My friend the Caddie

The concept of employing a caddie makes a significant percentage of the golf public rather uncomfortable. I conduct straw polls wherever my travels take me, (60-something new courses played this year through August) and the laundry list of reasons why golfers eschew caddies when they’re available include the following:

• I don’t like to walk, I always take a cart.
• They are too expensive.
• I’m not good enough, and I don’t want to be embarrassed.
• I don’t want anyone judging my game, and I’ll be intimidated.
• They’ll be too intrusive. I just want to enjoy a round with my buddies, with no outside interference.
• I’m uncomfortable with the servile nature of their profession.

Here are my internal rejoinders:

• Get some exercise once in awhile. God knows you could use some.
• Taking a caddie is a treat, so indulge occasionally. You don’t eat in a 5-star restaurant every night either, but splurge when you can.
• Remember that no matter how bad you are the caddie has always seen players much, much worse.
• See above.
• Caddies generally mind their own business, unless they become part of the conversation, which makes the day, the banter and the wisecracking that much more fun.
• Get a reality check. Caddies enjoy their job because they love the game, the people, the outdoors, the exercise, and the hourly wage is no pittance, by any stretch.

All that said, I had an out-of-the-ordinary, and potentially uncomfortable caddy experience on a weekend foray to Philadelphia just recently. One of my best golf buddies and college chums is now a Philly guy and a frequent visitor to my home in the Carolina Lowcountry. Over the years he has joined me for rounds at some of the area’s best courses, including Secession (with caddie in tow, naturally) Palmetto Bluff, Hilton Head National and Harbour Town, among others. But when I was on his turf in late August, and we drove over to a classic William Flynn design west of the city called Huntingdon Valley, his clubs stayed in the trunk. Instead he put on his bib, shouldered my bag, grabbed the flagstick, read the putts, raked the bunkers and cleaned my golf ball. It was an unusual, but ultimately delightful turn of events, in large part because of the conviviality of the group.
“Caddie Tim,” who moonlights as a weekend bagman form his corporate job, asked the head pro at Huntingdon Valley if I could come out for a round on that Saturday morning. He then asked his regular “loop” Mark if he minded if I joined the game. His normal Saturday customer quite reasonably said ‘sure’ and also invited Tim to be his guest, and not his caddie. For whatever reason, Tim declined the offer to play, and instead served as caddie for Mark and myself.
We had quite a time; Mark, his buddy George, who’s a former NFL punter, and me. Tim, I wasn’t surprised to note, was an excellent caddie. He was hustling ahead to the fairway, had the proper approach yardages ready when we got to our drives, and offered sage advice as to which side of the green to aim towards, which bunkers to avoid, etc. Like any competent bagman, he seemed to have four hands once we got to the green. He was simultaneously handing out wedges, putters, swabbing balls with his ubiquitous wet towel and pulling the pin. I sabotaged myself a bit when he gave me an early misread on a putt. I went with my own instincts, knocked it in, and then didn’t listen as I should have the rest of the round. If I heeded his advice, a sub-80 score might have been in the offing! Oh well-at least I didn’t have to pay him!
Anyway—the moral of the story: It’s a rare instance when your friend is your caddie. But remember folks; a caddie can be your friend!