weathered veterans would shake their heads as if he were the stupidest moron on the planet.
But Gordon was playing a different angle. “If I take these clowns,” he told me, “Stan will feel like he owes me. Watch what happens the rest of the week. I’ll get out early and often. Two loops a day, sometimes three. I’ll be getting loops with carts. Johnny Jones will always be number one, but check out who’s gonna be number two. Just watch.”
I did, and he was right. Gordon got loops before guys who’d been lugging bags for thirty years. Gordon got the big tipping couples like the Ginginfelds and the Sterns, who bought their caddies fat condiment-sloshed cheeseburgers at the snack-bar. Gordon got it all and his bank account doubled, then tripled, then quadrupled, all in one summer. He caddied for the biggest assholes at the club once a week, sucked up the miserable five hours without a tip, and the rest of the time he was golden. Stan loved him and the other caddies did too. He took the bullet for all of us.
It happens on the seventh hole. It’s a par five and with Gordon’s monster drive and Natalie’s laser-stroked five-wood, we’re on the fringe in two. Fifty feet from the cup. A birdie feels inevitable. I chip first so I can get my hack out of the way and let the others show off how close they can nestle the ball to the hole. That’s my attitude when I line the shot up: just don’t waste time, scurry through the motions and let one of your so-called teammates get the job done. Still, somewhere deep in my ribs—like old Stan hoping I can miraculously transform into a more heroic version of myself—I believe.
My short game’s as lousy as any other part of my game, but occasionally I get lucky. I visualize a high floating lob that will land four feet from the hole, bounce minimally and roll within six inches. The shot I hit looks nothing like that. My backswing is balky and I jab at the ball and blade a one-hop line-drive that speeds toward the flag. If it misses hitting the pin it will skitter over the green and into the surrounding sand, but it doesn’t miss the pin. Smacks it with a resounding clack and drops straight into the cup. The eagle has landed and we are eight under par after seven holes. At this rate, we will break the all-time tournament record. Gordon offers a hardy high-five but I suspect he’s irritated. Lisa whistles and Natalie squeezes my shoulder and says, “Good aim, young man, superior aim.” We skip lightly, all four of us laughing, to the next tee.
In the Flintmoor caddy tent, cheating was a much-discussed topic. Johnny Jones and other career guys advocated in favor of it. Johnny would say, “You gotta be sneaky. You want the members to play well. Lower scores mean higher tips and if they have a good round, they’ll request you the next time. You can’t let them know you’re cheating for them though. It’s only when they can’t see you. It’s only just if the ball’s in the woods and stuck behind a tree in an unplayable lie, you just kick it a few feet so it’s sitting in an open clearing with a shot at getting back to the fairway. Same thing in the high rough. If the lie’s bad, nudge it a few inches so the shot’s playable. The key is you don’t just do it for the guys you’re carrying for. You gotta do it for
all
the players in the foursome. That way everyone’s happy. That way nobody complains about the supernatural luck everyone else seems to be having.”
Gordon disagreed, though he never said so in the tent. He’d explain his theory to Lennie and me over spades games. “Look,” he’d say. “These are guys who were living here, in America, during the Holocaust. They already feel like they cheated fate, like their whole life has been based on supernatural luck. What they want now is struggle. They want challenges to overcome, even bullshit ones like a golf ball behind a tree, because they survived Hitler without having to overcome anything.
But Gordon was playing a different angle. “If I take these clowns,” he told me, “Stan will feel like he owes me. Watch what happens the rest of the week. I’ll get out early and often. Two loops a day, sometimes three. I’ll be getting loops with carts. Johnny Jones will always be number one, but check out who’s gonna be number two. Just watch.”
I did, and he was right. Gordon got loops before guys who’d been lugging bags for thirty years. Gordon got the big tipping couples like the Ginginfelds and the Sterns, who bought their caddies fat condiment-sloshed cheeseburgers at the snack-bar. Gordon got it all and his bank account doubled, then tripled, then quadrupled, all in one summer. He caddied for the biggest assholes at the club once a week, sucked up the miserable five hours without a tip, and the rest of the time he was golden. Stan loved him and the other caddies did too. He took the bullet for all of us.
It happens on the seventh hole. It’s a par five and with Gordon’s monster drive and Natalie’s laser-stroked five-wood, we’re on the fringe in two. Fifty feet from the cup. A birdie feels inevitable. I chip first so I can get my hack out of the way and let the others show off how close they can nestle the ball to the hole. That’s my attitude when I line the shot up: just don’t waste time, scurry through the motions and let one of your so-called teammates get the job done. Still, somewhere deep in my ribs—like old Stan hoping I can miraculously transform into a more heroic version of myself—I believe.
My short game’s as lousy as any other part of my game, but occasionally I get lucky. I visualize a high floating lob that will land four feet from the hole, bounce minimally and roll within six inches. The shot I hit looks nothing like that. My backswing is balky and I jab at the ball and blade a one-hop line-drive that speeds toward the flag. If it misses hitting the pin it will skitter over the green and into the surrounding sand, but it doesn’t miss the pin. Smacks it with a resounding clack and drops straight into the cup. The eagle has landed and we are eight under par after seven holes. At this rate, we will break the all-time tournament record. Gordon offers a hardy high-five but I suspect he’s irritated. Lisa whistles and Natalie squeezes my shoulder and says, “Good aim, young man, superior aim.” We skip lightly, all four of us laughing, to the next tee.
In the Flintmoor caddy tent, cheating was a much-discussed topic. Johnny Jones and other career guys advocated in favor of it. Johnny would say, “You gotta be sneaky. You want the members to play well. Lower scores mean higher tips and if they have a good round, they’ll request you the next time. You can’t let them know you’re cheating for them though. It’s only when they can’t see you. It’s only just if the ball’s in the woods and stuck behind a tree in an unplayable lie, you just kick it a few feet so it’s sitting in an open clearing with a shot at getting back to the fairway. Same thing in the high rough. If the lie’s bad, nudge it a few inches so the shot’s playable. The key is you don’t just do it for the guys you’re carrying for. You gotta do it for
all
the players in the foursome. That way everyone’s happy. That way nobody complains about the supernatural luck everyone else seems to be having.”
Gordon disagreed, though he never said so in the tent. He’d explain his theory to Lennie and me over spades games. “Look,” he’d say. “These are guys who were living here, in America, during the Holocaust. They already feel like they cheated fate, like their whole life has been based on supernatural luck. What they want now is struggle. They want challenges to overcome, even bullshit ones like a golf ball behind a tree, because they survived Hitler without having to overcome anything.
Similar Books
