The Lark: Vol 4, Issue 10, November 2024

Golf

by William Hudson

“School’s out, school’s out, no more pencils, no more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks.” For my buddies and I this little ditty was an anthem to freedom. It envisioned a summer free of school and the freedom to hang out with friends, ride our bikes, play games, loll by a pool, or just sit in our rooms listening to rock and roll. But for us Hudson kids this freedom was limited. My dear mother thought we should not be idle once school ended, so she made sure that we had activities to occupy our time. The sort of activity did not matter. It could be summer school, or camp, or long visits to our relatives, or, when we were older, summer jobs. The point was to have something to occupy our time so we would not be “idle”.

The summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school, idleness was banished for several weeks due to a sojourn at band camp. Those weeks were a great success. After auditions, I earned the spot as first chair trumpet in the camp concert band, nailed my solos in the camp’s final band concert, and discovered that girls at band camp found the first chair trumpet player irresistible. Buoyed by musical success and female adoration, my ego soured into the stratosphere like a balloon.

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Back at home, my mother had a plan contra idleness during the weeks remaining before school resumed. I would be working as a caddy at the Hillcrest Country Club. Now, neither of my parents golfed and I had never set foot on a golf course, so this plan puzzled me at first. Then I figured it out. Mom had arranged the caddy job through a good family friend, Dr. Frank Miller, an avid golfer, and a prominent member at Hillcrest. Mom thought caddying would be an excellent job – lots of fresh air and exercise. Her idea of a caddy was a sort of donkey that carried a golfer’s golf clubs. She was sure I could do that well.

On my first day, the pleasures of band camp a distant memory, Mom dropped me off at the country club. I entered the club house and found the golf pro. As he looked me over with a gimlet eye, an expression of amusement spread across his countenance. “So, you’re the kid Miller told me about,” he said. “Have you ever caddied?” “No sir.” “OK, well good luck. You go stand over there with the other caddies and we’ll see if any of today’s golfers will take you on.”

A group of boys about my age were standing nearby. I saw at once that I was in trouble. My Mom’s idea of the proper attire of a caddy was long light weight slacks with a collared short-sleeve shirt, a vision derived most likely from seeing pictures of movie stars and other prominent people playing golf. This was a grave mistake. The other caddies were wearing shorts and tee shirts, some with the logo of the country club across the front. They looked at me like I was an alien creature. I soon discovered that nearly all played golf themselves. I was growing suspicious that this job might involve more than just lugging golf clubs.

As golfers arrived, they each called to one of the caddies whom they had used before and off they went. After a little while, I was the only potential caddy left waiting. I began to hope that I could escape my predicament if nobody picked me.
A golfer walked in and approached the golf pro asking for a caddy. Pointing at me the pro said, “I’ve got only one caddy left.” The golfer looked at me suspiciously. “That kid’s a caddy?” The Pro mumbled something to him about Frank Miller. “OK. Come with me kid.” He handed me his golf bag which I slung over my shoulder, and I followed him, donkey like, to the first tee.

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There we joined his golfing companions and their caddies each of whom gave off an air of profound golf savvy. Here, my first humiliation of a humiliating day arrived. As he walked up to the tee, my golfer called at me to hand him a particular iron. Now the only iron that I knew anything about was the one my mother used to press clothes. I was at a total loss. I fumbled around in the golf bag desperately hoping that the clubs had labels that would allow me to identify the right one. No such luck. My golfer saw me fumbling, sighed with exasperation, and grabbed the iron he wanted. Bad start to a bad day.

My golfer placed his golf ball, which of course I had failed to hand him, deftly on the tee, took his stance, gave an expert swing, and the ball soared away. That is, I assumed it soared away because once it was struck, I had no idea where it went. I had discovered my total inability to follow the arc of a golf ball in flight. For me, once hit, the ball could have gone into orbit. I had no idea where it went or where it landed. This disability doomed any chance I had of faking caddy competence. Caddies were supposed to keep track of each ball to help distinguish where each golfer’s ball ended up on the fairway. For the first few holes, I managed to hide my disability, just following along with everyone else who had no trouble distinguishing whose ball was whose.

Meanwhile, my total ignorance of golf scoring was exposed. In a little notebook attached to the golf bag I was supposed to keep score for every hole. This task involved an esoteric jargon: Birdie? Bogey? Eagle? Par? What did it all mean? I was no help in that department.

At around the third hole, my inability to track a golf ball’s flight was exposed. After teeing off, my golfer exclaimed, “Shit, it went into the rough”. Turning to me, he said, “Go see if you can find it. Maybe I can hit it out.” Off I ambled in search of the invisible ball. I looked out on the roughs on each side of the fairway. On which side had the ball landed? And how far down the fairway? I took a gamble on a spot about halfway down on the left. Wrong! As I fumbled among the weeds and brambles at my chosen spot, I heard the angry exclamation of my golfer and, what was worse, the laughter and taunts of the other caddies. Once again, I felt a sense of overwhelming humiliation.

When we finally reached the eighteenth hole, my golfer and I both were exhausted and exasperated. It did not help that my golfer came in last in the match, a failure I was sure he blamed on his incompetent caddy. But being a forgiving sort, my golfer handed over my tip, thanked me, adding that he hoped I might learn the job eventually.

My humiliation was complete. My ego, which had been soaring after camp, had collapsed in a heap. Fearing encountering the other caddies, I dared not return to the club house to phone my mother for a ride and, in no mood to talk to her anyway since I blamed her for this mess, I walked the five miles or so home.

Once home, I stormed in the back door, the tears of the day’s frustration flowing. I glared at my mother through my tears and exclaimed: “I am never going back to that caddy job. This has been the worst day of my life,” then clomped up to my room and slammed the door. When I emerged at dinner time, my mother said nothing. It seems she had received a phone call from Frank Miller who related what had transpired and told her that the golf pro agreed with me that I should never go back to that caddy job.

My day of humiliation did have a silver lining. Perhaps feeling some guilt for the caddy debacle, Mom said nothing about further employment. For the next few weeks, until school began, I was allowed to be idle.

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