Good morning, here is the third post in the Paddy the Caddy short story series. You can find the first two stories here:
This will be a two part post featuring my favorite ritual in all of golf: the early mornings on the caddie bench. Hope you enjoy
The Caddie Bench
It is a ritual. A cult-like practice performed at every country club across the world. A sacred time at the club reserved for the lowest of the low on the totem pole. That is, the caddy. The moment — the short hours before the first tee time.
Caddies filed in to take their places long before the sun came up. They were like actors in a play. Each had their own part. Every morning, gathered around the caddie bench that sat under a worn out awning, caddies took the stage for the greatest comedy show in town.
It started slow. That was part of it. No one came out firing. You had to test the waters first. Determine just how far you could take it in the final act. The early mornings were for coffee, McDonald’s dollar menu, catching up on yesterday’s rounds and how much (or little) a certain member paid. It was casual. A few jokes sprinkled in to lighten the mood. But it was only getting started. The stories were coming.
The younger caddies always started first. They had two goals: get their stories in before the main characters started and make one of those older caddies crack a smile. The younger caddies would rehearse their stories for weeks before they finally got the courage to share them. By the time the older caddies started, it was storytelling at its finest. These were seasoned veterans. They knew how to control their audience. When to put them on the edge of their seats and when to deliver the perfect punch line. They were comedians. Artists. Storytellers that even Homer would be jealous of, cursing himself from the grave for not having caddied in his own day.
Some of the stories were true. Some had bits of truth. Most were completely fabricated — made up right there on the spot. It was on that bench that these storytellers were born. They were crude. Bombastic. And so funny that snot and tears dripped from your face by the time your tee time was called.
The younger caddies had finished their stories. They got pity laughs, but mostly they got ruthless get-the-%$#&-outta-here’s when they tried telling the story of them getting a $100 tip and a kiss from a member’s wife during women’s league. They had a ways to go before their stories were remotely believable. The morning eased into showtime. The young caddies had given everyone enough of a rise. The main characters could start. From then on, the morning was a riot of the funniest people you’d ever meet telling the craziest, most outlandish stories you’d ever heard.
At Sea Links Country Club, no one commanded the caddie bench like Paddy and Bernie. They were seniors in high school. Old enough to have established themselves as veterans yet young enough to still talk to the younger caddies. Paddy and Bernie were the two highest ranked caddies both on and off the course. They were in their prime and it was time for them to tell their stories.
Bernie started off first. He was in a particularly good mood that morning. He even gave the honor of a few chuckles at the younger caddies’ stories. For Bernie, the formula was always the same. It worked. His stories always had three parts: an old club member that died years ago (in reality Bernie probably made him up), a high school party that he allegedly went to the night before, and a fatal mistake that should have costed him his job. It was all build up and everyone knew what was waiting: a wild story of an even wilder caddy.
“Did you ever hear of the caddie that gave a member a heart attack on the 12th green?” Bernie started.
The younger caddies were already laughing. Any misfortune that fell upon a member was a laughing matter in those early morning hours. Even a heart attack on the 12th green. His audience was hooked.
“The caddie’s name was Mark Moto. He was a stocky ginger that went through an entire bottle of sunscreen each nine holes. He graduated years ago,” so Bernie claimed. “The thing about Mark was that he showed up twice a month when he needed beer money. The caddie master hated him. He got the worst loops. Back then there was this member. His name was Bob Bauer. He was notorious for two things: bad tipping and hating caddies. A loop with him was a death sentence to any young aspiring caddie. After a 36 hole tournament he once paid a caddy $30 total. Less than one dollar a hole. The caddie bench evaporated whenever his tee time was called. Then one day the caddie master had an idea.
“He would make Mark Moto Mr. Bauer’s personal caddie. Whenever Moto decided to show up he was assigned Bauer’s group. Mr. Bauer was eighty-seven years old. He hadn’t walked a round of golf since he fought in the war. Which side he fought for was always a hot topic of debate. That meant Mark was fore caddying every round. The best part was that Bauer hated Mark just as much as the caddie master.”
At this point in the story, Bernie broke into character. He imitated an old man in a perfect German accent seeing Mark walk up to the first tee. Bernie rolled off Nazi slurs as if he was fluent in the language. Nothing was off limits on the caddy bench. Bernie comparing Bauer to a Nazi abolishing gingers was considered “light humor” compared to the unrepeatable, crude jokes typically said on the bench.
“One morning Mark showed up for a loop fully expecting Bauer. It was a running joke at that point. The younger caddies rejoiced when they saw Moto show up because that meant they would escape a loop with the geriatric anti-Semite for one more day. But Moto was desperate. The caddie master turned the corner to the bench. He was holding the day’s assignments. Barely containing a smile, he called out Bauer and Moto together.
“They wouldn’t tee off for another two hours. The waiting was the worst part. But Moto always made the most of it. He joked of all the things he could do to mess with Bauer during the round. The caddies brainstormed micro aggressions to aggravate the old man: signaling fairway whenever he drove it in the rough; reading putts when he wasn’t asked to (he was never asked to); pulling driver from the bag on the par 3’s; and placing leaves on top of his ball before his cart pulled up. This went on for hours. The ideas became more dramatic. More egregiously offensive. From calling Bauer by his first name, blatantly giving wrong reads, to inquiring on what Bauer’s deceased wife was cooking for dinner that night. Nothing was off limits for these young perverted minds.
“The time came for Mark Moto’s tee time. Bauer was waiting on the tee box. The old man loudly swore when he saw the stocky ginger stroll up with his caddie bib and wet towel. Moto was still laughing when he walked to the tee. He turned around to the bench with a glance that said, watch this. He shook Mr. Bauer’s hand. It was soaking wet from his towel. Bauer cursed. He ran to his cart to wipe his hands. The micro aggressions had begun.“
Bernie had the bench cackling. They could all see where the story was going. It was like rewatching your favorite movie. You know how it ends but you laugh just as hard at the familiar jokes. That was the art of Bernie’s story telling. He always started with the ending. Everyone knew there was a heart attack coming on the 12th green. It was how they got there that mattered. The caddies were buzzing with anticipation.
“After shaking Bauer’s hand, Moto ran down the first fairway to fore caddy,” Bernie continued. “The bench could still see him as he trotted down the right side of the hole. No one ever fore caddied from the right rough— not that there was anything wrong with it. That side had the same view of the straight-away par four opener. It simply wasn’t something caddies did. They always stood on the left. Of course Bauer took notice. Not that he was offended by the decision; rather, it was one more distraction. One more thought in his head. One more example of how this particular caddie was not right in the head. Bauer teed off with a massive slice headed right for Moto.
“Dutifully, Mark Moto ran to the errant tee shot and marked the ball with his towel. He had just enough time to pick up four twigs, stick them in the ground and make a tee-pee over Bauer‘s ball. He even considered placing the member’s ball on top of the sticks. Moto was already on the other side of the fairway tending to the other members in the group when Bauer pulled up to his ball. He swatted the sticks away with his seven iron. There was no one for Bauer to yell at so he cursed under his breath.
“Moto kept this up throughout the round. Just like on the bench, the aggressions got worse with each hole. On number two he fore caddied with his back to the tee box (impressively he still signaled all shots correctly). On three he waded into the creek to get Bauer‘s drive that was actually in his pocket the whole time. The par 3 fourth he did the unthinkable. He pulled out Bauer’s driver for the 123 yard hole. Even Moto couldn’t commit to that bit and promptly professed he was joking and handed him his iron. On five he wore Bauer’s driver head cover like an oven mitt for the entire hole (he handed the old man his club grasped between the cover). On six he tied his white towel to a fallen branch and waved it like a surrender signal from the fairway. On seven he fore caddied the short par three sitting on the back of the green. On eight Moto fore caddied from in a tree. On nine he started talking in an accent.
“At the turn Bauer went in to the pro shop to complain. The caddie master responded sympathetically but told the member to finish the round. He would talk to Mark afterwards. While the members went inside Moto had time to plan his back nine antics. He felt emboldened as if he was vindicating his fifty miserable rounds with the old man. It was time for retribution.
“Number ten was a dogleg par four around a pond. Bauer had 140 yards all carry over the water. At the top of his backswing, Moto let out the subtlest of sniffles. But it was enough. Bauer topped the ball in the water. The sniffle was so quiet that no one else in the group heard it. But player and caddie both knew. Bauer turned. He took his seven iron and tomahawk threw it in Moto’s direction, whirring past his left ear. The other members were appalled. To them it was an egregious response to a mishit ball. But Moto simply retrieved the club, gave the face a wipe, and moved on with the hole. He had Bauer right where he wanted him.
“On number eleven Mark Moto had an idea. It was one of those ideas that one tries to forget immediately. But once it’s in your head it’s all you can think about. He couldn’t focus the entire hole thinking about this idea. He was talking to himself. Laughing to himself. This idea for what he would do on the next hole was driving him to hysteria. There was no way he could pull it off. But then again, he thought, how legendary would it be if he did.
“They finished the 11th hole. Everything was relatively normal. Then came the 12th. Hole twelve, the par three over water, played 152 yards that day. That was a smooth nine iron for Moto. A six iron for Bauer. Mark Moto went up to Bauer’s bag. He didn’t pull the requested long iron. He took out the nine. Without acknowledging the old man, he walked right past him. He found a broken tee and placed the ball he had in his pocket on the peg. All the members could do was watch in silence. Everyone knew what would happen next. Moto took a practice swing. Then another. Then he let the ball fly. The ball landed pin high to twenty feet. Moto turned around, ready to boast the nice shot. He wasn’t fully turned when Bob Bauer, the eighty-seven year old member, tackled him like a varsity line backer.
“Mark Moto hit the ground with a thud. His forehead caught the tee box marker. Blood spilled on the grass. Bauer was on top of him, his knee in Moto’s chest. One punch to the face. Another. A third blow was coming when the old man clutched at his chest. Moto met the old man’s eyes. His vision was blurred but he knew what he was witnessing. He yelled at the other members to call an ambulance. They didn’t react until he shouted the words, ‘heart attack.’”
Bernie paused. The bench had gone from delirious laughing to a solemn silence with a few leftover laughter in between. No one knew what was going to happen next— what happened to the old man or Mark Moto. Bernie let them sit in that gap for a moment longer. Bernie turned his back to his audience. He faced the course. He was facing the direction of the 12th hole. For a minute he said nothing as if he was not going to finish the story. But the caddies were on the edge of their seats. They were shouting now. C’mon Bernie! What happens next! Did he die? Did the old man really croak on the tee box? they yelled.
“Bob Bauer survived that day,” Bernie said facing the group again. “He had a triple bypass. Was in the hospital for a month. Those old Germans don’t go down easily. But that was the last round of golf he ever played. No one ever saw him at the club again.
“There was a membership meeting about what to do about Mark Moto. His antics were well documented by the other members in the group. They called for him to be fired immediately. He was a disgrace to the club. If they let him stay there was no telling what he would do next. On the other hand, he had been assaulted by a member. Some feared that he would sue. Wasn’t the five stitches and a black eye punishment enough? It came down to a vote. The members voted in favor of Moto staying. They didn’t want a lawsuit or the story to become public knowledge. The caddie master approached him to tell him the news. But Mark Moto had other ideas.
“‘You don’t want me here,’ Moto told the caddie master. ‘I won’t go where I’m not wanted. I won’t press charges either. Only on one condition… You give me 10 cases of Coors and we never speak to each other again.’”
“So that was the end of Mark Moto. No one ever heard from him. He never looped another day. In the end he got what he wanted.”
Bernie stopped. That was the end of his first story. As usual, the caddies around him laughed quietly in wonder: at the story and at Bernie. To them Bernie and the other older caddies were gods. Mythologic beings that only existed within the confines of the caddie bench. Born to tell these stories. They dwelled on what it must have been like to be a caddie “back then.” They wondered if they would ever bear witness to stories like Bauer and Moto. If they would one day be the storyteller. For now, they were happy enough to sit back and listen. Paddy stepped in.