CONTENTS

Cover

About the Book

About the Author

Also by Rick Reilly

Dedication

Title Page

Introduction: Jam Boy

1. The Masters: Get Your Mouth off My Ball!

2. John Daly: Unzipped

3. Donald Trump: The Search for True Trumpaliciousness

4. Tom Lehman: By the Way, You’re Fired

5. David Duval: The Maniac Behind the Shades

6. Dewey Tomko: Just a Lil’ Ol’ $50,000 Nassau

7. Jack Nicklaus: We’ll Always Have Vail

8. Deepak Chopra: The Seven Spiritual Laws of Double Bogey

9. Casey Martin: Hell on Wheels

10. Bob Newhart: The Anti-Trump

11. Jill McGill: Where’s Your Caddy?

12. Bob Andrews: The Blind Approach

Acknowledgments

Copyright

About the Book

For “caddy” read confessor, punch-bag, psychotherapist, life-coach, general dogsbody, friend. It’s all in a day’s work for the men who carry the bag. And if you want to get behind the Pringle sweaters and PR there’s no better place to be. Who knows a golfer best? Who’s with them every minute of every round, hears their every word, witnesses their despair and triumph? Who knows if, when and how they cheat? The caddy, of course. So when, Rick Reilly, America’s most celebrated sportswriter decided he wanted to write a book about golf he put down his pen, picked up the phone, and hired himself out to the great, near great and the reprobates of golf. The results were amazing – John Daly, Tom Lehman, Donald Trump, Deepak Chopra, a blind player, David Duval, a couple of high-rolling hustlers in Vegas and even Jack Nicklaus himself, put their doubts behind them and hand over the bag. In the resulting account Reilly chronicles his experiences in the same inimitable style that makes his back-page column for Sports Illustrated a must-read for more than twenty million people every week. Combining a wicked wit with an expert’s eye Who’s Your Caddy? gives us an insight into what makes the game of golf so great. So if you can’t get to the course, your short game is in tatters and Big Bertha can no longer deliver on her promises, give yourself a break and sit down and read what it’s like for the rest of the world’s population of golfers. In Who’s Your Caddy? you’ll find out – you’re not alone.

About the Author

Rick Reilly is the author of the cult classic Missing Links, Slo Mo, and The Life of Reilly, a New York Times bestseller. A senior writer for Sports Illustrated, he has been voted seven times as the National Sportswriter of the year by his peers. He lives in Denver, Colorado.

Also by Rick Reilly

Missing Links

Slo-Mo

The Life of Reilly

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

INTRODUCTION: JAM BOY

YOU 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 itself—awful 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 caddies—one 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.

1

THE MASTERS

Get Your Mouth off My Ball!

HAVING 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.

Sponge and Fanny. Sounds like a British sex club.

I say, Nigel, didn’t I see you last night at The Sponge and Fanny?

What happened was, Aaron hit a 3-iron at No. 5 into the left greenside bunker, then splashed out. I handed him his putter and then nervously set about my raking duties. The crowd was huge around that green, as they are around most Augusta greens, and nobody was ready to putt yet, so I could feel all the eyes on me. I had dropped my towel once already that day and had 500 people yell, “Caddy! Caddy! Towel!” as though I were President Bush’s Secret Service agent and had dropped my gun. Caddy! Caddy! Uzi! So I knew they were watching. I raked as I have raked my own bunkers far too many times, climbed out, then placed the rake on the grass behind.

That’s when I noticed Aaron staring at my rake job, then glancing at Fanny. Aaron nodded at her. She nodded back. Begay nodded. Sponge nodded back. For all I know, the huge crowd nodded. Only one of us had no idea what all the nodding was about. Suddenly, Fanny dashed over to the rake, picked it up, got back in the bunker, and did it again. Completely.

I was to suffer the ultimate caddy humiliation: Re-raked.

I was left with nothing to do but stand there and watch, humiliated. It was like a coach calling time-out in the middle of the Super Bowl and showing a quarterback how to put his hands under the center’s butt.

And that’s when I realized the horrible flaw in this book idea: Just because somebody “lets” you do something, doesn’t mean you necessarily should go out and “do” it.

THE FACT THAT I, an absolute novice know-nothing, could get a bag and traipse my size 12s across the hallowed ground of Augusta National tells you how dangerously easy this whole idea was.

At the 2000 Masters, every past champion got a lifetime invitation, even if they were 111 years old. The rule has changed now, but then, it meant if Byron Nelson, then 89, felt like playing in next year’s Masters, he could play. Naturally, since 1966, he has had the good sense not to.

Luckily, guys like 1957 champion Doug Ford (then 78) did not have good sense. He played every year until they made him stop in 2002. In the 2000 Masters, he went out there, threw a little 94 at them, and then withdrew. Meanwhile, a very good player sat home and bit his putter.

Naturally, figuring Ford was not exactly “counting” on winning and therefore might suffer an insufferable caddy and get in a book, I called him first.

“Mr. Ford,” I began, “I’m doing a book on caddying and—”

“Already got a caddy,” Ford snapped. “Had him for 25 years.”

“Sure,” I said, “but I was thinking, just this once, you might allow—”

Click.

May his bunions burst.

Finally, the agent for Aaron called back and said Aaron would let me caddy Wednesday only, as a tryout for the next year. Said we’d play nine holes and then the par-3 contest and that would give him an idea of exactly how horrible I was.

Yes!

I started researching Aaron, who, it turns out, is famous for three things: 1) Saving the Masters from having to put up with J. C. Snead every year by beating him by one shot in 1973; 2) Writing down an incorrect par “4” instead of a birdie “3” on the 17th hole for Sunday playing partner Roberto De Vicenzo in 1968. De Vicenzo signed the card anyway, causing him to keep that one-stroke higher score, causing him to miss his rightful spot in what would’ve been a two-man playoff with Bob Goalby, who was then declared the winner. When told of it, De Vicenzo did not blame Aaron. Instead he said, “What a ‘stupid’ I am.” 3) Not being Hank Aaron’s brother, though people ask him all the time anyway, despite the fact that the baseball Aarons are black and this golfing Aaron is white. (“No,” Tommy tells them, “I’m taller.”)

He’d played in 37 Masters, won the par-3 tournament one year with a five-under 22, and had missed more cuts than a drunk surgeon. However, in 2000, Aaron became the oldest player ever to make the cut—63 years, one month—when he shot 72-74–146, three under the cut, the first two days. Of course, he wound up dead last by five shots at 25-over, but still, on that Friday night, he was three shots better than Ollie, seven than Daly, and nine than Ben Crenshaw.

My man!

I reached him on his cellphone. “Meet me at the bag room at 7:30 sharp tomorrow morning,” he said. “We’ll play a practice round and then we’ll play the par 3.”

Having slept not at all, I was at the holy place by 7A.M., and by this I mean the Augusta caddyshack. It was a white brick building, with lockers, tables, a TV playing ESPN, and a little caddyshack grill where a huge black man cooks delicacies for the caddies, such as hamburger ($2), cheeseburger (also $2), soup (50 cents), and fries (50 cents). Of course, business was a little slow this week on account of—for Masters week only—a giant cake-display case being brought in and filled with pimento-cheese sandwiches, fruit, Gatorade, pop, and candy. Now who is going to pay a whole 50 cents for soup when you can get free pimento-cheese sandwiches?

I saw Pete Bender, who carried Ian Baker-Finch at the 1993 British Open—which tells you how good Bender is—and he said that Augusta is good, but the best caddy room in the free world is the Players Championship. “Oh, man, hot breakfasts, hot lunch, big-screen TV, couches,” Bender said wistfully. Here’s a guy carrying Rocco Mediate and probably making $100,000 a year, and he’s thrilled at the idea of being able to actually eat a meal during his 10-hour workday. The worst, he said, was Arnold Palmer’s tournament, Bay Hill. “They got nothin’. Zero. Not even a room to change in.”

Shame, Arnie, shame.

I put on the classic all-white painter overalls with the green Masters hat they give you (free!). It’s the classiest uniform in golf, with the player’s number Velcroed on the left breast (I got No. 411—the defending champ’s caddy always gets “1”), the Augusta logo on the right breast pocket, and the player’s name on the back. Beautiful. Like a fool, I forgot to steal it when I was done.

I tried to ignore the sign that read, “Caddies are required to wear white flat-soled sneakers.” All I had were black Softspiked golf shoes. This made me stand out like a bridesmaid in construction boots. Also, I found out later, on hot days, guys wear nothing but boxers underneath. There have been rumors of guys going “commando” under them, and I can only pray that: a) it isn’t true and b) if it is true, I didn’t get Fluff’s old overalls.

They handed me a yardage book, which looked like Sanskrit. It made no sense, just numbers and swirls and acronyms. It must be how The New Yorker looks to an illiterate. I was standing there, looking like Rubik’s twit brother, when Cubby, Davis Love’s caddy, said, “Don’t even bother, Rook, you’ll never understand it.”

Cubby is one of the great lads. When not caddying, he’s always got the sports section in one hand and an unlit cigar in the mouth. His breakup with Brad Faxon was one of the most tragic in tour history—13 years together. But that’s how it is. No alimony, no keeping the china. Just like that, everybody notices you’re not lugging the old bag with you everywhere you go.

Cubby and Faxon used to be quite a pair. They had a language all their own. For yardages, for instance, Cubby would say, “OK, you got 123 plus Elway, and a little Reagan.” Which meant, “You have 123 yards to the front of the green, plus another seven yards (Elway’s jersey number) to the flagstick, with the wind throwing your ball a little to the right (Reagan’s politics).” Or Cubby would say, “You got 214 (yards to the front) plus Michael (Jordan, which is 23 yards), and a little Clinton (wind going left).” What, you don’t speak fluent Cubby?

Cubby has a jersey number for every conceivable yardage, but I always thought there were more they didn’t use. For instance, what about: “You got 134 plus Hal (four, for the number of Hal Sutton’s wives),” or “You got 189 plus O. J. (Simpson’s two murders),” or “It’s 201 plus Anna (Kournikova, a perfect 10).”

The yardages in the book were from every conceivable place you could think of—sprinkler heads, bushes, benches. You half expected to see distances marked to Martha Burk’s offices written in. But there were also strange numbers way to the sides of the hole drawings accompanied by strange letters—like ICYFU: 219. And ICYRFU: 174. Cubby explained it to me. “ICYFU means ‘In Case You Fuck Up.’ And ICYRFU means ‘In Case You Really Fuck Up.’”

Then somebody came up to him and said, “Cubby, did you get those bad numbers on 11?”

“What bad numbers?” Cubby said.

And the guy said, “Where it says 64 and 56, it’s really 60 and 51.” I made a secretive note of it in my book, which Cubby slyly noticed. Then Cubby said to the guy, “And did you get the one on 16? It’s 144 from the front tee there, not 164.” And his buddy goes, “Yeah, I got it. But did you get the one on 18? That first bush isn’t there anymore, so that 128 is really 182.” And I’m flipping frantically through the pages, trying to find the stupid 16th hole when I hear them both suddenly break up into hysterics. Great fun to con The Rook.

As God is my witness, I will get them someday.

I jammed the yardage book in the overall pockets, plus some sandwiches and apples, plus I had my wallet in there, my notepad, four pens, and a cellphone, which I forgot to leave in the car and is strictly forbidden at Augusta. I walked out of there looking like a man shoplifting porcupines.

I checked my watch. It was 7:29. I started sprinting for the bag room. Then I was reminded of one of Augusta’s big rules: No running. I sprint-walked. People suddenly started parting seas for me. People jabbed each other. I was wondering what was going on when I heard: “There’s Aaron’s caddy.” The overalls were, it turns out, a big deal. I was Augusta royalty. I was wearing the white, the green, the logo. I was the real deal. You know, if a guy were single …

I made it by 7:30. Luckily, Aaron wasn’t there yet.

And he wasn’t there by 7:45 either. Or 8. Or 8:30, 9, or 9:30.

“Welcome to the Pro Gap,” Joe LaCava, caddy for Fred Couples, told me.

“What’s the Pro Gap?” I asked.

“The difference between when the pro says he’ll meet you and when he actually shows up.”

Of course, caddies accept the Pro Gap as part of caddy life. But, as they pointed out, let “you” be late and you’re as fired as Anna Nicole Smith’s dietician.

Still, it was sort of caddy Star Wars outside that bag room. Fluff was there (for Jim Furyk). LaCava was there. Jim Mackay, the world-renowned “Bones,” my personal caddy hero who had hauled Phil Mickelson for 10 years by then. And, of course, the Joe Namath of caddies, Bruce Edwards, Tom Watson’s longtime Sancho Panza. Edwards happened to be the person Tom Watson told, “I’m going to chip this in,” on the 17th hole at Pebble Beach at the 1982 U.S. Open, which he did, to beat J. W. Nicklaus himself.

Finally, at 11:30, four hours late, Aaron showed up. He was much taller than I thought he’d be. Maybe 6–1, still slender, elegantly dressed, curly gray hair, glasses, and a visor.

“I’m just going to go into the Champion’s Room (the locker room at Augusta reserved for past champions) and then we’ll go. Meet me on the range in, what, 45 minutes?”

“Sure,” I said, cheerfully. Sure! What’s another 45 minutes!?! No problem! Perhaps I’ll knit another sweater!

The bag was simple and blue, with no sponsor on it, and heavier than Meatloaf. What’s this guy got in there, anvils? I remembered the time British golf writer Bill Elliott spent a day caddying for Faldo for a story. Elliott struggled under its weight all day, until he discovered, afterward, that Faldo had snuck a brick and three dozen extra balls into the bottom of the bag for a laugh. There is nobody that will crack you up like that madcap Nick Faldo.

I made my way past the ropes, into forbidden territory—the range—the place where no writer is allowed to go at the Masters, nor fan, nor photographer. Self-conscious and thrilled, I tried to think of what to do so as not to appear self-conscious and thrilled. So, naturally, I decided to eat.

I sat on the bench and pulled a pimento-cheese sandwich out, and an apple and a Gatorade. I was about to take my first bite when I noticed, for the first time, approximately 1,000 people watching me. The bleachers behind the range were full of fans and, at that moment, nobody was actually hitting balls, so they were watching me. I tried not to spill.

Just then, Bruce Edwards sat down next to me. Sitting on that bench, him waiting for the great Watson and me waiting for Aaron, I, naturally, ruined the moment by hounding him desperately for advice.

“Just remember the three ups,” he said.

“Three ups?” I asked.

“Show up, keep up, and shut up.”

I asked Edwards if he ever wished he’d have done something else for a living.

“Never,” he said. “In fact, in 1976, Tom wanted me to quit caddying for him and go to school. He even offered to pay for it. He wasn’t winning much then and he said, ‘Look, go get your degree and have a real life.’ So I thought about it and I came back to him and said, ‘No. I like this life.’ And I’m sure as hell glad I did. Because that next year he won four times and the next year five.” And went on to a career that has so far paid like a winning Lotto ticket and kept Edwards in cold beer and nice boats ever since. Finally, Watson himself showed up, about an hour late.

“I’m sorry,” Edwards chided. “Did you mean 12 o’clock, Kansas City time?”

Caddies 1, Pro Gap 0.

They walked off and Edwards grinned at me. I thought maybe I should say that to my man. “I’m sorry, did you mean 7:30 A.M., sharp THURSDAY?” but then I thought, perhaps this is a wisecrack one might try after caddying 30 years, not 30 seconds.

Aaron came striding onto the range and I came striding after him, holding a bag of balls which I—ever the sharp caddy—had secured and made ready. Except when we got to our stall on the range and I plopped them down, they turned out to be the wrong balls. “I play Callaway,” he said, staring at me. I jog-walked (no running!) back to the ball boys and said, “I need Callaway, fast!” and they said, “Red or blue?” And I said, “Bloody hell? You have red or blue?” I took a bag of each.

Aaron was accompanied by his coach, 79-year-old Manuel de la Torre, the head pro at Milwaukee Country Club, one of the foremost teachers of the “swing the club” school of golf. And already, he was tutoring Aaron on how to swing the club.

“What happened there?” Manuel said.

“I felt like I swung it a little right of the target.”

“And where did it go?” said Manuel.

“Right of the target.”

“Correct,” said Manuel.

Whoa, this is the magic that they’re discussing? This is the inside conversation that we’re all dying to get up close and hear?

We went through two bags of BLUE Callaways, went through another bag in the bunker—where I learned upon receiving a dirty look that you want to flip the practice ball to him so that he doesn’t have to move his feet—putted for a while, and then, suddenly, miraculously, we were on the first tee at Augusta National during the 65th playing of the Masters Tournament. It was wonderful … until Aaron uttered five awful words: “Do you know Scott Hoch?”

“Uh …”

“He’s got nobody going with him, either, so we’re going with him.”

Suddenly, I was turning around to shake the hand of a man I’d mocked to 21 million readers more than once in print for: a) skipping the British Open every year because it’s too “expensive”; b) missing a 2-foot putt that would’ve won him the 1989 Masters; and, c) being voted Least Liked Player on Tour in a poll of his peers.

Hoch looked at me. I looked at him. He knew.

“Scott, Rick Reilly,” I said, holding my hand out.

He looked at me, looked at the hand, said, “I know who you are,” and began to tee up his ball.

Oops.

Aaron gave me a look. I stared at my shoes. Not a shot hit yet and I was already causing him problems.

Still, I was thinking that Scott Hoch has had to play with people he dislikes and who dislike him quite often in his career. Like, say, on the order of every Thursday through Sunday. So, off we went.

Of all the signs in the world, the most ignored has to be the little white-and-green sign on the first tee at the Masters that reads, “Play Only One Ball Please.” In fact, about the only place only one ball is played during practice rounds is at that first tee. Otherwise, players play about eight balls. Players hit all kinds of second shots, third shots, dozens of chips, putts, bunker shots, pitches, and lags from every possible angle on every green.

This makes practice days very difficult for your average everyday caddy and absolute, pure Dante’s Inferno for your basic Rook. It was “throw those back to me” and “rake those spots” and “let me hit those again, Rick.” If I’d had a methamphetamine habit, I couldn’t have done it all: clubs to be cleaned, clubs to be exchanged for different clubs, balls to be cleaned, balls to be retrieved, bunkers to be raked. And that was just the stuff I knew I should be doing. God knows what I wasn’t doing. I almost quit. If it hadn’t been the first hole, I might have.

At one point on No. 1, I got so confused I put our 8-iron in Hoch’s bag—they were both white—until Hoch’s caddy cleared his throat. Caddy etiquette. If it were one day later and Hoch played the hole with the club in there, it would’ve been a two-shot penalty—on Hoch. And then he really wouldn’t like me.

Exhausted and dehydrated by the time we reached the No. 2 tee box, I stood the bag up and went for a cup of water. When I came back, Tommy was pissed. “You never take your hand off the bag when it’s standing up,” he growled. “It can—and will—tip over at the worst possible time and place, like on my golf ball.” Good point. That would be another two-stroke penalty, wouldn’t it? Played one hole, nearly caused four shots in penalties. Nice start.

Tommy Aaron is just slightly more finicky than the Sultan of Brunei. For instance, he informed me on the second hole not to hand him his putter until he reached the green. I always thought there’s nothing better than a long walk with your putter, meaning you’ve hit the green, life is good, but, no.

One time, on No. 5, he hit a chip that looked like it was going to be short.

“Get up!” I said to it.

He turned to me. “Keep your mouth off my ball.”

I was confused.

“I don’t use my mouth,” I said, earnestly. “I’m using this wet towel here.” I held it up for him as proof that I wasn’t popping his ball in my mouth to wash it.

“No, no. Keep your mouth off my ball. Don’t talk to it. I want it to get up as much as you do. It doesn’t help me to know that you’re over there, telling it to get up or get down or whatever. It just adds to the pressure.”

I said OK, and I thought about it. It “adds to the pressure”? You’d think he’d want to know that somebody is cheering him on, rooting for him “and” his stupid ball! How is that “more” pressure? It seems to me it’s dividing the pressure in half, you and me, pal, a team! But the more I thought about it, the more I understood what he was trying to say. What he was saying is, “If I hear you urging my shots to do a certain thing—Sit! Bite! Run! Cut!—and they don’t, I’m going to feel like I’ve let you down, too. I’ve got a family to support, and friends here, and fans, and press. The last thing I need is a caddy piling on, OK?”

It’s like me. I write a weekly sports column. The “last” thing I want is my wife to call at the office and say, “Hey, how are you doing this week? Is the lead going to be good? The kids and I are really hoping it’s going to be funny!”

Still, there were other things. He’d hit a drive and people would applaud and we’d walk down the fairway and he’d say to me, “I can’t understand that.”

“I’m sorry?” I said, fingering my wet towel, in case I needed it as evidence again.

“The gallery applauding. Can’t they see I hit that one in the heel? I mean, don’t they know anything about golf?”

I wanted to say, “Well, you’re 64 years old. You’ve already told me you’re playing with a painful hammertoe, an arthritic hip, a bone spur in your neck, a little vertigo, and insomnia. I suppose they’re just glad you got it airborne.”

One time, somebody in the crowd hollered, “Hey, Tommy!” and Tommy gave them the tiniest of waves.

“That’s funny, isn’t it?” he said.

“I’m sorry?” I said, for the 116th time.

“If I were at a tournament, I don’t think I’d speak unless I was spoken to. I’m trying to work here, you know? How would they like it if I hung around the insurance office all day while they were working and said, ‘Hey, Fred, way to go!’”

I agreed, of course. They should all be hung from the old tree on the clubhouse veranda.

On the third hole, Aaron said, “Seemed like there was some tension between you and Scott on the first tee.” Uh-oh. Here it comes. I’ve got no chance now. I’ll get the rest of this day and see ya later.

“Yeah, well, I noticed that, too,” I said. “Not sure what that was about.”

He stared at me for a second and then walked on.

Uh-oh.

At the end of nine, Aaron had played well. I had us at one-over-par 37. But he suddenly decided to quit for the day. He also said he wasn’t going to play the par-3 tournament. “And I’m afraid I’m going to stay with the caddy I was given,” he said. “You can take the clubs to the bag room. Thanks for your help.”

Crushed. Heartbroken. Untipped.

Sacked after nine practice holes at the Masters. If not Aaron, who would ever let me out? My book advance flashed before my eyes. I was doomed.

Desperate, I said, “You sure? Because I’ll be here all week. Maybe if your caddy comes up hurt or something?”

He just smiled and said, “I doubt it.”

I hung around in my beloved caddy overalls as long as I could. A few Japanese people took my picture. I finally had to take them off. I didn’t see how a caddy could ask Tiger Woods a question in the press conference.

“Uh, Tiger, how do you feel about people’s mouths on your balls?”

The next day, Thursday, I followed Aaron and his caddy, a local, a few holes. I felt like a jilted lover.

But then I noticed something wonderful. I couldn’t hear, but Aaron was jawing at him animatedly. I thought maybe it was the dreaded Mouth-on-Ball Syndrome, but it seemed worse. Aaron was walking away, shaking his head. And the caddy was shrugging his shoulders.

Could he have accidentally said, “Good shot?”

Aaron shot 81. I found him in the clubhouse after lunch and said it looked like he’d played fairly well, but something seemed to be bothering him.

“That caddy,” he said, shaking his head, “has the worst damn attitude of any caddy I’ve ever had. Just a piss-poor attitude. He was pouting the whole time. He gave me a read that was just flat wrong on 16 and I told him so and he pouted. He had his head down all the time. The most miserable, worst goddamn horrible attitude I’ve ever seen.”

Hope springs anew.

I cleared my throat. “Well, if he’s that bad, how about this? I’ll ‘pay’ him to stay off your bag the rest of the week and I’ll work for you for free!”

Aaron thought about it and thought about it some more and finally said, “OK.”

Pinocchio, you’re a real boy.

On the way to the pressroom, higher than Tokyo rent, I saw Carl Jackson, Ben Crenshaw’s Masters-only caddy, the one who gave Crenshaw the little ball-positioning tip before the 1995 Masters that Crenshaw credited for helping him win. I imagined me doing that for Aaron.

Aaron to Press: I know it’s incredible, a 64-year-old man winning, but it never would’ve happened without my caddy, Rick. He noticed my left pinky knuckle was pronating slightly and it made all the difference in the world. Rick, I want you to have the jacket.

Me: No, I couldn’t.

Aaron: Oh, nonsense. Try it on!

Me: Well …

I paid the old caddy $150 for the day he missed on Wednesday and another $150 for the day he was going to miss Friday, and I said I’d pay him $150 for any day after that, although, after the 81, Masters chairman Hootie Johnson was going to vogue across the 18th green naked before that happened. Still, the guy made $300 for sitting on his couch watching on television while I humped the bag up Augusta’s hills for bupkus. OK, I undermined him, but I ain’t holding any telethons for him.

Friday morning came and as Aaron met me, he warned, “Now, don’t get too excited out there.”

“I’m sorry?” I said.

“If the caddy gets all nervous and excited, it seeps into me. So just be quiet and calm.”

Got it.

When we got to the first tee, Aaron said, “Rick, do you know Notah Begay?”

Uh-oh.

I did know Begay and he knew me and I could tell that from the glare I was getting. Begay had spent a week in an Albuquerque prison after his second DUI, only it wasn’t exactly the gulag. He was part of a “work-release” program, so he was allowed to get up in the morning, go hit balls at his club, have lunch at the club, then play 18 holes in the afternoon, then dinner at the club, then back to the prison to sleep. I said they ought to call the jail Swing-Swing. I said that for most guys, that wasn’t prison, that was a week at the Myrtle Beach Red Roof Inn. I’d heard Begay was ticked off about it. Still, unlike Hoch, he begrudgingly shook my hand. I made a note to stay very clear of his tee shots.

Aaron might have said something to me like, “I noticed some tension between you and Notah there,” except for the fact that he found something that annoyed him about Begay and Campbell right off. He canned a 40-footer on No. 1 to save par, walked over to me, and whispered, “Did you see that?”

“I’m sorry?” I said, nervously fingering my wet towel and trying to figure out what I’d done now.

“Neither of those guys said, ‘Nice putt.’ That’s the way it is with these younger players. They don’t see any shot but their own.”

“Selfish,” I said, shaking my head. For once, he was mad at somebody other than me. It didn’t last long.

On No. 2, Aaron had a little chip back from above the green. I gave him the wedge and stood there a second and then realized I better get the bag to the side of the hole that would lead to the next tee box, as all good caddies do. He was still eyeing the chip from behind the shot and he gave me a dirty little look. I froze. Then he chipped.

Going down the third fairway, he said, “The clubs are making too much noise.”

“I’m sorry?”

“They’re making too much noise. Listen to the noise they’re making. Quiet them down.”

He walked ahead of me in a kind of huff. I wandered over to Fanny. “I can’t believe this guy!” I complained to her, struggling up the hill at No. 3. “He says my clubs make too much noise when I walk. I mean, Christ, what am I supposed to do, buy fourteen mufflers and—”

“Yes,” she said. “Yours do make too much noise.”

I stared at her. She stared at me. “Take your towel and wrap it through the middle of the irons, like this. Then walk with your hand over them.”

I tried it. They quieted right down. Fanny Sunneson is a goddess.

On No. 4, the par 3, he was standing in the middle of the tee box, about eight feet from where I was standing with the bag, just to the left of the tee markers. “Rick, come over here,” he said.

I had a flutter of excitement. He was finally trusting me enough to ask me advice. Maybe he wanted to talk wind. Maybe yardage. Maybe club selection. So I stood the bag up where it was and walked over to him. He looked at me like he’d just swallowed a cockroach. “With the bag,” he said, irritated.

I didn’t understand why he wanted me to drag the bag the eight feet out to the middle of the tee markers when it was much easier for him to simply take the club himself. Fanny and Sponge weren’t doing that. Their guys would stand by their bag, pick the stick, and walk the eight feet. But so be it. I got the bag and brought it to him. He took his club. I went back to where I was and he hit it.

But on the sixth hole, another par 3, I forgot and the same thing happened. “Rick, bring the bag,” he said sharply, and I schlepped it out there again. He took a 6-iron and made the most gorgeous swing, nearly making a hole-in-one, missing by inches left. As the huge crowd roared, he came over to me and looked me right in the eye. I figured he was going to say something clever or snappy, something like, “Pulled it.” Or, “Take a suck of that!” But instead he yelled—YELLED—“Now, goddammit, I’m not gonna tell you again! I don’t wanna have to walk clear over there to get a goddamn club!” There was a hush around the crowd at the tee box. Caddy whipping. All I could do was clean my little 6-iron and stare at the bottom of the bag.

I would ask Couples’ caddy, Joe LaCava, about this later. I said, “Why would a guy want me to pick up the bag and take it to the middle of the tee box when he could just take it with him when he steps out there?” And Joe LaCava said, simply, “Because he is a professional golfer.”

I didn’t know what that answer meant then. But I’d learn. I’d learn.

On No. 8, I watched Sponge and Fanny give their guys 3-woods so they didn’t have to walk clear back to the tee, so I did the same. I was kneeling there, trying to catch my wind, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Begay. “Here is where he lets me have it,” I thought. Here is where he spikes my kidneys. Or gets me with a homemade prison shiv. Instead, he said, “You should go wait with the others.” I looked around and Sponge and Fanny were 150 yards up the 8th fairway, resting happily in the shade.

Left the Rook behind.

After that, it all fell apart for us. Aaron bogeyed the par-5 8th despite being right in front in two and then doubled 10, where he chunked a chip into a bunker, then three-putted.

Then we headed into Amen Corner and it was a thrill to be inside the ropes at the most famous section of holes in golf. “Nobody” gets inside the ropes at Augusta except players and caddies and the scorer. Not coaches. Not photographers. Not press. Not rules officials. Nobody. It’s virginal land, pristine. If Ansel Adams were around, he’d shoot it. Walking down 11 fairway, I was struck by the hugeness of the place, the vast “space.” I’d covered thirteen Masters and yet I’d never noticed how deep the woods went to the left of 11 and 12. It looked like Blair Witch 3 in there.

Another odd thing. Since the crowds are so huge at Amen Corner, I was aware that every time I moved a step, I was blocking the views of maybe 100 people or more. It was an odd feeling. Move one yard this way and those 100 can’t see. One yard that way and those 100 can’t see. Great, great fun. I was the God of Views, free to give and take away as I saw fit. “Oh, you drove the Dodge Dart clear from Manitoba for your first Masters? Sorry. I choose to stand … here.”

All my life I’d wanted to stand on the 12 green during The Masters. I’d always wondered what it’s like out there, viewed by thousands of fans, but all from 160 yards away—every movement watched through binoculars but not a sound heard. For fans, it’s like watching a silent movie. But on the green, so far away from the thousands watching, you find out. “Fuck me,” Begay said when his par putt missed. Aaron missed a four-footer for par, but, to his credit, did not say, “Fuck me.” The thousands back in the gallery probably assume they’re saying, “Well played there, Tommy,” and “Oh, a spot of bad luck there, chum,” and instead they’re going, “Fuck me.”

There is nothing in golf like the 13th tee box, either. Set back into the azaleas and dogwoods, it must be the most beautiful inland tee in the world. And yet, to the players, it is more famously known as the home of the “pee bush.” Players and caddies go back behind a huge bush and pee. There are not many Porta Potties at Augusta and the ones they have are packed, so 13 has become the traditional whizzing ground. Not wanting to piss on history, I also loosed the lizard back there, and as I was doing so it hit me that some of the great names in golf history—Jones, Snead, Hogan, Nicklaus—had all squirted on this very bush. It made me proud. It also made me want to throw out my shoes first chance I got.

We made an awful double bogey at 13, but it wasn’t our fault. We wound up in a divot after our second shot, had to blade it out of there and over, putted way, way by in 4, half-lagged it up in 5, and missed a three-footer for 6. I still feel if I could’ve spoken to his ball, it would’ve helped. Now we were 10 over par with five holes to go. We were headed for 90. Doug Ford, here we come.

But at 14, 15, and 16, we made great pars—nearly made three birdies—and it was a privilege to carry the bag of a man who can play that well at 64 years old with more ailments than the Mayo Clinic. The pars made him so chipper, in fact, that I offered a small bit of chitchat. “This place has great memories for you, huh?”

He said it did. He said he hated to come and play so badly as he did this week. “Shooting in the 80s is not my idea of fun,” he said. He said he loved Augusta and loved the memories of his win here, when he made birdie at 18 and had no idea he’d won until later, since he wasn’t in the last group.

I offered up a potential grenade, seeing as how we were coming to the 18th tee box. “How did the whole De Vicenzo snafu happen?” I said, walking just out of swinging-putter range.

He was quite happy to talk about it. “It was really so ridiculous,” he said. “In those days, you’d check your scorecard at a little card table they set up, right out in the open, under the sun. Roberto was a little mad that he’d made bogey on the last hole and so he just signed the card without even looking at it. He threw it on the table and left. Whoosh. Now, I’m veryhave