What other sport has a
competitor’s assistant following you around while you play, carrying your
equipment and giving you advice, but not directly participating in the game
itself? While I am not familiar with
every sport practiced around the world, golf seems unique in this regard. It also results in some wonderful anecdotes
told amongst golfers about this often-unusual bag-carrying bunch.
About 15 years ago, I and
three friends played at Royal Dornoch in the Scottish Highlands. Our foursome was provided two caddies, both
about age 60 it appeared, who did an excellent job of reading greens and
selecting clubs. They were so well
attired that one of our group remarked to them on the fifth or sixth tee that
they “dressed better than most members, much less caddies!”
“We are members!” they
replied. (In fact, this is not unusual
over there.)
We joined them for lunch
after our morning round, and when we inquired about whether they would go out
with us again in the afternoon, they told us they were playing in a tournament
down the road at another club! I don’t
imagine that at 60 years old I would be physically capable of
“double-bagging” in the morning, and playing in a 18-hole match that afternoon,
much less willing!
But as physical feats go, my
caddy experience in West Virginia is the most impressive. Twenty years ago my wife and I, along with
another couple, traveled to the Greenbrier
resort. On the first morning we awoke to
a steady, soaking rain, which showed no sign of abatement after breakfast. The ladies didn’t mind the weather; they had
a day of spa treatments scheduled and displayed no concern for what me and my
buddy were going to do with ourselves, as if to say “you’re the one-trick
ponies addicted to golf…don’t look at us.”
So we looked at each other
instead, and thought the same thing without needing to utter the words. “Let’s play in the rain.” We went to the pro shop and told the man
behind the counter of our intention to play.
“We’ll try to get you out as
soon as it lets up,” he responded.
“That’s alright,” we
countered, “we’ll play now.”
“I’m sorry, but we aren’t
letting carts out,” he rejoined.
“We’ll take caddies,” we
replied, undeterred.
“I don’t know if any of them
will go out in this weather,” he said.
“I’ll call down to the caddyshack and check.”
The Greenbrier has 54 holes
of golf and a large retinue of caddies, many of whom are young. Only two were willing to work in that
weather, but two was all we needed. The
younger of these two, Al, was 73, and carried my friend’s bag because it was
bigger than mine. My bag went onto the
shoulder of Zerny Wykle, age 87.
So we started playing golf in
a heavy rain, and the four of us -- two rather stupid middle-aged golfers, and
two elderly, gritty, bag-toting Mountaineers – were drenched before we reached
the first green.
But by the third hole, the
sky cleared, the sun shone, and we had the Old White course at Greenbrier all
to ourselves, or at least it seemed that way.
Zerny was a good caddie for any age, reading putts with acumen,
recommending clubs, and describing aspects of the course not easily discerned
by the view from the tee or fairway. He
also imparted other information, such as how to cook possum (“Boil it until the
pot rattles.”). Some bits of information
were more helpful than others.
We talked and walked, and
Zerny informed me that he had been caddying for decades, but had given up
carrying two bags (at a time) when he turned 80. When I inquired as to the key to his health
and stamina (wrongly expecting to get another reference to possum-eating), he
said simply, “Milk.” At the halfway
house I asked him what he would like to drink (it was hot and sunny by then) he
looked at me curiously, as if it were a foolish question, and again said
“Milk.”
Zerny provided me with the
best caddy experience of my life, and to top it off, he was ready bright and
early the following morning, and carried for me again. He remembered my shots from the day before,
even to the point where he re-clubbed me on the 10th hole to keep me
from landing in the same creek I had found the round before. Perhaps milk is also good for your memory.
A year or so later, at Pebble
Beach, one of the caddies in our group was called “the Dog.” You had only to look at him to
understand. Our foursome was hungover
from a late night, and we walked slowly to the tee for our 6:45am start
time. But we looked well-rested compared
to “the Dog.” Clearly a hard drinker, he
looked as if he had been mugged between the pro shop and the tee box. (The
golfers at Pebble are mugged in the pro shop with the cost
of a souvenir hat or shirt.)
On the fifth hole, one of the
assistant pros drove up to our group to ask how we were enjoying our
round. After we chatted, he turned to
“the Dog” and asked him if he needed anything.
“A red, white and blue,” he answered in a voice that went well with the
chain-smoking he was doing. By the time
we got halfway down the par-5 sixth hole, there was a can of Budweiser (I did
not understand what “the Dog” had asked for until I saw the colors on the can.)
waiting for “the Dog” on the edge of the cart path. The other caddy with us, a young kid, said
that the caddy rules prohibiting drinking while “looping” were waived for “the
Dog.” I thought of telling him about
Zerny’s beverage of choice, but then, you can’t teach an old “Dog” new tricks.
Zerny would be about 108 now,
so I assume he has left us, although he was a robust 87 back then. “The Dog,” though younger, probably didn’t
make it to half of 108. Both, however,
along with others like them, live on in the memories of those who love the game
of golf and the colorful characters that populate it.
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