I decided to conquer golf, kind of. I volunteered to become an “amateur caddy” at the Travelers Championship, a PGA stop, which is held at the TPC River Highlands course in Cromwell, Connecticut. Here’s what happened.
On the morning after the U.S. Open, just after 8 am, I reported to Volunteer Villa, where I signed a waiver and waited. After a while, a large man, the Head Amateur Caddie, addressed us.
He’s mostly concerned about two things: Amateur caddies not being physically able to walk the course with a bag, and soliciting tips. If we do the latter, Head Caddy said we’ll be banned from volunteering. Also, he adds that there’s no guarantee that we’ll actually be walking the course.
Moments later, Head Caddy asks for six bodies. I’ll be walking the course after all.
At the check-in area, right next to the parking lot, I’m in a single-file line, waiting to carry a player’s clubs from their car to his cart. (I didn’t see any female competitors.) Unfortunately, I won’t be caddying for a professional player. The amateur in amateur caddy refers to the golfers that we’ll be assisting – not moi.
Photo courtesy Exotic Car Sales
Eventually, I’m summoned to a black Thunderbird. I deliver Thunderbird’s clubs to his assigned cart, where I put on my caddy bib with the player’s last name and wait in a procession of golf carts. There, a veteran amateur caddy informs me that there could be some substantial gratuities in today’s “volunteer” work. In fact, Veteran Amateur says that he has never been stiffed and was once tipped a $500 gift certificate.
I wasn’t planning on seeing any cash for today’s “volunteering.” However, I welcome the idea.
After waiting for about an hour, Head Caddy shows up with a young rookie, whom he’s concerned about. He places the newbie with the Amateur Veteran and puts me on another cart. Goodbye Thunderbird.
At our final meeting before tee off, the Head Caddy orders us to line up in the order of the hole that we’re starting from. My group is starting at tee two, so I’m second in line. As I take my place, Head Caddy hands me a tube of aluminum tin foil.
Is it a special golf device?
Graphic courtesy Vecteezy
“If you don’t like ground beef, let me know,” says Head Caddy to everyone. It’s a burrito. I don’t want to walk on a full stomach – especially of a burrito. I dig in because, well, it’s there. As the cart zips along, I swallow it. There was no need to rush because there’s no one at tee two – except myself and a 13-year-old who’s caddying for his father.
We have about an hour to kill before our party of four amateurs and one professional arrives. Once again, I wait, trying to make small talk with the 13-year-old. After that fails miserably, we sit in silence under a tree. I don’t want to move or carry anything for that matter. It’s a beautiful day, and I want another burrito and to drink as much complimentary water as I want.
Eventually, the crew arrives: The other amateur caddies, the official scorer, and the sign carrier, who is referred to in golf circles as the Standard Bearer, a woman, whom no one seems to acknowledge – except me. I share a connection, albeit unspoken, with the Standard Bearer. A few months earlier, I had been a Standard Bearer at the LPGA’s Sybase Match Championships, which featured 64 of the best female players in the world.
For 36 holes, I was basically a human scoreboard. Let’s be clear: I didn’t keep the official score. I just carried the sign and changed the scoreboard after each hole. Still, it was work. The sign is cumbersome and heavy, and each match lasted four-plus hours. Most memorably, for about five holes, I carried the sign through a torrential downpour. I was carrying the sign for the course spectators. However, there were none. I made the mistake of discussing my experience as a Standard Bearer with a colleague. He wasn’t impressed.
“You were a Sign Boy,” he blurted at me derisively.
“Actually, I was a Standard Bearer!” I replied defensively.
“Sign boy!”
“Standard Bearer!” I railed, gritting my teeth. “I was a damn Standard Bearer!”
I ask the official scorer about what to expect from the day, specifically the professional golfer who’ll be accompanying us. Scorer tells me that he’ll be aloof, preparing for tournament play, which is three days away. In other words, the pro will basically be a robot.
As we loiter at tee two, a cart pulls up with a tall, dark-haired, athletic man. In fact, the vehicle has difficulty containing the man’s large, gangly frame. He looks like a basketball player. Before the cart comes to a halt, the man enthusiastically leaps off the cart and walks excitedly towards our small entourage. “I got six caddies!” says the man with a warm smile.
I haven’t a clue who this friendly man is. I’m quite pleased to learn that he’s our professional. Just the day before, Michael Putnum finished 45th at the U.S. Open. Putnum is one of the elite golfers in the world, but he doesn’t act like it. Putnum and his caddy, Putty, introduce themselves, shaking everyone’s hands.
We’re all on a first-name basis.
Finally, the amateurs show up, and I take the clubs of my golfer. Our amateurs are insurance guys, affiliated with the tournament’s sponsors.
Part 2 coming soon….
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Jon Hart is the author of Unfortunately, I was available, the undeserved sequel to Man versus Ball: One Ordinary Guy and His Extraordinary Sports Adventures.
