One Very Lucky Day — part2

Arriving at the club, his heart sank in seeing several of the "professional" caddies still in the yard. By the first week in December, all of them were normally in Florida caddying. This meant in this off-season--with fewer members braving the weather as it was--he would have to wait around even longer for a loop, since the old-timers always had first choice and then the older teenagers. Hope looked even dimmer as he gazed up at the graying overcast; still, he sat up on the yard's cold rail fence to look conspicuous whenever a bag dropped out of the clubhouse bag room. Richie hoped the old timers, together with the older teenagers, rolling dice for dimes on a loading platform, or by the overhang of club’s service entrance where the younger high school students playing poker for pennies, were not ready to go out this early.


He heard a muffled rattling of clubs behind the Dutch door of the bag room. His heart pounded. He knew from his short experience that a youngster had to be visible and loyal at all times. If one missed a week it would take a month for a young caddy to return to the caddy-master's good graces. He stared at the door in expectation. He felt--especially if the caddies stayed involved with their gambling--he had an excellent chance to be chosen since the caddy-master had already left for his winter job in Palm Beach, and that Gus, the assistant pro in charge of the caddies during the winter, knew Richie better, having chosen him once to carry his bag during a late afternoon nine-hole round.


Suddenly the half door was forced open and two bags were swung out by Gus's powerful arms. He leaned them against the lower door. Richie instantly recognized the bags belonging to the two members who were usually always the first to tee off. They were also the cheapest. Gus looked over at Richie and was about to call him when two old timers in hearing the rattling of the clubs abandoned the game and turned the corner.


 "We'll take them, Gus," one who was in his late twenties, said. Richie often wondered how a young man could take to caddying as a career--unless, of course, he followed the professional circuit.

Gus looked surprised. "Fine with me, but this is Two-Tee Kline, you know."


"Oh, sh..., forget it!" The jaded caddy removed his ruddy hand from the strap as if plagued.


The other one called Old Jim--truly old, nearing sixty with the distinction of having caddied for Bobby Jones--looked at the name-tag of the other bag, and swore, "Damn, this one's just as cheap." They both went back to the dice.


Gus beckoned to Richie. "Take Two-Tee, Dick."


Richie jumped from the frigid rail and strutted proudly to the bag. He felt six-feet tall and eighteen when Gus called him that. Gus leaned out and yelled at the card-players, "You fellas, going to run a casino or caddy? One of them so conditioned--the youngest of the group--threw down his cards, picked up his last two pennies and hustled over.


On the first tee the wind was beginning to stir and Richie felt the frozen turf under his sneakers. This meant that these hackers' were going to drive the ball over two hundred yards because the ball would bounce at least another fifty yards and quicken the round to give him plenty of time for another loop--provided the weather held up--and still make the exit ramp by five. He was glad his mother made him wear heavy socks, even though it made the sneakers too small. Richie reached into the bag and handed the golfer, one of the few remaining who still wore knickers, his two beat-up tees tied together by a fish-line. The golfer inspected them and said, "Well, laddie, my tees are still in good shape--should get through the winter." Richie remembered the last time he caddied for him Two-Tee had bragged how he got through the entire summer season with the same tees.


The youngster's analysis was correct: those two hundred plus drives sped them around the course in less than two hours. Not that it mattered since the weather worsened--bleak, threatening. The youngster was not one to give up easily; besides in his blonde lady he had an added incentive to wait. He folded the dollar bill tightly round the quarter and securely tucked it into the watch pocket of his corduroys and took his place on the cold rail. He withdrew the sandwich from the pea coat and folded down the clumsy Bond bread wrap . Chewing the sandwich--the jelly was iced--he stared at the Dutch-door of the bag room. The card-playing caddy who had been out on the course with him knitted bushy brows, shook a capped head and said, "You're nuts to hang around, Rich, you ain't goin' to get nothin' more this day."


Richie looked up at the dark sky. "Never know....Might lighten up."


"Yeah, sure,...dream on, Pinocchio." Older by a year and therefore wiser, the caddy shrugged and walked out the yard whistling "When you wish upon a star".


 It was like the sky opened up! Richie realized that the blonde lady reminded him of the blue fairy he had seen a few months ago in Disney's classic. Freezing from sitting on the rail, Richie started to walk around the caddy yard and tap his feet intermittently. Three old timers moved to the overhang to get out of the cold wind and to lunch on their White Castle burgers. The pro's were the only caddies who had cars--even the older high school kids walked or hitched up to the course. Anyone over fifteen would not be seen dead riding a bike. Richie wondered why the old timers were still here and not already out on the course unless they were waiting for some important party still in the clubhouse. Yet who important, he pursued, would be up here on a day like this? Most of the wealthier golfers were already enjoying the courses in Florida or the Bahamas.

 Richie heard the Dutch door unlatch and the rattling of clubs. He ran to the fence. Four very impressive, heavy, rich leather bags had been plopped on the cement slab and were leaning against the door. Gus stuck his head out. Looking over at Richie, Gus rocked his slickly combed head and said, "Pope's party, Dick--not for you." Richie lowered his eyes in mild disappointment, but he had learned to accept the bylaws of caddying. Now he knew who the old-timers were waiting for. Richie had heard of the Pope's party and had seen them once on the course. They played at a snail's pace, but were held in reverence. His young Catholic mind could only think of the papacy in Rome. The truth was that this Pope guy was big on construction and seemed to own all the cement-mix trucks in Queens. Most caddies figured Pope was with the Mafia--easy come, easy go--since he paid an unheard of three dollars and for everyone in his foursome!

 Gus did not have to call up the old-timers; they knew the bags were theirs. One older teenager walked up to Gus to inquire about the fourth bag.

 "Can't release it yet until their ready to tee-off. If Old Jim isn't back from his loop by then, it's yours."

The teenager kicked up some of the gravel with a scuffed shoe and yelped, "Cripes, Gus, that ain't fair! I've been waitin' around for three hours! Jim's got his loop."


"Sorry, kid....them's the rules round here," Gus reminded him and closed the door.


The old-timers laughed. "Cheer up, kid," one of them said with a mouth full of White Castle, "you'll get a loop yet." He chuckled and choked on his nickel burger. "Maybe Two-Tee will go a second round today."


"Yeah, sure, I can see myself going out for a lousy two bits in this weather. Maybe not even that for his second time around--more like a dime." the kid growled.


"Well, then, how about six bits?" joined another, whose pale face was a mystery to Richie inasmuch as everyone who caddied never lost their deep tan, which was compounded by winter's constant wind on face and hands. Six bits to Richie was a fortune. Only twice was he fortunate to get a four bit round. Caddies always talked in terms of tips. The flat rate was one dollar and ninety-nine percent of the time a golfer would tip the caddy--even Two-Tee--and very seldom did he give just a dime or fifteen cents. Twenty-five percent of the members were considered cheap because they gave only a quarter. A good loop, which was the majority, paid a half-dollar. On rare occasions a golfer who ordinarily paid fifty cents would give seventy-five cents if he played an exceptionally good round. But even rarer were those who regularly tipped from seventy-five cents to a dollar--the latter referred to as deuce--unless the caddy was terrible and lost a lot of balls or did not "club" correctly.


"Oh, now you're talking?" the kid said. "You know somethin' I don't?... Who's left in the clubhouse, aside from these olive eaters."


"Well, I saw the Babe pull up when I went out to the White Castle," the pale faced one said. The other two laughed hysterically. Richie's eyes lit up when he heard the magical name.


"Aw, you're pullin' my leg," the kid moaned, "What would the Babe be doin' here this time of year."


"What else is there for him nowadays? I couldn't mistake his bulk staggering out of the car." The old timers laughed just as Pope's party walked off the practice green and headed for the first tee. With military precision each of the old timers carefully removed the thickly knitted wood sleeve from the driver and slipped the belt over the shoulder and silently marched out to the tee with their respective bags. Richie always admired the career caddies for the way they could wedge their right arm and stretch their hand over the clubs to eliminate the rattle. Gus opened the door and beckoned to the older boy to take the fourth bag.


The yard was empty now but for Richie. There had been another one about sixteen but when he heard that Old Jim was due back, he decided to try the nearby Lakeville club. When caddies started coming back in from their loops, they didn't even bother to inquire what members were still scheduled to come out. They just pocketed the small change of their labor and headed home or to a new poker game in progress under the lean-to of the closed refreshment shed. A pair passed by Richie; one nudged the other and said tilting his head toward Richie, "Let the kids have the frost-bite...they don't know no better."


A half hour passed before the bag room door opened again. Four bags were dropped out. The lad's heart leaped when he saw the Yankee Logo on the wood socks. But his heart then sank when he saw Old Jim turn the corner along with three other caddies.


 The old caddy was pursing his lips. He had seen the Pope party out on the first nine. He didn't even look at the bags; he just continued walking toward his car, mumbling about the injustice of his bad timing. Gus opened the door and called after him, "Don't you want the Babe?"

Jim turned round and frowned, flaring up, "You gotta be kiddin', Gus, why at this late hour he'll be drunker'n a bums' hoosegow! I ain’t about to wade icy skin to fish balls out of the lake in this weather or traipse through the wood for his wild drives....See ya in the spring. I'm headin' for the sunshine state."


 The voice of experience scared off the other caddies. They grabbed the other bags, knowing they were good for four bits. The oldest of the group--his woolen cap pulled down over his ears--said to Gus, "Babe's six bits ain't worth the pain."

 "Oh, yeah...since when?...another two bits means two packs of butts." Gus said, then turned to Richie. "Well, I guess you're stuck with the Babe, Dick." Gus winked at the others.

Richie jumped over to the heaviest bag. He was smiling ear to ear when he said, "Stuck?..with Babe Ruth!"


Copyright © 1999 Richard R. Kennedy All rights reserved. Revised: January 13, 2004 .