flinch. He still thought he was right.<br /><br />Our other teammate put his ball on the green. He was on another tier, but still had a makeable birdie putt. So our team wasn’t completely dead. But Mr. Silent-but-deadly was now on the warpath. He decided to take his anger with him onto the green.<br /><br />Now, I hadn’t been reading their putts all day. My green reading skills were not exactly up to snuff, seeing as how I’ve never read a putt on this course under 14.4 conditions. But for one reason or another, I found myself behind the hole looking over our teammate’s birdie putt. I wasn’t going to say anything. I just wanted to have a general idea in case they decided to ask. I mean hey—that’s kinda my job.<br /><br />“Tom? What do you see here?”<br /><br />Wow. I guess he does want my help.<br /><br />“You know, actually I see this putt as pretty straight, I think—“<br /><br />“EXCUSE ME???” Mr. Silent-but-deadly literally screamed at me.<br /><br />I paused. I wasn’t sure whether I should kick him in the nuts for being rude or try to explain myself. I started shaking I was so pissed off. I decided to use that in my response. I’m callin’ you out pilgrim.<br /><br />“Yes…Initially, the putt will break left off of the ridge, and then because of this smaller ridge near the hole, it should come back to the right. It’s very fast.”<br /><br />Mr. SBD walked behind me and looked at the line. “Well I just don’t see that at all. I think he needs to play it at least a foot outside right.”<br /><br />“Well alright—“<br /><br />“Yeah, Tom? I’m not going to use your read if that’s alright.”<br /><br />Again, this is in front of everyone, including another caddie who had just started two days ago. <br /><br />“That’s fine. Go with what you’re comfortable with.”<br /><br />He pulled the putt immediately. It started about two cups left of the hole, broke to about 2 feet left, and then came back to about 3 cups left of the hole.<br /><br />Mr. SBD immediately retorted: “Oh, I’m sorry. You should’ve played it at least 2 FEET out on the right.”<br /><br />It’s moments like this that I truly wonder whether Darwinism is fact or fiction. Evolution should’ve taken care of this personality defect long ago when we were all trying to move forward as a species. I took a field-goal-kicker’s stance and was about to slam my foot in his nuts, but I decided that it wasn’t worth it. If you’re going to be a douche-bag on a course that’s playing this beautifully on a sunny spring day, I really don’t want to know what you’re going to turn into if reincarnation really occurs. My bet is he’ll end up coming back as a shrimp. With turds hanging off of him.<br /><br />So for the rest of the round, I “stone-faced” him. I had the yardages ready, but I didn’t say a word unless he asked. I ran faster than I have in a long time. I wanted this guy to have nothing to complain about. I think after 3-4 holes he realized how wrong he was, and he kept trying to start conversations with me, but I wouldn’t open my mouth. By the time we reached 18, he thanked me and tipped me more than necessary. So that was nice, but I almost didn’t want to take it. It just felt wrong. <br /><br />“You deserve it. You really hustled out there.”<br /><br />I also kick people in the nuts on occasion. But today was your lucky day.<br /><br />But as I started walking back down to the caddie yard, I started cheering up. Earlier this morning one of my cohorts decided that the caddies should have a golf tournament today as well. There were 20 of us signed up at the moment, and we’d be playing a great local track we lovingly nicknamed “Tits National.” The tournament was then aptly named “The Tits Open.” I mean hey, these members can’t have all the fun.<br /><br />But when I came down into the caddie yard, there were 5-10 caddies surrounding the dry-erase board laughing the slapping each other on the backs. What the hell was going on? Somebody probably wrote “I’m Gay” on the board and everyone was just joking about it. One of the caddies ran up to me.<br /><br />“Tom! Tom! Oh man. Keep it on the down-low, but we’re playing the Tits Open HERE today.”<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />“Yeah man! Check it out!”<br /><br />I walked over to the dry erase board and looked at the message. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It said something to the effect of: “Make sure to thank the pro, the GM and the Super for letting you do this. But your ‘Tits Open’ will be played here today at 3 pm.”<br /><br />The Discovery Channel will tell you that a pig can have an orgasm for almost 30 minutes. Today, my orgasm would last for 4 hours. The course was in perfect shape, the greens were rolling over 14 and the weather was perfect. I wanted to cry.<br /><br />After having a quick lunch and changing my shirt, I teed it up with some good friends. To top it all off, I had one of the best rounds of my life. A 78 from the tips. And number 11? Yeah. I played it 175 without even looking at the yardage. And it was perfect. It was all perfect. I love everybody.<br /><br />The funny thing was, I still ended up losing money in the tournament. But I didn’t care. What a great freakin’ day.Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-33639369590311709142007-05-22T22:54:00.001-05:002007-05-22T22:54:58.654-05:00Big Debut?This morning was a comedy of errors. Almost 4 hours of my life I’ll never get back. And it all started yesterday.<br /><br />A Nationwide event is coming through Maryland this week and I heard a few days ago that there might be an opportunity to caddie IN THE ACTUAL EVENT. No more pro-am’s. A real event with a large possible payout for me. Or not. I mean, I could be wrong. I know the Nationwide is a good tour, but I also know there has to be a few guys out there that are just barely living weekend to weekend. I’ve seen the Golf Channel specials. I know the score.<br /><br />Anyway, I saw my name on the clipboard yesterday with another name and phone number next to it. The words “Nationwide event” lined the bottom of the page. I decided to wait until the Caddie Master arrived, just so I could get the full story before I called. <br /><br />Remember that caddie Scott from my last post?<br /><br />Well he came in, went to look at the tee-sheet and saw that note for me.<br /><br />“Hey Tom? You going to try and get a bag in that Nationwide thing?”<br /><br />“Yeah. I’m just waiting to hear the rest of the story from the boss-man.”<br /><br />“Who’s got a cell phone? I’ll call this guy right now. Tom? You got a cell phone?”<br /><br />“Not on me.”<br /><br />Within about a minute, he had a cell phone in his hand and started dialing. He left the room. About 10 minutes later he returned with a smile on his face.<br /><br />“We need to be there at 8 am tomorrow morning.”<br /><br />(Just as an aside, for the next two days our course will be closed due to aerification.)<br /><br />“Are we caddying tomorrow?”<br /><br />“No. From what I understand, we’re just signing up.”<br /><br />“We have to be all the way up there bright and early just to SIGN UP?”<br /><br />“Yep.”<br /><br />“Alright. What the hell.”<br /><br />And that’s how we left it. I figured hey, if I only have to sign up, I’ll be back by early afternoon and can go on another date with my girlfriend, who I haven’t seen in about a week because of our conflicting schedules. Sweet. I called him later that day to work out the carpooling logistics, and when it was all said and done, he was going to meet me at my apartment around 6 am the following morning. <br /><br />During the phone call, I slip and fall down half the staircase. As I near the bottom, I somehow manage to slip one of the banister posts in-between my big toe and the rest of my little piggies. Toes bend. When I slam into the wall, I feel like my foot is on fire and I just want to hit something.<br /><br />“Dude? Are you there? I can’t hear you.”<br /><br />“…Yeah…I just…dropped the phone.”<br /><br />“Alright. See you tomorrow.”<br /><br />“Great. I’m psyched. Crap-nuggets!”<br /><br />I iced down my foot and crashed about an hour later.<br /><br />5:15 am: I wake up and run straight into the wall. I never do it on purpose, but it always seems to do the trick. Now I’m alert and ready to caddie. I check the weather and try to make myself look presentable for the meet-and-greet with the Caddie Master. I start humming one of the theme songs to Caddyshack.<br /><br />6 am: I wait patiently outside to meet up with one of my own personal hero’s: Scott the caddie. Not only is he a great caddie, but he was also a big inspiration for my whole fascination with crack. My phone rings.<br /><br />“I’ll be there at 6:30.”<br /><br />Click. No hello. No goodbye. No, “I’ll bring the pipe.” He was just calling to tell me that he couldn’t get up this morning.<br /><br />6:16 am: He calls again. “Tom, you had better drive yourself. I’m starting to hit some traffic.”<br /><br />Oh, that’s right. I forgot. Around our neck of the woods, if you’re heading east on a weekday morning, you had better be on the road before 6 am, otherwise you might as well bring a chessboard and “Atlas Shrugged” by Ayn Rand.<br /><br />6:22 am: I jump in my car and immediately hit a wall of traffic. <br /><br />6:50 am: Scott calls again. “Hey, so how do I get there?”<br /><br />“Take exit 17A off of the beltway and then call me. It’s not far after that.”<br /><br />“You got it.”<br /><br />7:46 am: I arrive in the parking lot. I bump into a big dude with golf attire, a towel and a yardage book. I decide to put two and two together.<br /><br />“Excuse me, are you caddying in this event?”<br /><br />“Yeah.”<br /><br />“So what’s with the towel? We’re just signing up today, right?”<br /><br />“Nope. We’re caddying today. They needed caddies yesterday too, but there weren’t any.”<br /><br />7:55 am: I’m back in my car dialing Scott. I get an automated message saying, “This is not a valid number.” I have a minor seizure and I poop my pants a little. I haven’t heard from Scott, I haven’t eaten breakfast and I had already made plans for the day. I made an executive decision and started the car.<br /><br />8:15 am: Hit more traffic. Realize that roads are stupid, cars are stupid and construction is stupid. I see a sign up ahead for my exit. It’s the second of two. The first is on my right, and so, logically, I assume that the following exit—the exit I need to take—will also be on my right. As I reach the top of the next hill I see the exit I need on the LEFT side of the road. I’m four lanes over and miss it completely. I start shouting “IDIOTS” at the top of my lungs.<br /><br />8:23 am: After pulling off a Tekken-esque combo with my car (left, left, right, left, right, right, jump-kick, punch), I’m finally bearing onto the proper exit and arrive back at my apartment by 9:30. <br /><br />See, as much as I want to caddie in this event, not having breakfast and missing out on an important date just didn’t fly right with me. Plus, I had worked for a Nationwide guy the day before, and if worse came to worst, I would still come away feeling good about this week.<br /><br />By noon, I still hadn’t heard from Scott. Maybe he was STILL looking for the golf course. Then my phone started ringing. I didn’t recognize the number. Then again, the last two numbers Scott had used weren’t familiar either. I picked it up.<br /><br />“Hello?”<br /><br />“Is this Tom?”<br /><br />“Yes. Who is this?”<br /><br />“I’m the Caddie Master over here at the Nationwide event. Are you okay? Scott said you and him left about the same time this morning. He didn’t know if you were dead.”<br /><br />“Oh. Sorry about that. There was a little misunderstanding. I bumped into another caddie this morning and he told me that I would actually be caddying today. I was told I was merely there to sign up. I already had plans this afternoon I couldn’t break. I hope I didn’t screw you over. I didn’t have your number, and Scott’s phone kept telling me that it didn’t exist.”<br /><br />“Yeah. Reception can be bad in this area. But Scott already has a bag.”<br /><br />Pause. Okay…well…good for him. <br /><br />“Yeah?”<br /><br />“Yeah. So are you out of the picture for this week?”<br /><br />“No, no. I was really looking forward to working the event. I know I might’ve given you a bad first impression, but I’m really a reliable guy. If you have any spots left, I’m free from tomorrow through Sunday.”<br /><br />“Okay. Well, right now I think everyone who wants a caddie has one. But if something opens up, I’ll give you a call.”<br /><br />“Thanks.”<br /><br />Great. The last thing I wanted was to come off as an unreliable caddie. But I received some bad information yesterday. What could I do? I still felt like an idiot though. After thinking about it, of COURSE it made sense: if you’re trying to pick up a bag, you should get one on Tuesday when the pro is playing his practice round. That way you can get to know each other and he’s not as stressed out as he would be during the actual event. Damn I’m an idiot. <br /><br />My last two experiences with pro-am’s had been bad. That’s probably why I wanted to leave this morning after the first signs of opposition became visible. Basically, if you’re a mammal with strong shoulders, you can caddie in a pro-am. I’m not trying to discredit or cheapen the experiences of people who have ever caddied in pro-am’s, because hey, it’s still a lot of fun to be with a professional golfer. But from my perspective—having caddied for a while now—I have always seen these events as places where I might be able to gauge my abilities against other caddies. You know—see if I have the talent to caddie on tour someday. <br /><br />The last two pro-am’s I worked in went as follows: arrive early, nobody knows what is going on, you grab some tees, you ask where the pin sheets are and somebody asks you to speak ENGLISH, and THEN you ask where the yardage booklets are and somebody tells you “that will be $25.” THEN you get the $25 and come back just in time to see the last booklet being sold to a spectator. Now you can’t give yardages because the sprinkler heads all have a code on them that refer to the yardage book. So there you are with a bag on your shoulder, a couple of tees in your pocket and no idea where the first tee is.<br /><br />Again, I’m a little picky because I’m a perfectionist at heart and I take my job seriously, but when I ran into that caddie this morning I felt chills run up and down my spine. I just didn’t want that whole pro-am experience to happen again. Now, I DID have a great time in those pro-am’s because I was with my Dad and he could give me some slack. But now I’m trying to caddie for a pro in a real tournament. With a real purse. And a real reason for a bad read to get me kicked off of the golf course. The pros probably won’t ask anyway, but hey, you never know.<br /><br />It’s like that great old analogy Dr. Bob Rotella once used to describe the difference between hitting a 10 foot putt alone compared to hitting a 10 foot putt in front of 1,000 people. It’s like laying a board on the floor and walking across it, and then taking that same board and raising it 40 feet in the air. The simple task of “walking across it” just became a lot harder.<br /><br />So we’ll see what happens tomorrow. I’m going to get up early and hope he calls me. If not, hey, at least I’ll still have work at my home course on Thursday. But I hope he finds me a spot. That would be an interesting change of pace.Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-50288557471743629072007-05-13T20:22:00.000-05:002007-05-13T20:23:01.082-05:00The Big NameI’m toast. I think I’ve racked up doubles every day for the past week. At this point, my neck is burned, my feet feel like they’re broken and I think I’ve consumed more pain medication than Keith Richards. But, I also have cabbage falling out of my pockets. And that always feels great.<br /><br />I’ve actually been depressed lately because I haven’t had the time or energy to write. So much has happened to me and I go to sleep every night pissed off because I haven’t been able to tell anyone about it. I’ve started working on a rather massive post which includes 3-4 of my last 7 days, but it’s not quite finished yet and I’ve decided that I have to get this post off of my chest first. Yesterday something pretty significant happened. I caddied for a big name.<br /><br />Now, in my caddying career thus far I’ve been fortunate. I’ve caddied for several big names, but most of them are so obscure that only a die hard politician or a crazed sports fan would know who any of them are. In fact, many of them were just regular people to me until the Caddie Master pulled me aside after the loop and said something like, “He used to be the CEO of this,” or “He helped get the President out of that.” I’ve been keeping a list and at some point I want to release all of the names, but I haven’t quite figured out when the right time for that would be.<br /><br />So for now I’ll start with one name. Peyton Manning.<br /><br />It started out as any other day. The only exception was that I knew I was working a double. The tee sheet looked rabid, and I was hoping to get my double over with quickly. Kind of like a flu shot. Because there’s nothing worse than working an early loop, sitting around for a few hours and then going out late in the afternoon to complete your 36 hole stint.<br /><br />I was sent out fairly early with Mr. Nice-Guy, the first member to ever request me. He would be playing with Mr. Aussie, another cool member who gave me one of my biggest tips back in 2005. Somehow they knew each other, and that was just fine by me.<br /><br />A “shadow” would be joining us. Yes, I know. Shadows tend to do that. But this “shadow” was a new recruit, and up until this point he had only been working valet. So his golf knowledge was a little on the slow side. A nice kid though. Eager to learn. Reminded me of me 2 years ago.<br /><br />Anyway, Mr. Nice-Guy and Mr. Aussie were very easy to caddie for, but they certainly made the “shadow” work a little harder than he was used to.<br /><br />“Hey Shadow, why don’t you rake that bunker so Tom doesn’t have to?”<br /><br />“Oh, no, that’s alright Mr. Nice-Guy. I can get it for you.”<br /><br />“Nonsense. These new trainees have to learn somehow.”<br /><br />True, but I don’t like people doing the work for me. I feel like I’m not doing my job. Besides, I’ve been on loops with “shadows” before, and there were times when the other caddie in the group would really take advantage of the wee shadow. I remember one loop where the shadow carried two bags for 14 holes. Pretty amazing considering he had never even carried ONE before. I’m not saying I’m anywhere NEAR that by asking a shadow to rake a bunker, but I still get a little gun-shy of making them do things for me. I mean come on: I’m the one getting tipped kid. Just take it easy. You’ll be working hard soon enough.<br /><br />But Mr. Nice-Guy kept after him.<br /><br />“Come on now! Grab this bag! You know Tom, I don’t know what the training procedures are, but I feel like these new guys have to learn the pop-pop-pop that’s expected of them right away. Can’t take it easy on them.”<br /><br />Alright, why not? Keep raking bitch!<br /><br />So that was the first loop. Very easy, very comfortable. I’m in my safe zone. But 5 minutes after I set the bags down up top, the Caddie Master approached me.<br /><br />“You want to caddie for Peyton Manning?”<br /><br />I froze. Now, I knew that Peyton Manning had played here the day before, and I also knew the two caddies who went with him. Very strong guys. One of the caddies had been regularly assigned to Michael Jordan when he had been a regular visitor. So I just had to wonder why I was offered this loop. I mean, both of the caddies assigned to Peyton yesterday were here today. The Caddie Master picked up on my confusion immediately.<br /><br />“One of the caddies fucking tells me AFTER the first 18 that he can’t work the second 18. Why didn’t he tell me that this morning? That would’ve been nice to know. So what’ll it be? You up for it?”<br /><br />I had a date at 7. I figured hey, if I’m a little late, she’ll understand once I explain myself.<br /><br />“Well, you can’t really turn down a loop with Peyton Manning, can you?”<br /><br />And with that, I ran inside to stuff half a sandwich down my throat. I would eat the other half on the way out. Apparently the course was a little busy this morning so Peyton’s group started on 6. So I hopped in the cart and started thinking about how I’d react. Could I keep my cool? Take it easy Tom. He’s just a regular guy. A regular guy with a Super Bowl ring.<br /><br />“The head pro is playing in the group. So don’t do anything stupid.”<br /><br />Oh, okay. So I should refrain from shitting my pants and babbling like an idiot?<br /><br />When we arrived, I hung back near the cart for a moment as they all putted out on 6 (they were just starting their second 18 of the day). It’s funny how when you meet a celebrity you tend to forget how to do almost everything while you’re around them. I turned to the Caddie Master.<br /><br />“So…should I wait for you to introduce me?”<br /><br />He just stared at me.<br /><br />“No. I’d thought you’d handle that. Need me to take off your cap for you too?”<br /><br />Crap. I haven’t even met the man yet and I’m screwing up. I watched him line up a putt as the caddie offered him the read. Freakin’ great. Green reading. Awesome. I get nervous reading putts for Joe Schmoe. They’ll probably need to get the paddles out for me on 7, because I’m going down.<br /><br />They all finished putting out and walked over to their carts on the other side of the green. Okay. I guess I won’t be meeting the man yet. The caddie I was replacing ran over and hopped in the cart. The Caddie Master just shook his head.<br /><br />“What the hell do you have going on tonight?”<br /><br />“I have an appointment at 5.”<br /><br />“Dumbass.”<br /><br />And they drove off. The remaining caddie ran over and slapped me on the shoulder. <br /><br />“It’s you and me buddy. You’ve got Peyton. He’s in the yellow shirt back there.”<br /><br />Oh, you mean the 6’5, 230 pound beast who’s towering over everyone on the tee-box? Yeah, I got it. And might I just say: Holy CRAP. The other caddie looked awful. Burnt to a crisp, starving and worn out. He was running on empty. This was his 12th double in a row. Tack on a big name and the head pro watching your every move, and we’re talking one over-worked horse. His name is Scott, and I think he’s my new hero.<br /><br />“Hey Scott, how you holdin’ up?”<br /><br />“It’s funny, but at this point, I’m almost used to working doubles now.”<br /><br />It was a fivesome. The member, Peyton, two of his buddies and the head pro. I watched as Peyton flew it over my head into the left rough. I didn’t even see the other tee shots. I only saw the head pro’s because it almost hit me. It was like I had tunnel vision now and the only person I could focus on was Mr. Manning.<br /><br />The head pro drove over to me first. <br /><br />“Make sure you take care of Peyton.”<br /><br />No shit?<br /><br />“You got it. Your ball is back over behind those trees pro.”<br /><br />“Thanks.”<br /><br />And, after dropping off the member at his ball, Peyton Manning drove across the fairway with an outstretched hand. <br /><br />“Hey, how are you? I’m Peyton.”<br /><br />“Hey Mr. Manning. I’m Tom. Good to meet you.”<br /><br />“Do I have a shot over here?”<br /><br />I always hate this question when I first meet a golfer. I don’t know his skill level. For a single digit handicap, his ball was playable. For a higher handicapper, taking the safe play would be better. So I just decided to go with a generic answer.<br /><br />“Yeah.”<br /><br />He parked his cart and I saw him immediately frown.<br /><br />“Aww crap. I got nothing.”<br /><br />DAMN. Alright, no worries, I’ll figure this guy out. <br /><br />“What’s the yardage?”<br /><br />“142 front and 166 pin.”<br /><br />Man this guy is huge. I can’t even imagine how big the linebackers have to be in order to sack this guy. Suddenly, the pro’s ball screamed over my head. I ducked and closed my eyes. Whew. Missed me. The head pro drove over.<br /><br />“Hey Tom? Where’d that go?”<br /><br />FUCK. I have no idea.<br /><br />“Just over the right side of the green.”<br /><br />Okay, so I just made that up. I hope to God I’m right. If not, Peyton obviously has reason to doubt my credibility. Peyton then took two quick practice swings and chunked his ball further into the trees.<br /><br />“Awww Peyton you JERK!”<br /><br /> But he got up onto the green soon enough. And as our group started to surround the green, the head pro drove around the right side looking for his ball.<br /><br />“So Tom? Where did you say this was?”<br /><br />I just stared at him. Just as I was about to open my mouth to allow bullshit to flow freely into the air, one of the other players cut me off.<br /><br />“It’s right over here pro.”<br /><br />Amazing. Just over the right side of the green. How the freakin’ crap-noodles was I able to guess that? Well, I guess that’s just one more I owe the man upstairs.<br /><br />Now we were all on the green. After I fixed a few ball marks to make the head pro relax his sphincter muscle a bit, I approached Peyton as he was looking over his putt.<br /><br />“So what’s this do?”<br /><br />Oh man. Here we go. <br /><br />“I’m seeing a cup outside right. Right here.”<br /><br />I pointed, he aimed, fired and missed. He missed the putt by about a cup out on the right. Granted, he was 4 feet by the hole, but I’m sure he must’ve thought I screwed up.<br /><br />“Peyton you JERK! Just BLASTED that one.”<br /><br />Okay, maybe not. He threw me his ball to clean as we stepped off of the green to let the others finish out the hole. He was playing Titleist 18’s. I just stared at it for a moment. Peyton leaned over me.<br /><br />“You like that?”<br /><br />“Yeah. Not bad.”<br /><br />“If you look hard enough, you’ll probably find about 3 dozen of those things on the course somewhere.”<br /><br />Well that’s cool. He’s got a sense of humor. That made me a LITTLE more comfortable.<br /><br />When we got up to the halfway house, Scott ran right up to the window.<br /><br />“Give me 3 hotdogs.”<br /><br />Normally, caddies are supposed to wait patiently for the players to order and then hope that they offer to buy something for you. But Scott just bypassed all of that. I don’t blame him. He was working his ass off, and if he didn’t speak up now, there was a good chance he wouldn’t eat. One of the players just laughed at Scott’s audacity.<br /><br />“Really Scott? Three hotdogs?”<br /><br />“Yeah. Three.”<br /><br />Scott wasn’t laughing. Man was it getting hot. I just got out here and I needed a Gatorade. Because this was only my second hole with the group, I asked Scott if he would get one for me. I didn’t want to just order something yet. I didn’t feel like I had earned it. He just nodded and I ran back out into the fairway to get ready for the next hole.<br /><br />Again, the only drive I paid attention to was Peyton’s. He demolished it. I was standing around 280 yards from the tees they were playing (the tips) and his ball landed at least 20 yards past me. I calculated the yardages and waited for their arrival. I started getting excited, because I was somewhat of an expert on this hole. I knew exactly how far a player would need to hit the ball to carry the traps, to stay short, how much room they had left of the fairway at 80 yards, etc etc. So I couldn’t wait to help the man out.<br /><br />Scott ran by me to get the yardages for his players. He had half a hotdog hanging out of his mouth and he reached into his bib to grab a purple Gatorade. He threw it underhanded much like a college softball pitcher would, and it was flying like a fastball right at Mr. Manning. I ran a few steps and reached out to prevent the bottle from coming any closer to my player. The bottle slapped against my hands and I cradled it into my chest.<br /><br />“Nice catch.”<br /><br />“Thanks Mr. Manning.”<br /><br />I laughed. I mean, it’s not like Scott and I had that planned. The post-pattern I just ran for a Gatorade was completely unintentional, but I mean, come on. What a perfect time to do it. I’m just glad I didn’t drop the Gatorade. But I guess either way that would’ve been a great story.<br /><br />Peyton didn’t ask for any of my advice. He just wanted to rip an iron as far as he could. Man he was hitting the ball high. The member in the group was starting to give him crap about it.<br /><br />“Holy cow P. Manning. Can’t you hit those irons any higher?”<br /><br />“Well, you know how it goes. When you’re a freakin’ beast like I am, it’s hard NOT to hit it high.”<br /><br />After the first four holes, Peyton and I hadn’t clicked yet on the greens. It’s not like I was misreading them per se, it was just that I was giving him the wrong line for his speed of choice—which was incredibly firm. Then, on the 11th, it finally happened. <br /><br />“What do you see here Tom?”<br /><br />“Oh boy. Do I have a money read for you.”<br /><br />“Give it to me.”<br /><br />“Two balls outside the right.”<br /><br />“You sure? This is a big putt in the match.”<br /><br />“Just trust it. I have a good feeling.”<br /><br />And sure enough, it went in. As he walked over to take his ball out of the hole, he pointed at his two friends like “Shooter” McGavin.<br /><br />“Oh, look at this. P. Manning is back.”<br /><br />“What are you boys talking about? I never left.”<br /><br />Fortunately, we kept this streak going for 4-5 more holes. He never congratulated me on my reads, but the fact that I was successfully reading his putts was good enough for me.<br /><br />On the 15th hole Scott grabbed our attention by yelling and pointing to the sky.<br /><br />“Hey guys! Look! Look at the bald eagle! MAN that bird is rare!”<br /><br />Everyone in the group took a moment to look. A minute or so later, the bird came close enough to us so we could all tell that it WASN’T a bald eagle. Scott was the first to comment.<br /><br />“Oh, sorry. It’s just an osprey.”<br /><br />A few members of the group started to chuckle. Peyton was still staring at the sky.<br /><br />“Well that held my attention for about 45 seconds.”<br /><br />After we finished the hole, we all started making our way towards the 16th tee. But Peyton hung back for a minute and started yelling.<br /><br />“Hey guys! Look! Look guys! It’s a Dinosaur!”<br /><br />Pause.<br /><br />“Oh wait. It’s just a dog.”<br /><br />I’ll say it again. Great sense of humor.<br /><br />By the time we reached the 18th hole (hole 5 the way they were playing), Scott and I were done. Just done. I was completely worn out and I’m sure Scott was much, much worse. At this point, neither of us cared if it was Peyton Manning or Keith Richards. Well, that’s not entirely true. I’m sure Keith would have some good drugs he could spare to help us get through it. But we just wanted to go home. After everyone finished putting, the member turned to the rest of the group.<br /><br />“Man this is great. So much daylight. I’m so glad we’re playing until dark.”<br /><br />What? Scott and I just glared at them. Were they kidding? This is going to sound blasphemous, but I had been planning this date for a week and I really didn’t want to miss it, even if it was for Peyton Manning. Fine, call me an idiot. But honestly, I was famished and completely exhausted. Scott came over to me.<br /><br />“You going to try to leave?”<br /><br />“I don’t want to. But I sorta have plans I can’t break.”<br /><br />“Well please ask. Because I want to leave too. I figure if you ask, they’ll let both of us go.”<br /><br />I was pretty nervous to talk to the head pro. But at this point, I figured I had done my required loop and the rest of it was just a bonus if I was up for it. The head pro pulled up next to me and we just stared at each other for a moment. Finally I opened my mouth.<br /><br />“Pro, I’m terrified to ask you this.”<br /><br />“You have to leave?”<br /><br />“Yeah. I’ve had these plans for a week now.”<br /><br />“You sure you want to put the rest of the group on Scott? I mean hell, the guy’s been fired at least 3 times already.”<br /><br />Crap. I didn’t want to put all the pressure on Scott. I didn’t know how much longer he could stand upright. But I just had to leave.<br /><br />“Yeah. Scott’s one of our best.”<br /><br />“How are you going to present it to Peyton? You just going to disappear?”<br /><br />“I don’t know. I’ll just tell him it’s been an honor to caddie for him and peace out.”<br /><br />“I don’t know.”<br /><br />I just shrugged. Again, at this point, I really didn’t care. And I hate to say that. I was so tired it felt like survival more than anything else. When we finished the hole I walked over to Peyton.<br /><br />“Mr. Manning? I feel like I’m going to regret this for a long time, but I’m afraid I have to go. Plans I can’t get out of.”<br /><br />“Oh, don’t worry about it. Really nice to meet you. Tell her I said hello.”<br /><br />“No problem.”<br /><br />Well that was easy. What a down to earth kinda guy. It’s nice when a big celebrity like that can be as personable off camera as they are on-camera. It certainly made my job a hell of a lot easier.<br /><br />And Scott is fine. I talked to him the next day to make sure he was okay. He ended up caddying over 50 holes that day, but he still managed to finish and come into work the next day to caddie another 27 with Peyton’s group. Talk about a hard working caddie.<br /><br />Well thanks for reading this far. I just wanted to make sure I wrote out as much as I could remember from the loop. And as I said, I’m still working on another long post which describes most of my schedule from last week. But I hope everyone is doing well. Take care all.Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-42255813659685090892007-05-03T22:51:00.000-05:002007-05-03T22:53:13.397-05:00My Punishment And New Bag DesignsAfter the whole “Velvet Cuddles” incident, I realized a few things. Like how some people can be perfectly happy being smelly turds. Or how under the right (or wrong) circumstances, a golfer CAN indeed get under my skin. Sad, but true. But the one thing I didn’t expect was to have the Caddie Master rub it in my face.<br /><br />He’s a drinking buddy and somebody that I respect. I was exhausted and showed a moment of weakness. And then I let something slip about the whole situation in the caddie room. Okay, I’m human. But to make me wait for 5 hours in the caddie room AND make fun of me for it makes me a little frustrated.<br /><br />He told me to come in at 9, so I did. I knew I would need to work hard to regain some of the respect that I had lost, so I was prepared to wait for a while. One of the caddies’ near me leaned over.<br /><br />“So. Tom. I had your boy this past weekend. The one with the Red Sox cap on.”<br /><br />“Oh yeah?”<br /><br />“Yeah. He was a douche-bag.”<br /><br />That made me laugh. I hadn’t thought of using that angle to describe him. I liked it. Then the Caddie Master jumped in.<br /><br />“Yeah, but Tom came to me so freakin’ upset. He looked like he was going to cry. I was like, dude? What the hell?”<br /><br />You know, a simple “Tom looked pissed” might’ve sufficed. I don’t remember almost crying. Now you’re making me sound like a pussy. I was seconds away from hitting Mr. Cuddles in the face or walking off of the loop (or, as English Dave puts it, I should’ve just “kicked him in the nuts”). Wasn’t switching me to another loop a better option?<br /><br />Okay, so now the Caddie Master has just embarrassed me in front of 5-10 caddies. Maybe he felt he had to in order to re-assert his position as manager for doing me a favor, but I still don’t think that was cool. I mean—normally—he’s the one sticking up for me.<br /><br />Oh, and the 401k I spent the last 9 months writing for this company? Well you’re welcome.<br /><br />Caddie after caddie went out in front of me. I drifted in and out of sleep, sure, but that’s only because I didn’t want to stare at the floor or watch Sports Center for 5 straight hours. And honestly, if it was any other day, I wouldn’t have cared. But today I had plans at 7 to meet up with some friends for dinner. I figured coming in at 9 am would give me plenty of time to loop and get around for dinner. Apparently not.<br /><br />So at 2:45 I walked out to meet my group. I was tired, hungry and in no mood to caddie. To top it all off, one of the bag guys walked by me and said, “Hey, you better grab a change-out bag. Well, actually, you might need two. The other bag is suspect.”<br /><br />Awesome. Bring on the pain.<br /><br />But, regardless of how crappy I felt, when I met my first player I cheered up almost immediately. He was 28 or 29 and just excited as hell to be golfing at this course. <br /><br />“Hey, I’m Tom.”<br /><br />“Tom? Hey man. I’m Surge. Really great to meet you.”<br /><br />“Yeah. Could you help me real quick and change out your bag?”<br /><br />“Oh yeah! Sure!”<br /><br />I never knew admitting your bag was heavier than a dump-truck could be so much fun. Then I met my other “suspect” bag, which belonged to Mr. Giggles.<br /><br />“Hey, I’m Tom.”<br /><br />“I’m Mr. Giggles! Tee-hee!”<br /><br />It’s unbelievable how funny that is to me. I want to call him that because, unlike any of the other CEO-types I’ve caddied for, you could say just about anything to him and he’d pee his pants.<br /><br />“You just toed the hell out of your 8-iron.”<br /><br />“Tee-hee! I know! Well what do you expect with a swing speed of 42 miles-per-hour? Ha!”<br /><br />Surge said that to him on 16 and that was his exact response. The guy just could not stop laughing. It reminded me of me.<br /><br />Even Mr. Giggles’ bag made me laugh. And that’s weird, because I’m sure there are neutron STARS out there that are lighter and less awkward to carry around than this thing. But the thing about this bag that really killed me was the ball-holder on the side. And come on, I’ve seen a lot of bags by now, and I know what a ball-holder looks like. I’ve seen the variations, and I know the purpose. I guess. But the ball-holder on this bag literally looked like two vagina’s on top of each other. It looked like the bag designer had taken his favorite blow-up doll and bent it around a cylinder of fabric.<br /><br />You know, I’m so tempted to take this further, but I think you guys get the point.<br /><br />Pause.<br /><br />Wow. I’m so proud of myself for stopping that rant before it got really bad. Moving on.<br /><br />Despite the weight of Mr. Giggles’ “bag” I was really starting to enjoy myself. Surge was talking about the NFL draft and asking about how well caddies are treated at the club. Mr. Giggles would hit his ball in the bunker and laugh hysterically. It was all gravy.<br /><br />But one thing that kept popping up was how badly Surge was putting. He used to be a big baseball player, and has now taken up the game of golf simply because he “has to.” Apparently the business world has gotten to the point where you HAVE to play golf if you want to get anywhere. So Surge was just trying his best. But because he used to be a baseball player, he had a little extra “pop” to deliver into the ball. He was a little wristy. Anything outside of 120 yards was fine. But once he got within 100 yards of the flag, he started hitting some road blocks (I know, I know. Welcome to the game of golf, Surge).<br /><br />His putting is what REALLY hurt him, because our greens have been “stimping” around an 11 and if you don’t have a smooth putting stroke, it can be hard to get a handle on the speed. And he was popping the ball right across the green. Every time. He started getting really upset. And he seemed like a cool enough guy, so I decided to take a risk.<br /><br />“Hey, Surge? I don’t normally do this, but I can tell you’re getting really frustrated on the greens and I don’t want that to taint your whole experience here…so if you’ll let me, can I give you a pointer?”<br /><br />He just stared at me.<br /><br />“Is it really that bad?”<br /><br />“No, no.”<br /><br />Well: yes, yes. But he just needed to stop being so powerful and he’d be fine.<br /><br />“You see, these greens are pretty fast, and the trick with fast greens is to make sure that you’re taking the club back more with—“<br /><br />“My shoulders?”<br /><br />“Exactly. That’s all I wanted to tell you. You’re an athlete. It’s going to feel really weird at first, but it’ll pay off.”<br /><br />I was really nervous to tell him that. That’s a big caddying no-no. Not because it might screw up your golfer (which of course could be a valid concern—because there really aren’t any caddies out there with instructor certifications), but because it could slow down play. Because if you happen to throw out a really GOOD tip, then the player will badger you for the rest of the round and try to get more and more tips from you. Now I’m not speaking from experience, but I do know caddies that have gone down that road before and are now having a hard time breaking the member of that habit. But I mean come on. If you were playing with somebody and they were rocketing the ball over the green on every putt and getting very frustrated about it, unless you’re playing against them for money you’re GOING to offer them help.<br /><br />Surge stood on the side of the green and took a few practice putting strokes. Within 20 seconds it looked like he had figured it out. <br /><br />“Looks really good. Now you just have to try and get a feel for the speed out here and you’re all set.”<br /><br />And it took another 5-7 holes before he figured it out, but by the time we reached 15 he drained a tricky putt for par and then drained another great putt for par on 16 to win the hole. And that felt really good. I was happy for him.<br /><br />As for this weekend, I’m going to try my best to post, because I’m sure there will be a lot going on, but there’s a good possibility I’ll be working 4 doubles in a row. So you guys may not hear from me until Monday. But I’ll try my best. I’ll take plenty of Tylenol and smoke as much crack as I possibly can. We’ll see what happens. Take care all.Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-32450491748778143502007-04-30T21:26:00.001-05:002007-04-30T21:26:56.927-05:00The Tale of Velvet CuddlesWell, it finally had to happen. I finally won some money playing cards. It was a ferocious 5 hour battle, and when the dust settled I emerged the big winner with 26 new bills to my name. The only problem was, the time was now 2:45 am.<br /><br />I had to be up at 6. I had to be ready for 36 holes.<br /><br />The alarm was loud—just as advertised. I’ve learned to strategically place my alarm at the far end of the room so I have to physically get out of bed and cross the room just to get to it. It usually works pretty well, unless of course you forget to pick up your floor and you’ve got papers, clothes and random boxes lying around. Now, instead of a peaceful morning jaunt to the clock, you have a gauntlet with a Minotaur waiting to kick your ass. This morning I tripped on a dense pile of clothing, tried to catch myself by hopping forward and slammed into the wall. <br /><br />Rise and shine.<br /><br />Before I knew it, I was in 7-Eleven desperately trying to get my hands on some caffeine. I read in Newsweek recently that caffeine is really quite bad for you in high doses. Well so is crack. Whoop-tee-freakin’-doo.<br /><br />And then I see it. A drink so ingenious, so loaded with caffeinated goodness that I knew it had to be mine: coffee with ginseng and taurine. Well slap me around and call me Susie. Could this be the greatest invention EVER? It was called “Fusion” and it was contained in a jug with a yellow handle. I didn’t even know 7-Eleven HAD coffee in containers with handles of that persuasion. <br /><br />So I made a rookie mistake and added too much half-and-half. In fact, I’m so tired at this point that for 2 minutes I’m opening the little half-and-half containers and squeezing them out into the garbage, thinking I’m actually pouring them into my cup. But regardless of this little miscue, I still must’ve put 10 of those little containers into my little nuclear-reactor of a drink. So now instead of having a NORMAL tasting coffee I have one that tastes like I’m sucking liquid from a caffeinated cows’ teat. Awesome.<br /><br />After I consume my breakfast and 19/20 ounces of nuclear teat, my heart is racing, I’m noticeably shaking and my lower intestine is wringing out farts much like you wring a towel free of water. Perfect. Now I was in top caddying form.<br /><br />For the next two days a rather large outing would be filling up most of the tee sheet. Ryder Cup formats, 36 holes and lots of beer each day. The participants are matched up in two-man teams but there are only enough caddies to put ONE looper with each foursome. The caddie-player pairings are almost arbitrary with the exception of the player who organized the entire event. He would be taking the caddie he uses religiously—a young lad of about 30 who is so far right politically that he makes the fanatical Christians on Capitol Hill look like Girl Scouts. But despite his rough exterior, he’s one of the nicest caddies we have.<br /><br />The Caddie Master finally approached me: “Hey Tom? How about you take Mr. Country. Go find his bag. It’s over in that mess of carts somewhere.”<br /><br />Really? THE Mr. Country? The enchanting lyricist with a friend who triple-hit his chip on 13 the other day? Sweet. And it didn’t take me long to find his bag. When I got within 30 feet of his location I could hear that voice. He was talking to his partner about a new song he had just recorded.<br /><br />“…It’s a real cute ditty called, ‘Have I Got A Deal For You.’ And you’re just going to love the lyrics.”<br /><br />I wish I could remember exactly what the words were, but they had something to do with buying a used truck from a sleazy car salesman. Whew. I smell Grammy. <br /><br />He actually sang most of it right there in front of his partner. It was just sheer luck when I finally found an opportunity to interject and re-introduce myself. Both he and his partner were very friendly. And less than a minute later we were heading out to the 17th. Apparently there were so many groups going off that the head pro decided to put together a mini-shotgun to avoid a bottleneck on the first tee.<br /><br />“Hang on, Tom. I only know ONE speed on these carts.”<br /><br />Perfect. This was going to be a great couple of days.<br /><br />When we finally arrived at 17 and I assumed my forecaddie position out near the fairway, the organizer’s regular caddie was already standing there. I quickly discovered that Mr. Organizer would be playing against Mr. Country in the first match. Well that presented a problem. There’s only one caddie per foursome. I would have to drop back and caddie for the group teeing off on 17B. Who was this mystery group? From my position of about 220 yards out it was pretty difficult—even in the crisp morning sunlight—to make out exactly what any of them even looked like. But I could certainly follow their tee shots. All four were right down the middle. Well now. I like this group already.<br /><br />When they finally drove up to meet me it became apparent that one team was more pleasant than the other. The first team to greet me did so with a smile and a firm handshake. They wanted me to call them by their first names and one of them immediately started asking me about how to play the approach shot into the front pin location.<br /><br />The other team was a little different. I don’t want to give away too much information yet, but I can honestly say that one of the individuals playing on THIS team was THE worst person I’ve ever caddied for. And that’s saying a lot, because I think I’ve caddied for at least 250 different people in my career thus far. I always pride myself on being able to get along with everybody. I don’t care if you’re quiet, talkative, arrogant, hate your wife or just love money, I will find a way to make an impression on you by the end of the day. I know most of the other caddies could care less in this respect, but I feel like caddying is so much more rewarding if you can get that Mickleson-Bones/Woods-Williams/Furyk-Fluff feel out of your round by the time it’s over with. But regardless of how hard I tried, there was just nothing I could do about this ONE guy. Just to keep myself sane, I think I’ll call him “Mr. Cuddles.” He’s in his late 50s to early 60s, about 5’10, built like a linebacker and hardly ever speaks.<br /><br />So wait a minute. How could a guy who hardly ever opens his mouth be so bad? Well, whenever he DID finally decide to speak, it was as if pure evil was seeping out of his throat. I actually wish he would’ve talked even LESS.<br /><br />Mr. Cuddles and his partner didn’t even introduce themselves to me as I extended a hand and took off my hat no more than 5 feet from their faces.<br /><br />“Hey…Um…It’s 147 to the flag from here.”<br /><br />Mr. Cuddles just looked at me and turned away, and his partner—Mr. Dick—retorted: “Oh. Thanks.”<br /><br />Okay. I can work with this. So they’re a little on the quiet side. <br /><br />I think I should add, just for posterity’s sake, that Mr. Organizer was paying for every caddie. So every player I worked with would NOT be required to pay a dime for my services. As a player in this event, how sweet is that? You can work the caddie as much as you’d like and payment is optional? Wow. Sign me up. <br /><br />After the first few holes, Mr. Considerate realized the great position he was in as a player and began to analyze EVERY shot with me. But I didn’t mind because he wasn’t questioning any of my calls. He just turned off his brain and hit the ball where I told him to. And honestly, that is when I see players shoot their best rounds.<br /><br />“How far do I have Tom?”<br /><br />“I have us at 143 to the flag. It’s only 135 to clear that bunker though.”<br /><br />“Any wind up there?”<br /><br />“Just a hint. But if anything, it’s a helping wind.”<br /><br />“Well, my 9-iron goes 135. What do you think?”<br /><br />“I think that’s perfect. Just trust it.”<br /><br />As he grabbed his 9-iron, I ran over to Mr. Cuddles to give him his yardage. As I looked back, I saw Mr. Considerate hit a crisp shot and stick it to 5 feet. He immediately looked over, smiled, and pointed at me.<br /><br />Those are the moments that make this job enjoyable.<br /><br />Now, I turn to Mr. Cuddles.<br /><br />“Alright sir. It’s 134—“<br /><br />“How much to clear the bunker?”<br /><br />“128.”<br /><br />“I have a 125 or a 135 club. Which is it?”<br /><br />Now, at this point I’ve seen him swing the club a few times. I’ve noticed by now how much he enjoys the concept of deceleration.<br /><br />“Hit your 135 club. It plays a little uphill.”<br /><br />Well, actually it doesn’t. But I know you swing like a sissy-man.<br /><br />After yet another “decel,” his “135 club” couldn’t even MAKE the front bunker. If I were to guess, I would say his shot went about 120 yards.<br /><br />“I hit that so well. That was NOT 135 yards. Had to be more.”<br /><br />Now, I heard this because I was near Mr. Cuddles. He said it under his breath, almost to himself. Then again, he definitely said it loud enough so I could hear it. Do I sense little hints of passive-aggressive behavior you humungous bastard?<br /><br />But you know what? I let it slide. Water off a ducks nose/back/feet/whatever. <br /><br />Well, soon enough everyone was on the putting surface. Mr. Considerate’s partner, Mr. Understanding, was a little on the quiet side but was certainly open to suggestions when it came to reads on the greens. <br /><br />“So tell me Tom. What do you see here?”<br /><br />Pause.<br /><br />“Do you see this dark spot right here?”<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“Okay. Right there. About two-cups outside. And it’s just a little bit uphill, so don’t feel like you have to lag it there.”<br /><br />Putt. Well, he didn’t hit it perfectly, but he certainly had the speed down. The ball lipped out on the low side and ended up about a foot behind the hole.<br /><br />“Good read Tom. I just didn’t get it out on your line.”<br /><br />I don’t have to tell you guys how good THAT felt. You guys KNOW I suck at reading greens. I’ll take all the praise I can get. But now it was Mr. Cuddles’ turn. He was almost on the exact same line as the last putt, except he was sitting on a little ridge that would accentuate the break a wee bit. The correct read was about 3 cups out on the right.<br /><br />“Same read?”<br /><br />“Well, put it out about a cup more. You’ve got a little—“<br /><br />“I got it.”<br /><br />Okay then. <br /><br />He proceeded to do two things: first, he decelerated, which meant that the ball wasn’t getting to the hole. Obviously, even if he had the ball on the perfect line, a putt left short could easily break a little more than expected. But to add to the buttery goodness that was my current relationship with this evil turd of a man, he pulled his putt as well. This meant that not only was he short of the hole, but his ball finished almost 2 cups LEFT of where he should’ve been. Now, I’m only illustrating this putt so you can get an idea of how I felt when the following occurred:<br /><br />“What a terrible read. I should’ve just played the ball where I originally wanted to.”<br /><br />Again, he said this under his breath, head down, but facing me. It was loud enough so I could hear it, but not so loud as to give other players an opportunity to try and correct him.<br /><br />But you know what? Water off of a ducks’ freakin’ ass. Or crotch. Or whatever. Maybe he just forgot that another player had the same putt a minute ago and almost holed it. Maybe he forgot that he’s incapable of accelerating the club-head with ANY of the clubs in his bag. Maybe he forgot to take his meds this morning. Or he found out he had cancer. Or his brother had cancer. Or some other awful thing that would cause him to be upset with a caddie that he’s able to use at a gorgeous golf course on a beautiful day FREE OF CHARGE. Ahem. But again, water off of a ducks’ whatever.<br /><br />After that little incident, I started to watch Mr. Cuddles a little more closely. I wasn’t looking for a fight, but I WAS trying to be a little more focused so that I might find new ways to appease him.<br /><br />Now we’re on the par-4 7th. Mr. Considerate just dropped a 30 foot BOMB to save par and slapped my hand in celebration. Things were looking up again. But here comes Mr. Cuddles. He had a 6-footer left to bring the match back to even. The putt was a little uphill and straight as an arrow.<br /><br />“Inside left?”<br /><br />I love that we have this two-word relationship. It’s sort of how communication started. For CAVEMEN.<br /><br />“Actually, the putt is really straight because—“<br /><br />“I GOT it.”<br /><br />He was starting to raise his voice. I backed away and just prayed he would hit a straight putt. Here we are, almost halfway through the round, and I still can’t seem to get through to this guy. <br /><br />He decelerates once again and pushes the putt. He grazes the right edge and the ball ends up a few inches past the hole. He stands up, looks at me for a moment, and starts walking towards his ball.<br /><br />“I should’ve just hit it where I wanted to. That was another stupid read.”<br /><br />At this point, the other players were 30-40 feet away loading their clubs back into their bags. They didn’t hear him. Only I did. I stared at him for a moment and tried to think of something to say, but instead I just decided to wait until he walked away so I could take out a ball from my bib and roll it on his line a few times to see if he was right.<br /><br />After 10-15 rolls, the putt was undeniably straight. Now I was starting to get annoyed.<br /><br />So I started to keep track. How many times would this guy say something nasty about me under his breath? By the time we reached the 10th, the count was at 3.<br /><br />And without going into another long discussion about the read and the result, let me just say it was the same old story all over again. He decelerated his putter and missed yet another important putt. But this time, just as he started to say something again under his breath, his partner, Mr. Dick, actually went to bat for me.<br /><br />(Let’s assume Mr. Cuddles’ first name is “Velvet” and Mr. Dick’s is “Huge”)<br /><br />“You ‘de-celled’ a little on that putt Velvet.”<br /><br />“It was just a stupid read on his part, Huge.”<br /><br />“Ehhhh…It looked like you almost stopped your putter. It was pretty obvious.”<br /><br />“I hit the putt on his line, and the ball didn’t end up in the hole. It’s not my fault.”<br /><br />“Velvet, it was a good read.”<br /><br />“No it wasn’t, Huge.”<br /><br />I’m not exaggerating. I heard the whole conversation. Velvet Cuddles had it out for me. Regardless of how hard I worked or what I tried to say/not say to the guy, he seemed to have a frown and a stare saved up for me every freakin’ time I went over to give him a yardage. It got to the point where I almost snapped on 15 when he used that passive-aggressive crap on me for the 7th time. I had a good idea of what I WANTED to say to him, but I was afraid my temper would prevent me from being diplomatic. So after 18 holes, I stayed silent.<br /><br />I did, however, say something to the Caddie Master.<br /><br />“Hey, I don’t know how this tournament is being organized exactly, but is there anyway that you can arrange for me NOT to go with Velvet Cuddles again?”<br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />“I’ll work doubles for the next 2 weeks. Please?”<br /><br />“Umm…okay. Which one is he?”<br /><br />“He’s got the Red Sox hat on over there.”<br /><br />“Okay.”<br /><br />I was miserable. I had really let him get under my skin. And to top it all off, I let that fact slip out in the caddie room. One of my buds walked over to me as I crashed on the couch with my sandwich.<br /><br />“How’d it go?”<br /><br />“Ohhhh man. Just awful.”<br /><br />“Oh yeah? Why is that?”<br /><br />“I just hope I don’t have to go with that guy again.”<br /><br />The whole caddie room quieted down.<br /><br />“Who?”<br /><br />“The guy in the Red Sox cap out there. I just hate him.”<br /><br />Now all of the caddies were looking out the window, trying to pick him out.<br /><br />“That guy? Why? What happened?”<br /><br />“I don’t want to talk about it.”<br /><br />“Tom, you really look upset.”<br /><br />“Nah, it’s no big deal.”<br /><br />But it was. I didn’t realize it at the time, but by telling everyone how much I hated this one player, I had made the Caddie Master’s job much MUCH harder than it needed to be. Because now nobody wanted to go with this guy. In a way I was flattered that so many caddies would respect my opinion and simply hate this guy just from me SAYING that I hated him, but on the other hand, now I was a “whiner” in the eyes of the Caddie Master. Before the second shot-gun of the day the Caddie Master approached me.<br /><br />“You know, you better stop talking about your loop or YOU’LL be the one going with that guy again because nobody else will want to.”<br /><br />“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I let him affect me as much as he did.”<br /><br />Maybe it was the sleep depravation. But then again, I’ve been on LOTS of loops after a long night, and NONE of them were as bad as this.<br /><br />But, regardless of how pissed the Caddie Master was with me, he still helped me out and didn’t put me with ol’ Velvet again. But after the two days, 3 out of the 4 caddies who went with him agree: Mr. Cuddles is a dick/prick. At least I’m not THAT crazy.<br /><br />And thanks so much for reading this far. I know it was a lot, but you have no idea how therapeutic this is for me.Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-70978413914660241452007-04-26T19:30:00.001-05:002007-04-26T22:56:18.885-05:00Lesson LearnedEight golfers. Eight caddies. That was 7 am this morning.<br /><br />I was scheduled to come in early. I never really give it any thought because I figure hey, it’s probably busy and the Caddie Master needs some guys in early. But when I arrived this morning and saw the tee sheet, I was a little confused. It was dead. There I was, surrounded by 7 other caddies and there didn’t appear to be anyone on the tee sheet. I pulled one of the staff boys aside.<br /><br />“Why are there 8 caddies here staff guy?”<br /><br />“Twas the members’ request caddie man. One caddie per bag. Eight bags. I achieved a Q+ average in math, but it looks like 8 caddies are needed this morning.”<br /><br />“Well said staff guy.”<br /><br />As soon as you tell a caddie that he’ll be carrying one bag, two things immediately happen: First, a concerned look will wash over his face when he starts to think about the potential tip. Caddies look forward to a certain number to walk the course, and if they’re only carrying one bag, there’s the potential for that number to be much lower than expected. How much will I get? Will the member “take care of me” because he’s hosting an outing?<br /><br />Secondly, the caddie will start to think about how easy the loop will be and will allow each individual muscle to atrophy, starting with the brain first.<br /><br />And as much as I hate to admit it, I would also fall under those two descriptions. A long winter, outstanding credit card balances and my tab with certain drug dealers have me backpedaling. I’m also a huge fan of lightening the load on my shoulders whenever I get the chance, because as a caddie, you never know how long you might be working until you get a day off.<br /><br />So yeah—long story short—my crack-bill is due and there are no grace periods.<br /><br />Now the problem comes in when the brain starts shutting off. Obviously. The hustle, professionalism and focus all dissipate when you know you have an easy job ahead of you and you’re surrounded by 7 of your friends.<br /><br />So when the time finally arrived for all of us to make an appearance in “the circle” (a small area for carts to park and people to gather just short of the 1st tee), we’re a little riled up and thinking about plans for later in the evening. At this point, going to a rock concert right now would be a better fit for us. But instead, we were about to greet a corporate outing at 8 am.<br /><br />First, we all start sizing up the bags. Which bags have stands? Where are the trunks? Who has the nicest set of clubs? Which bags have the best looking straps? All important questions with valuable answers. The older veteran caddies are usually the first to pounce on a “money bag.” This is usually the lightest-looking bag with the brand-name irons. To be honest, this very moment was a lot like musical chairs at summer camp. And I was never very good at musical chairs.<br /><br />Then again, as much as I would’ve loved to “pounce” on the “good bag,” when you have 8 golfers come out of the clubhouse without a clue as to the pairings and 8 caddies come out of the caddie yard without any motivation to work, it’s like trying to mix oil and water. You should’ve seen it: the caddies were on one side of the bags and the players were on the other. It was like some invisible line had formed that nobody dared to cross. After a few minutes, a couple of caddies made a bee-line towards a bag they liked, but THAT ended up causing some problems because the Caddie Master had his own thoughts as to the pairings, and so people were being switched around before anybody had even approached the tee box. If I had pounced when I saw my opening, I would’ve grabbed a Senator’s bag, and as it turned out, the Caddie Master wanted to put one of the veterans with him. So I just decided to sit back and wait.<br /><br />And as I waited—ever so patiently—all of the “good bags” started to disappear. Beads of sweat ran down my forehead as I CONTINUED to wait in agony to see which bag would be mine. Finally, I saw it. A textbook trunk. No stand, two umbrellas and an antique collection of Pinnacles all contained within one awkward, dense mass of fabric and plastic. No bag tag graced the exterior, but there WAS a small silver plate on the top which read: “Professional.”<br /><br />“Tom, take this one.”<br /><br />CrapMichaelJacksonusedbleachIhatetoomuchtartarsauceonmyfishsticksballs.<br /><br />“Okay.”<br /><br />As soon as I tried to pick up the bag, I started laughing. It weighed a ton. The weathered leather strap started burrowing its way into my shoulder and I think somewhere in the distance a baby was crying. I wasn’t even on the first tee yet.<br /><br />Then I met him. The man behind the bag. The expression on his face said “badass,” but as he turned to shake my hand, his eyes grew large and his features began to tighten. He looked scared.<br /><br />“Hey. I’m Mr. Hair-gel. I use a crapload of gel in my hair. Sometimes I’m unable to frown because the gel tends to hold up the skin on my face. But I grew up in Kansas and I wanted to make sure my hair was perfect on sales calls, regardless of whether or not a tornado was tearing through town.”<br /><br />You’re right. Nice doo.<br /><br />“Nice to meet you. I’m Tom.”<br /><br />Setting the bag down near the first tee by the other bags turned some heads. Literally. All of the caddies looked my way as soon as the bag hit the ground. One by one, they all started smiling and chuckling to themselves. I bet this is exactly how Rudolph felt when the other Reindeer wouldn’t let him play in their games. They all knew the score. They all had bags with “stands” and “comfortable straps” and “an efficient collection of Pro-V1’s.” Hah. I don’t need no stinking Pro-V1’s.<br /><br />Then we teed off. Mr. Hair-gel got under his tee shot a bit, but it still ended up in the middle of the fairway. So far so good. His second shot coerced another caddie to hit the turf as if a mortar had been fired, and the ball flew into the woods. Although I tried to bribe Little Red Riding Hood behind a nearby maple, I couldn’t retrieve his ball. He played another. Then some bunkers came into play. We lost the group for a little while, but then as we reached the apex of a nearby hill we saw them in the distance, circling the green. After a few more attempts, we reached the rough just short of the fringe, and after a well struck 7-iron, we were 40 yards over the green.<br /><br />“Oh yeah, please tell me how hard to hit it around the greens. I don’t really have any feel.”<br /><br />“Oh, okay. Well…don’t hit it that hard.”<br /><br />“Okay.”<br /><br />Pretty soon, we were putting, and after a few valiant efforts, we were home. After I handed Mr. Hair-gel his driver and let the hole sink in for a moment, I started laughing hysterically. I couldn’t help it. And it didn’t help matters when the other caddies started egging me on.<br /><br />“Tom. Dude…please please please tell me what that guy just got on that hole.”<br /><br />After a few moments, I wiped the tears out of my eyes and answered: “Thirteen.”<br /><br />We all started laughing again.<br /><br />“Tom, do you have a scorecard? You seriously have to keep score for this guy. This could be a record round. Highest ever.”<br /><br />Just as an aside, I went to Barnes and Noble after the round was over with and came across an interesting factoid: the highest round in PGA Tour history was by an amateur. I’ll have to find the exact quote because I’m sure nobody will believe this. But I swear this is what I read: 245. That’s one round of golf. Apparently the guy lost over 60 golf balls throughout the round and carded a 66 on the 17th hole. The 17th is a water hole, and apparently the rules officials came over after a while and just told him to drop a ball on the green so he could finish the hole.<br /><br />So for a few holes I decided to keep score. The first three holes: 13-8-7. Sixteen over par. I kept picturing myself sitting on the couch watching this round on television. The announcers would come on after the commercial break and say: “Alright…and we’re back. We take you now to the 4th tee where Braun Hair-gel has pulled a 5-wood on this 168 yard par 3.” And then as Mr. Hair-gel lines up his shot his name and score would flash at the bottom of the screen: Braun Hair-gel, +16. I was laughing so hard I forgot where I was for a moment.<br /><br />As we were walking off of the 4th green, Mr. Hair-gel turned to me. “Do you know what I got on that hole?”<br /><br />I froze. Did he know I was keeping score for him? His tone made me feel like he did.<br /><br />“Umm…”<br /><br />“I think it was a 6. Is that right?”<br /><br />“Yeah.”<br /><br />Well, it might’ve been 7.<br /><br />“I feel so bad for you. This is only my 2nd time playing golf.”<br /><br />Pause.<br /><br />“Really?”<br /><br />“Yeah. All the guys in this outing play golf, and because I’m working with them now, they told me I better learn.”<br /><br />“Wow…well, for your second time playing, you’re actually really freakin’ good.”<br /><br />I was being honest.<br /><br />“Thanks. But I still feel bad I have to be playing THIS golf course to learn. It’s pretty intimidating.”<br /><br />“Yeah, it can be. But we’ll get through it.”<br /><br />I felt like such a shit-head. Here was this guy, scared to death he was going to make an ass out of himself, insecure about his abilities, only here because his boss wanted him to play and I come along and give him a hard time. I felt terrible.<br /><br />“So Tom, what did your boy get on that hole?”<br /><br />All of a sudden, the jokes the other caddies were throwing my way just didn’t seem funny anymore. I was ashamed. I was just hoping that it wasn’t too late to turn things around and really help this guy. I hoped he would let me.<br /><br />So from the 5th hole on, I tried my hardest to make it up to him. He had some misses, sure, but by the time we made it to the 12th, he made a par. In fact, he almost made a birdie.<br /><br />“Well, at least I got a bogey.”<br /><br />“No, this is a par 5 Mr. Hair-gel. You just made a par.”<br /><br />It was so much fun to give him the news.<br /><br />And believe it or not, by the time we reached 15, he was the only player consistently hitting the fairway. He was one of the only players still making bogies. All of the other players and caddies seemed to have lost interest in the round and were on their phones, or talking during people’s backswings, or not paying attention at all.<br /><br />And as the final putt fell for a bogey 5 on the 18th, I took off my hat.<br /><br />“Mr. Hair-gel, great job out there today. Stick with it.”<br /><br />“Thanks Tom. I really appreciate the help today.”<br /><br />I’m so glad I caught myself in time. If I was struggling with my golf game and my caddie was laughing at me, I would probably want to kill him. Nobody deserves that.Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-73824456904257280562007-04-24T10:00:00.000-05:002007-04-24T10:02:14.793-05:005 Hours and 45 Minutes of InsanityAlthough the golf course is now open 7 days a week, I think many members still consider Monday’s to be closed. That’s all I can figure, because it was 82 and sunny today and all of 5 groups graced the first tee-box. <br /><br />I was told to arrive at 10 am. This meant sleeping in until 9, which was something I hadn’t done in a long time. There was something so peaceful about sleeping in, coming to work and being sent right out on a loop. With an approximate tee-time of 11, I wouldn’t have to worry about working a double, and I almost felt like celebrating with my token crack pipe. In fact, yes, let me do that. But wait. Before I do, let me just take a look at the tee sheet and make sure that life is in fact perfect. <br /><br />There’s nobody on the sheet until 12:30. Crap. I was told to come in at 10 just in case there were any “additions.” Double farts.<br /><br />So once I arrived, I did what every other self-respecting caddie would do if he had to wait around for a while. I fell asleep. But it wasn’t a peaceful sleep. I’ve had to train myself over the last couple of years to be a very light sleeper in the caddie room, because you never know when somebody might throw a golf ball at your bean-bag, a nerf ball at your head, or take a permanent marker and draw a dick on your face.<br /><br />You wouldn’t really expect that last one, seeing as how this is a “customer-service industry” and there is so much face-to-face interaction required, but I’ve seen it happen. And it’s hard as hell to tell a member what club they should use when you have a giant dong on your face.<br /><br />So as I went in and out of slumber I caught little pieces of what was going on around me. The radio would buzz and blast out info about members arriving. A caddie would chime in and ask, “Any more additions?” No. I’d wake up 20 minutes later to find a card game going on. Twenty-minutes or so after that I heard one of the caddies taking food orders for lunch. I decided I wasn’t hungry, so I kept sleeping.<br /><br />After about an hour of nodding off, I decided to get up and interact. You know, just hang out. I tossed the nerf ball around with another caddie, I bought a diet coke, took a few sips and talked with our resident conspiracy-theorist about what ACTUALLY happened to building 7 on September 11th, 2001. And then, after hearing the theory for the 34th time, I decided to go to the bathroom.<br /><br />You might think all this fluff about my activities is somewhat pointless, but I’m trying to paint a little picture before the rest of my day unfolded. Basically, up until this point, I was just lounging around and feeling very relaxed.<br /><br />So now here I am—relaxed and ever so content on the John—when there’s a knock on the door.<br /><br />“Someone’s in here.”<br /><br />Just in case the locked door wasn’t dropping any hints.<br /><br />“Tom? You in there?”<br /><br />“Yeah. What?”<br /><br />“You’re on the tee! Just pinch it off and let’s go!”<br /><br />There was laughter in the background.<br /><br />“Be right out.”<br /><br />The lounging around was over. Now I’m flying. In the last 30 minutes, the Caddie Master had to have walked by me at least 20 times. Couldn’t he have dropped some sort of hint? I WOULD’VE been ready. Oh well. I ran outside to see what the hell was going on.<br /><br />“Who the hell do I have today?”<br /><br />“You’ll be caddying with Tony. You’re both taking this foursome on carts. Easy job today.”<br /><br />“Thanks.”<br /><br />There was, of course, one thing he left out. This foursome consisted of guests belonging to a particularly cheap member. Not only that, but his groups are always slow. So if you add all of these factors together—a slow group, a bad tip expectation, the fact that there are two caddies doing the job that ONE caddie could easily handle—you’ve got two SERIOUSLY unmotivated caddies working for you. And that’s not good.<br /><br />But every caddie in the yard knows about this loop. It happens 4-5 times a season, and the Caddie Master rotates the caddies’ assigned so the same 2-4 caddies aren’t constantly being screwed. And I hate to put it that way, because honestly, I still have a lot of respect for this profession and I will always try my hardest to do the best job I can REGARDLESS of pay, but once the round exceeds 4 hours and 45 minutes, my brain shuts off and I start going into hysterics. <br /><br />Fortunately, the guys we were working with today were very nice. Always cracking jokes and were quite receptive to any advice we were giving them. Then again, there were definitely a few things that started to bug me and the other caddie after a while.<br /><br />Take yardages for example. There was one player in the group who truly believed that he could hit his pitching-wedge 150 yards. I myself have never swung an oversized “Prince” iron before, but I would imagine they behave much like other golf clubs on the market today. I mean, they have to abide by certain natural laws. Like physics, for example. Now, if I STEP on my PW, 1 out of 10 times I’ll hit it 140. Tops. That’s de-lofting the face, putting it back in my stance, and trying to hit it like it was a 7-iron. <br /><br />On the 11th hole Mr. Smokesalottacrack was 148 yards from the flag. So, naturally, he grabbed his PW because “that’s a perfect yardage for it.” He ended up 40 yards short in the greenside bunker.<br /><br />“Must’ve been some wind up there.”<br /><br />Oh yes, absolutely. Or it could’ve just been reality saying howdy-doody.<br /><br />One of the other players in the group hit his drive so far on the first hole I thought he was a Long-Drive Champion from Vegas. The first hole is around 365, and he was 20 yards off of the green, PUTTING from the fairway after his tee shot. His follow-thru looked like Sammy Sosa belting another home run. He fell back on his right foot after every swing. Even his putts. <br /><br />The two remaining players were Mr. Right and Mr. Wrong. They switched names religiously throughout the round. First, one would be in the fairway and the other would be in the rough. Then vice-versa. Then they’d both be in the trap, smash their 3WD’s into the lip and wonder why they didn’t clear it.<br /><br />“It’s like their swings are randomized and they’re never really sure what will happen. And did you see how Mr. Smokesalottacrack putts? It’s like Kramer entering Seinfeld’s apartment.”<br /><br />Ah Tony. He made that comment when we were on the 7th hole and the group ahead of us had pulled 2 holes ahead. Neither of us could figure out what to say or do to speed these guys up. They just seemed perfectly content NOT knowing what time it was. Tony and I started placing bets on where their tee-shots would end up.<br /><br />“He’s going way right into the shit over there.”<br /><br />“I think he’ll try, but his ball really just wants to end up in the bunker BEFORE the shit.”<br /><br />The ball ended up just out of the bunker in-between the sand and the hazard line. So we were both wrong. But it was funny how well we were getting to know our players’ golf games. I imagine forecasting the stock market is much easier to do than figure out where Mr. Smokesalottacrack got his stash and why he thinks he can consistently hit a PW 150 yards. I hate to keep coming back to this. But my GOD: 150 yards? If that were true, they WHY have more than like 5 irons in your bag? That would mean you could hit your 5 iron like 220. In fact, why carry woods at all? You’d just need 3-5 irons, a wedge or two and your putter.<br /><br />“I’m really a better skier than I am a golfer.”<br /><br />THEN WHY CLAIM YOU CAN HIT A PW 150 YARDS BUTT-WIPE!?<br /><br />Alright. Sorry. Just had to get that out. <br /><br />The 8th hole is a long uphill par 5. From a caddies’ perspective, it’s one of 4 or 5 holes that will occasionally piss you off because it can be quite difficult to follow a tee shot as the tee boxes are elevated slightly higher than where you stand in forecaddie position. So if a player hits the ball high enough, you can miss the ball completely. This can prove to be a little challenging when it comes to hand signals. If you didn’t see where the ball ended up, but you can tell that the player is staring at you from the tee-box with a deep and burning desire to know WHERE the hell his ball just ended up, you’ve got problems. I normally make some sort of half-assed sign that could be interpreted as more than one just to make sure I’m not wrong when we finally DO determine where the ball is. I know that’s a bit of a cop out, but as a caddie, the golden rule is to NEVER lose a players’ ball. So I like to try and adhere to that rule as often as possible.<br /><br />So Mr. Smokesalottacrack hits a line drive, right at us. But it takes me a second to figure out where it is because when the ball initially deflected off of the club-face, its figure is masked by the sunlight bouncing off of the trees behind the players. When I finally do pick it up, I realize it’s heading right for us. I mean RIGHT for us. <br /><br />“It’s heading right for us, Tony.”<br /><br />As soon as I realized I was out of its possible flight path I turned to see if Tony was going to be alright. He hadn’t moved yet. He was in an athletic position, knees flexed, staring down the ball to try and anticipate where it might go. He wasn’t sure if he should dive right or left. Everything seemed to move in slow motion.<br /><br />The ball struck the ground about 15 yards short of him. He made a split decision and immediately ducked and rolled to his left. The ball was ripping through the air with that characteristic buzzing noise as the ball rotated at Solar-system-esque-insane-freakin’-speeds. Just as Tony’s head was about even with his waist, the ball flew just over his back and careened off of a tree, coming to rest 30 yards further left in the rough. It was like watching the first Matrix movie.<br /><br />“Wow. You okay Tony?”<br /><br />“Yeah. Man, I could HEAR that thing go over me.”<br /><br />Honestly, if Tony hadn’t ducked and rolled when he did, that ball would’ve hit him square in the chest. Whew.<br /><br />Mr. Smokesalottacrack drove up shortly thereafter. “The guys were telling me to yell ‘fore’ but I figured you guys are caddies. You should be watching the ball anyway.”<br /><br />Yes, but at those speeds you’re just lucky Tony has the reflexes of a cat, otherwise I don’t think he would’ve made it.<br /><br />“Yeah.”<br /><br />“I mean, I actually AIMED at you guys, figuring my ball would slice like it normally does. But it didn’t.”<br /><br />“Uh-huh. You have about 346 yards left, uphill and into the wind. You also need to hit it low to keep it underneath these initial tree branches. Sounds like a pitching-wedge to me.”<br /><br />“That’s amazing. How did you know I wanted that club?”<br /><br />Just expecting the unexpected, sir.<br /><br />By the time we reached the 16th hole, Tony informed me that we had already crossed the 5 hour mark on our round with these fine gentlemen. Upon hearing the news, a switch was tripped in my brain and I immediately found humor in everything around me. A bird chirped and I almost crapped my pants I was laughing so hard.<br /><br />Just as the first player was about to tee off and actually get our group MOVING in the right direction again, Mr. Long-drive chimed in: “Wait a minute. Should we bet something on this shot? I think we should.”<br /><br />I started laughing again. I turned away and tried to think of dead Sea Otters and oil spills and Martha Stewart in jail.<br /><br />“Yeah. Closest to the pin, $5 a man.”<br /><br />Oh, the setup was perfect. I wanted so badly to turn to Tony and say, “Alright guys. $5 a man, closest to the GREEN.” I started laughing again, because I mean hell, I just said it in my head and I thought it was the funniest thing ever. I couldn’t even look at Tony without laughing. Were these guys kidding? I mean come on, I always want to support players getting better and I never like making fun of people who are struggling with their golf games. But honestly, once you cross that 5-hour barrier on a round of golf, you should be asked to leave. I don’t care if you’re a good golfer or a bad golfer. Just grab your stuff and get the hell out. I am no longer responsible for my actions. I suppose if you're stuck behind a group the whole day, then playing a round in over 5 hours can be understandable. But if you have the whole golf course to yourself? It's inexcusable. <br /><br />Out of the 4 shots, ONE landed on the green. So I was wrong. He was 87 feet away. I’m sure that was a world-record or something. <br /><br />And when we finally reached the clubhouse after 5 hours and 45 minutes, all I remember doing is absentmindedly shaking their hands and saying I had to go. There were no pleasantries left in me. I was just grateful I wasn’t going out with them tomorrow. My heart goes out to those caddies.Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11606874.post-45659180101200601962007-04-16T21:10:00.001-05:002007-04-16T21:10:57.097-05:00The Short Game ScrambleYesterday was the opening-day scramble at my home course. Normally, the head-pro is asking staff guys to play in it because there aren’t enough members interested. But this year was different. Ten foursomes were formed (5 more than last year) and until about 5 minutes before the shotgun, I was unaware that I was even working. It was one of those mornings where most of the caddies were just loitering around the yard laughing, eating and running up to their cars for a smoke break. It was noisy and nobody seemed to care whether or not they worked. They were all just happy to be hanging out—myself included. But secretly, one by one, caddies were chosen for the tournament and after a while, the cart barn went quiet. And as I looked around me and noticed there were only a few caddies left, I finally started to wonder. Was I going to work today?<br /><br />Almost as soon as I had that thought my boss (who was subbing in for the regular Caddie Master) called my name.<br /><br />“Strapinski!”<br /><br />A while back my boss found out that I’m ¼ Polish and so now he calls out almost any Polish-sounding name that comes to mind when he wants to grab my attention. Everything usually ends with a “-ski.” I don’t mind. It usually makes me laugh. I mean, if your name was Mark and somebody started calling you Doofy, you’d probably look at them funny and laugh too. And if it wasn’t “Strapinski,” it was Dumbowski. If it wasn’t Dumbowski, it was Papinski. It’s all gravy. <br /><br />I grabbed a towel and ran out to the circle to find a horde of people surrounding the head pro.<br /><br />“—So do you understand the format? Not only do you have to use 3 drives from everyone, but you have to play from 6 bunkers, use 6 shots out of the rough and use 6 shots from the fringe or fairway areas around the greens. You are never allowed to be on the greens in regulation. This is a ‘short-game scramble’ contest today gentlemen.”<br /><br />Although I’ve never caddied under this format before, it sounded intriguing. Under this format, that meant that if after 12 holes your group had already taken 6 fairway/fringe shots and 6 shots from the rough, from 13-18 you’re now forced to try and get up and down from the bunkers. That meant a lot of Nicklaus-esque course management and planning throughout the round. Because as I thought about it, many of the “good-miss” areas were 1/10th the size of the putting surfaces. And if you’re trying to hit that target from even 120 yards out, that can present a problem. Especially under the crappy weather conditions, which were kicking up some cold and blustery winds.<br /><br />I felt like I’ve read about this sort of challenge before. Maybe it was in Dave Pelz’s Short Game Bible. I think Mr. Pelz said this is one of the best short-game tests out there, and even the pro’s can only finish even or -1 on their BEST days. I have to agree with him. Without exaggeration, this is the most challenging tournament format I’ve ever seen. It was so much fun to work as a team with my players and try and determine where the best lay-up areas were. It was also very challenging, because every player has his or her own style as far as how to attack any given hole. Certain players are more comfortable with bunker shots than others, for example. But now you have 6 people (including the caddies) trying to put their heads together and figure out where the safest play would be on any given hole. Where should we place the ball—given the pin location—in order to allow for the easiest up-and-down scenario? And we didn’t always agree.<br /><br />In fact, the indecisiveness of our “A” player annoyed the hell out of the other caddie in the group.<br /><br />“I just don’t understand it. If you’re a member at this golf course, OBVIOUSLY you’re successful, which means you know how to make decisions. But this guy has no idea what the hell he’s doing. I hate him.”<br /><br />That last sentence made me a little nervous. This caddie has been working here for about 7 years, and I believe he holds the record for being kicked off of more loops than anyone else. On a previous loop, one of the players turned to him on the first hole and said something to the effect of: “Don’t worry about reading my putts today. I would much rather read them myself.”<br /><br />To which this caddie replied: “Well I don’t want to fucking watch you miss putts all day.” And so the member asked him to leave. I guess that was just fine with the caddie, seeing as how he wouldn’t have to watch that guy putt anymore.<br /><br />So the fact that this ticking-time-bomb of a caddie “hates” this player made me a little anxious. And on the 8th hole, the caddie lashed out.<br /><br />I was carrying two bags and he was forecaddying for the two older guys in the cart. Needless to say, he was 50 yards ahead of me and my players, discussing the necessary strategy for the hole, namely: we need to be on the fairway leading up to the green, and that means a smart knock-down shot to leave an 80-100 yard 3rd shot into this well-bunkered par 5. I understood the logic, because there weren’t any “easy” up-and-downs to be had with the current pin location. But when we arrived at the chosen ball, Mr. Indecisive was most indecisive.<br /><br />“Alright, so what are we doing here—“<br /><br />The other caddie immediately pounced: “You know what? You weren’t here and we’ve already discussed it. Just hit your 180 club and don’t ask any more questions.”<br /><br />Mr. Indecisive’s mouth dropped. My mouth dropped, as did my expectations for a good tip unless I jumped in with something cheerful to counterbalance this stupid-ass comment.<br /><br />“So Mr. Indecisive…how was your winter?”<br /><br />“Umm…it was…fine. Thanks, Tom.”<br /><br />Whew. I knew that comment was random, but jeez. I had to say something, or I might’ve had to break up a fight. You should’ve seen the look on Mr. Indecisive’s face. I usually only see that look when I see Vince McMahon’s threatening to kill another wrestler.<br /><br />Fortunately, after a well placed comment to the other caddie, he calmed down and the rest of the round went smoothly.<br /><br />One of the coolest aspects of this format was how it REQUIRED everyone’s help. In many scramble situations, you usually have 1-2 players contributing most of the shots, and normally the older players are left just sitting and watching the tournament rather than playing in it.<br /><br />But in this tournament, the 67 year old man was our HORSE. He’d be 80 yards from the bunker we want him to aim for, and he’d skull it right in there. Meanwhile, our better players were trying to float it into the bunker and missed the landing area completely. I’ve never seen an older man laugh so hard. This had to have happened on 8 or 9 holes of the round. And the really amazing thing I started to notice throughout the day was how WELL everyone’s shots were ending up. There were a few holes where the perfect miss was to go just over the green and into the rough. Instead, the player would end up sticking it 3 feet from the cup.<br /><br />“Damn!”<br /><br />And then he’d laugh hysterically, because on any other day and in any other tournament, that shot would’ve been great.<br /><br />Our team had 2 lucky chip-ins on the front nine and ended up finishing the tournament 2-under. The closest group to us was +1. It may sound sadistic, but when you’re playing in a scramble format and you can’t seem to do any better than -1 or -2 no matter how well you’re whole team plays, that’s a great tournament. <br /><br />And the benefits from playing in a tournament like this cannot be underestimated. I would imagine that at least 5-10 players who participated yesterday will now start thinking more in terms of “where do I want to land this ball, and what is the yardage to that spot?” instead of simply “how far to the pin?”Tom Collinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11022106971991560269noreply@blogger.com4