The Caddie Read online

  Obviously, when I later blew my second chance at education by leaving LSU, that only made things worse. I had raised my parents’ hopes by doing reasonably well and then had dashed them (again) by leaving before I got my degree. All it did was prove, as my father pointedly said, that I was better at golf than at life.

  My brother Mark didn’t help things, either. Three years younger, he had followed me at Catholic High in Lake Charles but had taken a decidedly different path. Mark was the valedictorian of his graduating class and earned a full ride to Tulane on an academic scholarship. I can’t tell you the number of times I began to hear “Why can’t you be like your brother Mark?”

  Call it pride if you want, but now that I had really screwed up, I wasn’t about to subject myself to any I-told-you-so lectures from my father. So asking him to get me out of jail—which he was certainly in a position to do, being a lawyer and all—was out of the question.

  I was in the process of once again running through an imaginary list of prospects who might be willing to make bail for me when they came and told me that my bond had been posted and that I was free to go. I asked the jailer who had bailed me out, and he said the fellow was waiting for me outside.

  ii

  HE WASN’T VERY tall, maybe five-eight or so, and he looked athletic, like he was in good shape. What I remember most about seeing Stewart that first time, though, was his face. It was deeply tanned and handsome but weathered in a way that made him look older than his youthful body otherwise suggested.

  His eyes were the most remarkable part of his features. Set deep in his face, they were greenish blue and burned so brightly that I almost squinted as I stared into them, unable to look away from the power and purpose they gave his entire appearance.

  The next thing I remember noticing were his clothes. They were old and worn and didn’t seem to match the rest of him. He didn’t look like a bum or anything, just not as prosperous as I would have expected someone with his bearing and demeanor to be.

  After taking it all in, I knew one thing for sure: I had never seen him before. Apparently, the feeling wasn’t mutual, however, as he gave a sign of recognition immediately upon seeing me and held out his hand.

  “Hello, Bobby. I’m Stewart Jones.”

  Needless to say, I felt awkward as hell meeting someone under these circumstances. “Uh, hi, Stewart. I’m Bobby Reeves.” Of course, I thought sheepishly, he knew who I was, but I didn’t know what else to say.

  I looked down, as if there might be a cue card on the floor that would show me what to say next. Somehow it occurred to me that I should express my gratitude for my freedom. Looking up, I managed to mumble, “Listen, thanks for getting me out.” He smiled, and I quickly added, “I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”

  He nodded agreeably. “I have every confidence that you will.” Looking around, he said, “Now, let’s leave this place. It’s rather depressing, don’t you think?”

  I laughed, more to relieve the tension than anything else. “It ain’t my idea of a fun place, that’s for sure.”

  He led the way outside and directed me to his car, an old Dodge Dart. It wasn’t much, but I could hardly be choosy. My Explorer was impounded somewhere in the Florida Panhandle.

  As we pulled away from the station, I felt heartened by a returning sense of freedom. I couldn’t wait until the scene of my confinement was out of sight.

  At the next stoplight, I turned to my newfound friend and asked the obvious question: “How’d you know I was in jail and needed someone to bail me out?”

  He spoke in a voice so soft that you wanted to turn up the volume. “I sensed you were in trouble. The rest wasn’t hard to figure out.”

  His answer didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, but I wasn’t about to say so and risk offending him. For all I knew, he might take me back to jail.

  There are lots of hangers-on in golf, even at the minor league level where I had been playing. I was always amazed at the number of wanna-be caddies who approached me at places like Midland, Texas, and Henrico County, Virginia. Some were former players who didn’t make it and couldn’t bear the thought of going home to work in the family hardware store. If you’ve got the bug for golf but can’t make a living playing it, I guess carrying someone else’s bag is the next best thing. With the possible exception of being a lifeguard on Baywatch, it’s better’n any outdoor job I can think of.

  I figured Stewart was one of those hangers-on. I had to give him credit, though, for being more enterprising than the others. By getting me out of jail, he certainly had the inside track on being my caddie. If I didn’t give him the job, he could revoke my bail.

  Of course, that’s assuming he wanted the job in the first place. My playing record being what it was, the guy had to be desperate to want to caddie for me. It also occurred to me that anyone who had to bail a player out of jail in order to get a job probably wasn’t much of a caddie to begin with. I needed to know more about this guy.

  “You seem very familiar to me,” I fibbed. “But you obviously know me better than I know you. Where have our paths crossed?”

  He tilted his head just slightly. “Well, I’ve been carrying for a number of different players out on the tours, and I’ve seen you play.” After a slight pause, he added, “You’ve got lots of potential.”

  I let out a half snort, half laugh. “You must’ve seen me on one of my good days.”

  He shook his head and said pleasantly, “No, the first time I saw you was not one of your good days. I think you shot 76 and got into a shouting match with your caddie, who if I’m not mistaken was your brother.”

  I knew instantly what he was talking about. Mark had come out the previous summer and carried my bag for a couple of weeks. But he started to nag me about my drinking, and things came to a head one afternoon when I double-bogeyed the last two holes to miss the cut at the Nationwide Tour event in Lafayette. Mark had the audacity to suggest that I was drunk. (In all fairness, he may have gotten that idea after watching me puke my guts out behind the sixteenth green.) Things got a little physical, and that was the end of our working relationship.

  We couldn’t even agree on how we parted ways. Mark claimed he quit. I said I fired him. At this point, who was right didn’t seem all that important.

  When I said nothing, Stewart continued. “Of course, a golf score isn’t the only measure of a man’s game, now, is it?”

  “It’s the only thing that counts,” I said with a trace of sarcasm rising in my voice. “It ain’t figure skating; they don’t give any points for form, you know.”

  Stewart’s tone didn’t change. “Ah, but golf is so much more than a number on a scorecard. That little piece of paper rarely tells the whole story.”

  I didn’t say anything more for a while. This guy Stewart sounded more like a philosopher than a caddie. That may explain, I thought to myself, why he’s looking for a job. Most players don’t have much use for philosophical caddies. All they want to know is the yardage to the flag.

  Stewart seemed nice enough, though, and he had done me a big favor. Even so, it occurred to me that I had just jumped into a car with a total stranger. What if my new best friend was some kind of a nut? I definitely had to learn more about my mysterious benefactor.

  “Who’ve you been loopin’ for?”

  He just smiled again. “Oh, you name them, I’ve worked with them.”

  I wasn’t satisfied with his answer, but I didn’t want to ask again for fear of upsetting him. Before I could think of anything more to say, he spoke again.

  “I’ve worked with enough players to spot a winner. And Bobby, you’re a winner.”

  I still had enough of a sense of humor to laugh. “I sure as hell don’t feel like much of a winner.”

  Stewart never took his eyes off the road. “You can be a winner without knowing it. Sometimes you have to learn how to win by eliminating whatever is holding you back.”

  “If you can stop my three-putts, that oughta do it.”

>   He shook his head. “Perhaps your problem is not on the golf course.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “What do you mean?”

  He pulled the car to a stop for a red light. “Bobby, I think you know what I mean.”

  The tone of his voice had become grave, almost as if he was scolding me, and I was struck with the sudden realization that perhaps my companion knew more about me than I wanted him to.

  “How would you know what my problem is?” I tried to sound neither confrontational nor defensive.

  He must have sensed the growing tension, because he answered in a voice that had returned to the easy, soft cadence of our earlier conversation. “Let’s just say I have a real sense about people.” He smiled at me in an effort to put me at ease. “Going to jail isn’t the only problem you’ve had lately, is it?”

  I started to say something, but he spoke again before I could.

  “Stealing money from friends is the sign of a troubled soul. So is cheating on your wife.”

  I felt like he had just kicked me in the stomach. The only good thing about bring thrown in jail was that it had distracted me from thinking about my estranged wife.

  Betsy Simpson didn’t understand beans about golf when I met her. For all she knew, Mark Brooks and Mel Brooks were brothers. But let’s just say it wasn’t her golf knowledge that caught my attention the day I first saw her.

  We were playing the Gator Invitational in Florida. I was standing on the putting green next to the clubhouse when I saw her walk by, with long, flowing blonde hair that framed high cheekbones and a nose too straight and perfect for any surgeon to improve. Add blue eyes and a figure that would’ve stopped the Spanish Armada in its tracks, and you can understand why I forgot all about golf when I saw her.

  One thing led to another, and it wasn’t long before we decided we were in love. Given that we had nothing in common, it was a hard thing to figure. Betsy couldn’t understand my seriousness about golf (she said it was “just a game,” which is like saying death is just a nap). Nor did she appreciate my sense of humor. She once asked me why I didn’t smile more when I played. I told her that I couldn’t because my butt was clenched so tight it was pulling down the sides of my mouth. Instead of laughing, she scolded me for being crude.

  Despite those differences, I found Betsy to be loving and caring in a way that I wanted to be. I guess you could say that she completed me. As important as golf was, it wasn’t important to me that Betsy care about golf. I needed her for more than that.

  You may also be wondering what Betsy saw in me. I can’t really tell you. Maybe she just liked bad boys. If you really want to know, I guess you’d have to ask her—if you can find her. While opposites attract, they don’t necessarily stay together. I had no idea where she was.

  Anyway, Betsy was the reason I quit school after my junior year. Our plan was to get married and make a fortune on the PGA Tour.

  I’ll never forget breaking the news to my father. As I expected, it went over like the proverbial turd in the punch bowl. We were sitting in his office when I told him. I guess he must have expected bad news of some kind, because I never came to his office unless I had a problem. When I laid out my grand plan for the rest of my life, he didn’t explode as I expected. It was far worse. He laughed.

  I should have been angry, but I was too stunned to say much of anything. Finally I stammered, “What’s so funny?”

  Recovering his composure, he grew serious. “Oh, nothing, Bobby. It’s just that I can see one or two tiny flaws in what you propose to do.”

  I was feeling a little defensive. “Like what?”

  He smiled again, which I knew wasn’t a good sign. “Well, let’s tick them off.” He touched his index finger with his thumb. “First, you haven’t mentioned how you’re going to live. Unless this girl Betsy has lots of money, you’re going to have to work to support a wife until you’re on the PGA Tour.” He paused, and his tone turned sarcastic. “Or haven’t you thought of that?”

  Without allowing me to answer, he then moved his thumb to his middle finger. “Second, while I have great confidence in your abilities as a golfer, I don’t think you have any guarantee that you’ll get your Tour card.” He paused, his eyes now staring into my face. “Have you considered what you’ll do if you don’t make it through Q-School?”

  I looked down, unable to return his gaze. I was becoming very uncomfortable. This was turning out worse than I expected—and my expectations hadn’t been very high to begin with.

  “Well?” He raised his eyebrows, as if to make it clear that his question was not rhetorical. He was expecting an answer, and I knew from experience it had better be a good one.

  I managed to stammer, “I’ll just play the mini tours if I don’t make it.”

  He laughed. “I’ll bet there’s a lot of money in that.”

  I was starting to get mad, but I wasn’t quite ready for a confrontation. Maybe I had too much respect for him. And maybe, just maybe, I was afraid he was right.

  Trying to rally my cause, I asked, “You’ve only named two objections to what I want to do? Is that all?”

  For the first time, Dad showed his temper. Shaking his head in disbelief, he snapped, “You haven’t had an answer for either of them; why should we go on?”

  I understood this meant our conversation was over, so I left.

  I really took my dad’s advice to heart. Betsy and I got married in Las Vegas two weeks later. Shortly thereafter, I filed my first application for Q-School and headed off for fame and fortune on the PGA Tour.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t make it past the first stage, which meant that I would be playing my golf in mini tours, where the travel budget didn’t allow for an accompanying spouse. So Betsy stayed behind, working as a secretary, while I hit the road. My drinking got worse, and then I started fooling around. When she found out, she threw me out.

  I hadn’t seen her in three months, and I missed her badly.

  Stewart was looking off in the distance now. I couldn’t tell if he was watching the road or what. Before I could ask him how he knew about my problems with Betsy, he started talking again.

  “He’d never have won the Grand Slam if his personal life had been in as much turmoil as yours has been.”

  I didn’t follow. “What are you talking about?”

  He smiled. “I guess you mean who—who am I talking about. And the answer is the greatest player who ever lived.” He turned on his blinker as we pulled into the parking lot of the Tiger Town Apartments, a complex near the LSU campus that had seen much better times. “That could only be Bobby Jones.”

  With that, he pointed to a magazine laying beside me on the seat. I picked it up and saw that it was the January 2000 issue of Golf magazine. A picture of Bobby Jones dominated the cover. Pointing to it, Stewart said, “He retired from competitive golf in 1930 after winning the Grand Slam, and his picture is still on the cover of a major golf magazine seventy years later. Can there be any doubt that he was the greatest player ever?”

  My head started to spin. Leaving aside the question of Jones’s place in golf history, I was dumbfounded over what Stewart knew about my personal life. It wasn’t like I had kept everything a big secret or that I was the only guy on the road who ever fooled around, but I hadn’t exactly advertised it in the newspaper, either. And why was he talking about a guy who last won a tournament in 1930? What did that have to do with me—or with anything, for that matter?

  I wanted to talk about all this, but after what I’d just been through I didn’t know where to start. I needed time to absorb everything, so I stayed quiet.

  Stewart pulled the old Dodge into a parking spot, turned off the ignition, and opened the door to get out. Turning back to me, he said, “This is where I live. It’s not much, but I think you’ll find it’s better than what you just left.”

  As he led me up a flight of stairs to the second-floor landing, I suddenly realized that I was wearing the only clothes I had. “They wouldn’t let me bring any of
my things. Everything I own is locked up somewhere in Pensacola.”

  He nodded and said reassuringly, “We’ll get all that straightened out soon enough. Give me a few days, and we’ll drive over and get all your things back.” He gave me a serious look before adding, “After all, we’ll need your clubs before we can get down to work.”

  It was my first hint that Stewart had a plan of some kind in mind. As we walked toward his apartment, he said, “I’ve got enough to tide you over for the next few days.” He then stopped at a door marked with the number 242, inserted a key, and opened it.

  It wasn’t much, but it looked neat and clean. Stewart was right: No matter how Spartan its appearance, it was a helluva lot better place than where I had just been.

  My host tossed his keys on the small kitchen table. “I’ve only got one bedroom, but that sofa is pretty comfortable. I think you’ll be able to sleep well enough on it. And the TV has ESPN and the Golf Channel, which I understand are the only channels you really care about,” he said cheerfully.

  He then pointed to a brown paper bag next to his keys on the table. “I went out earlier and got you some things I thought you’d need. You know, razor, toothbrush, that sort of thing. It’s all in there for you.”

  For the first time, the enormity of his kindness hit home. Maybe I had just stepped back and looked at myself for the first time in a while. For whatever reason, it shocked me to think of how much my life had unraveled and how much I owed to this generous, if not odd, stranger.

  I tried to find the right words to thank him, I really did. What I said came out kind of lame, though, and my voice trailed off before I finished. I guess I was too damned embarrassed to properly thank him just yet. But Stewart seemed to understand, just as he seemed to understand a lot of other things about me.

  He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “It’s okay, Bobby. You’ve been through the worst of it. Tonight’s the start of the long road back. Trust me. There are much brighter days ahead.”