The Start

It was early in the summer of 1961 when my dad, "Big John" walked me up the path to the pro shop at the Wayzata Country Club.  "He wants to be a caddie"' he said to Homer Martinson, the golf professional,  "if he gives you any trouble, you call me."  At 6' 4", 235, Big John didn't need to say more and off he went.  With that send off at age twelve I embarked on a journey meeting great professional golfers, business leaders, regular people, and witness to happenings that shaped a life.

"Ever caddied before?" asked Homer, chewing on his cigar.  Homer was a humorous figure at 5' 7" and near 200 lbs.  He was a Yogi Berra kind of a guy.  Unknowingly funny, with strong street smarts.  His horrible business skills were overcome by his personality.  He would forget to bill members for goods, such that they would come back months after a sale and remind him to bill them.  "Homer, I got these irons last spring.  You forgot to bill me," said Ed Johnson,  an active member late one summer.  He was so slipshod ordering goods and billing members, had they not been honest he certainly would have gone broke.

The members loved Homer; we all loved Homer.  The very wealthy would come into his shop and order all colors of a particular sweater or purchase a set of clubs, even if the set purchased the year before had not been used but once or twice.  "Homer, put a set of Hogan irons in my bag,"  mentioned Ken Dahlberg one Saturday afternoon.  The members took care of Homer.

"Yes, sir," I said.  "We used to live in Fairmont next to the golf course and I caddied there.  That's where I learned to play too."  Well, what I called caddying was pulling Big John's cart around 9 holes, except when I got tired and laid down to rest.  

"In that case head down the hill to the caddie shack and tell Bill that I said it was ok for you to caddie", directed Homer.  And so started nearly 10 years of looping that extended on an occasional basis the rest of my life.

I made my way around the 1st tee, past the 18th green and down the hill past the horse barns on the right and along the path to what was to be my home in the summers ahead.  It was a simple wood framed building of about 700 sq ft.  At the far end behind a wall was the caddie masters room.  Nobody ever went in that room.  Benches ran down each side of the room for seating.  Bill, the caddie master, operated from behind a small opening in the wall through which a caddie got paid, bought candy bars, pop and Stewart Sandwiches, the nutritional staple of the caddie yard.

For a new young caddie, loops were assigned on a first-come first-served basis.  Arrival was before 8:00 to get your name on the list.  A post 9:00 appearance seldom was awarded with a loop.  It was often a long wait until the phone rang and your name was called.  Until that time it would be cards or basketball or just hanging, in hopes of getting to head back up to the pro shop to wait for the assigned loop.  Some days the call never came and it was a complete waste of time.

All that waiting around would occasionally lead to trouble that would brew in the caddie shack, usually involving a young caddie.  One of the bullies would not be getting his way in a card game or didn't care for the lack of verbal respect he was being shown.  If provoked enough there would be a call for a creeking.  

Out behind the caddie shack ran a creek down the side of the 15th fairway.  Calling it a creek was generous.  It was a slimy, muddy, sometimes smelly, gulch that ran water only following the hardest of rains.  The kind of area that you would never enter to get your member's ball in fear of sinking over your ankle in the glop, losing your shoe when extricating it from the slop.  

At that point, with the bully taking action, always when the caddie master was away, he would recruit those he protected, grab the offender by the limbs, caddies in attendance chanting "creek, creek, creek!", and into the creek he'd be tossed.  As in life it would be the young and weak most at risk.  Nobody over 16 ever got creeked.  Fortunately I was able to steer my way clear this horrible experience.  

When the phone rang and my name was called, the walk back up the path was always with skip in the step to the pro shop, because that's where the action was.  "Get around the back and stay there till I call you," demanded starter Tom Murray.  We rarely did because flies couldn't sit still.  We were "flies" because we just buzzed around the pro shop irritating all.  Flies were young, inexperienced caddies.  Constantly checking to see if their player had arrived, walking around the corner to talk to the bag room guys, generally getting in the way, because that's what flies did.  Imagine a group of unmedicated 12 year old boys with ADD.

Flies were worthless beings.  Nameless, faceless, quickly replaced should one fly off.  In the caddie hierarchy flies were at the bottom.  The caddie yard must be the place where the term "buzz off" originated.

With flies buzzing around and bag room kids not focused, there was always a chance for a problem.   One Saturday morning Phil Gilgrist, a regular, pulled his driver out on the first tee to find the grip sticky and not useable.  Someone accidentally dumped Coca Cola down the bag and didn't want to deal with the clean up, so just ignored it.  The Coke made the grip turn gummy and sticky.  

Seems that Jimmy Wahl carried a fresh Coke up from the caddie shack on Wednesday afternoon and set it precariously on the top Mr. Gilgrist's bag as it rested against the pro shop  wall.  The bag got bumped and the 16 ounces of Coke went down the bag.  Jimmy did just what any 12 year old would do; he retrieved the cup, threw it in the waste basket and went back around the corner to sit, waiting for his loop to appear. 

At Mr Gilgrist's 8:10 Saturday tee time, he pulled the driver to find the disaster that had taken place 3 days before.  If you don't think there is an acidic action in Coke, let it sit in rubber grips for a few days and see what happens.  

Monday morning was caddie golf day.  Flies seldom played with anybody as they were just learning the game, and didn't know anybody to play with.  A fly would tee off, proceed a short distance down the fairway to hit again, when another would tee off. Eventually there would be a string of flies tee to green.  One day I heard an older caddie say to caddie friend, as they waited to tee at the first, "ah, just go ahead and hit, they're just flies."  The insinuation was that if one was hit by the ball there would be little impact on the world.  So was the social structure of the fly caddie and my start to A Life In Golf.