Rick Reilly - Whos Your Caddy?: Looping for the Great, Near Great, and Reprobates of Golf

CONTENTS

For John,
who showed me
how much fun the
stupid game can be.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author would very much like to thank his editor Bill (Scratch) Thomas; his agent Janet Pawson, from whom all good checks come; his great friend and sounding board Gene Wojciechowski, who has caller IDand still takes his calls; his wonderful family, many of whom will be giving him strokes soon, both golfing and neurological; his mook pal Sky, who came up with the blind idea; his magazine bosses, Bill Colson and Terry McDonell, who pretended not to notice columns coming from Buy.com tournaments and two-day pro-ams; Frantic Ralph, who somehow got him all these places; Norma Federer, who is even more fun than Trump; Justice Sandra Day O'Connor, who gave him the nicest no of many dozens; Two Down O'Connor, who actually exists, which is a great help in itself; Sean (One Down) O'Connor, who subcaddied; Tammy Blake, who is to publicity what Godiva is to chocolate; and Amy Arnold, great friend and assistant. To all of you, remember, this is only thanks. There is no tip involved.

INTRODUCTION: JAM BOY

Y ou ever notice anybody standing next to Boston Red Sox pitcher Pedro Martinez as he's firing cheese at the Yankees?

Ever notice any reporters kneeling down in the huddle as Brett Favre calls, Red right, x-cross, y-drag wheel in the huddle?

Ever notice any slow white guys helping Allen Iverson decide which direction the air conditioning is coming from as he sets up for a three-pointer?

Me, neither.

Only golf lets you do it.

Only in golf can a schmoe like me lurk right there next to David Duval, in the middle of the fairway, as he decides what he's going to hit to a green surrounded by 10,000 people. Only in golf can a hack like me read a putt at the Masters as a huge gallery watches in absolute silence. Only in golf can a pest like me help Jack Nicklaus decide whether it's a hard 7 or an easy 8. Personally, I told Jack, I'd skull a 9.

Which is the main reason I wanted to write this book. I'll never play golf like those guys. I'll never play it like those guys' gardeners. But as a caddy, I can be closer to great athletes without actually being one than in any other sport.

But I didn't want to just be inside the head of great golfers. I wanted to be inside the head of golf itselfawful golfers, blind golfers, gambling golfers, celebrity golfers, crazed golfers, and guru golfers. Carrying a bag for 18 holes is known in caddyese as a loop. And I wanted to find The Perfect Loop, The Funniest Loop, and The Worst Loop.

Besides, when you caddy, you get to hang out with caddies. That's the other reason I wanted to write it. I happen to love caddies. It's about time somebody stood up for them. Do you realize, in the early 1920s in this country, rich guys would hire two caddiesone to carry the bag and one to cover himself in jelly in order to attract flies away from the golfers? They were known as jam boys. Can you imagine doing that to anyone now? Except, of course, members of Congress?

I happen to think caddies deserve better, mostly because caddies are more fun than strippers and firehouse poles. When I cover a golf tournament for Sports Illustrated, I'd be toast without caddy quotes. I'll send a limo for the caddies. All the stuff you hear from the players, agents, swing coaches, mind gurus, flex trainers, and masseurs don't equal one cigarette-smoking caddy going, Sumbitch is golfin' his ball or My man is hookin' like Divine Jones.

By the way, I never took any money out of any caddy's pocket. The deal was the same whenever I approached a pro: I couldn't be paid. The player could do anything with my percentage he wanted, including keeping it, giving it to his caddy, or lighting cigars with it. But I couldn't get a dime.

I was stunned at the kind of people who took me up on it. I mean, would you want me near your sticks? I can't imagine what they got out of it, but I know I learned as much about golf from these two years as I had in 22 years of covering the game before then.

From Tommy Aaron at the Masters, I learned silence. From Casey Martin, guts. From Tom Lehman, family. From John Daly, humor. From Nicklaus, mortality. From David Duval, I learned how easy the game can be, and from Bob Newhart, how hard. From Jill McGill I learned how tough it is to play with skill but not enough passion, and from Deepak Chopra, passion but not enough skill. I still don't know what I learned from Donald Trump. And from Bob Andrews, who is blind, I learned how much I love the game itself, for itself.

Oh, one last thing. You're sitting there, going, How come you didn't ask Tiger?

I did.

I asked Tiger 100 ways. I asked him if I could substitute for his usual man, Stevie Williams, in a tournament, or an exhibition, or a practice round, or a casual round, or even nine crummy practice rounds at his home course of Isleworth in Orlando. And he'd always say the same thing: No.

Why not? I asked.

Because, he explained. I suck. I need good help.

This is a guy who can make a wad of balata do the rumba on the tip of a flagstick from 208 yards away. How much help does he need?

After I'd accepted the fact I was never going to get Tiger, I saw in the paper that Warren Buffet, the legendary investor and one of the richest men on the planet, paid $100,000 to caddy for Tiger as part of a one-day charity. Six months later, I happened to be at an AIDS benefit in Lincoln, Nebraska, saw Buffet there, marched right up to him and said, What gives?

He said Tiger didn't really let him caddy. I pretty much just sat in the cart, he said. But on the 18th, Tiger said, Mr. Buffet, I want to play you this last hole for some serious money.

Uh-oh, said Buffet, who happens to be worth billions. How much is serious'?

Five bucks, said Tiger.

Buffet thought about it and said, That wouldn't be too fair, do you think? You against me? I'm a 20 handicap!

And Tiger said, Yeah, but I'll be playing on my knees.

So they bet. Tiger got down on his knees and hit a rope-hook 260-yard drive down the fairway, made bogey on the hole, and took the five dollars off Buffet.

But then Buffet cleared his throat and said, Aren't you forgetting something?

Tiger couldn't think what it might be.

My 10 percent, he said. That's fifty cents.

And that's how you get to be a billionaire.

THE MASTERS

Get Your Mouth off My Ball!

H aving never caddied in my life, I needed a smallish place to start out, away from the spotlight, a podunk kind of tournament.

Naturally, I chose The Masters.

In front of thousands of people, in the greatest tournament in golf, I made my professional caddying debut, looping for 64-year-old Tommy Aaron, the 1973 champion. I think he'd tell you it went quite well, unless you count tiny, little nitpickings, such as my dropping the towel eleven times, the headcover four, the puttercover six, standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, standing in the right place at the wrong time, forgetting to give him his putter, his ball, his driver, being too close to him, being too far from him, letting the clubs clink too much as I walked, letting myself clink too much as I walked, the infamous mouth incident, and the awful, shameful thing that happened on No. 5 that none involved shall ever forget.

This was Friday. We were paired with Sponge, who caddies for New Zealander Michael Campbell, and Fanny Sunneson, who won six majors with Nick Faldo and now is the bagwoman for Notah Begay, who hates me very much, despite the fact that I've never caddied for him.