My life was in tatters when I received the phone call I believed could change everything.

I’d caddied since I was a boy. Bicycling miles from the black-neighborhood shanty my mother rented on a hairdresser’s earnings, I’d arrive at a private golf course with flowing pink and white flowers bursting from manicured fairways revealing every shade of green. Carrying bags seemed like heaven with tips, and I hated to see the sun drop, anticipating my return to humble reality.

If tee times opened by late afternoon, I was permitted to grab a rental set and play the course. I’d gotten to where I birdied a couple of holes every round, not good enough to turn pro, but sufficiently skilled for members to request me on their bag.

I married Chyna, my high school sweetheart, and we had two boys. I coached them, and both played golf. I wanted them to attend university, something I hadn’t. As a father, you imagine your kids’ future, but they have their own ideas. My namesake and eldest, Jackson, was energized by competition. On the strength of his golf, he had a shot at a scholarship at a decent college. Lionel, on the other hand, got physically ill under pressure and I didn’t know how I’d pay for his education. I couldn’t explain why the personalities of two kids from the same parents turned out so differently. I’d take Jackson to tournaments throughout the East Coast where his skill could be honed in the crucible of intense competition. Our family’s financial situation was never what you’d call flush, but when COVID hit, my income as a caddie at a resort club dried up. I could no longer afford to travel with Jackson, and we were struggling even for the necessities. Chyna had stopped working to raise the kids. When I suggested she get a job, she grudgingly agreed. Six months later, she took up with her boss and left me. For the first time, the beauty of a golf course didn’t lift my spirits. You try to hide depression from your children, but Jackson’s pretty sharp. One day he put his arm around me and said that I had to move on from his mother. Although getting fatherly advice from my son felt odd, he was right, but his guidance was easier said than done. Being youthful and fit got me dates, but when the women figured out we wouldn’t be living high on caddie tips, they were gone.

The Florida resort where I caddied had garnered a slot on the PGA tour and the pros had arrived for two practice rounds before the tournament would start on Thursday. Kingsley Vance a pro with a couple of wins had a shouting match with his regular caddie and fired him summarily. I’d given lessons to the son of the club’s president, Charley Rice. Grateful and recognizing my skill, when Vance asked him for a caddie recommendation, I got the call. Caddies earn a minimum of five percent of the golfer’s tournament prize, seven percent if he finishes in the top ten, and ten percent if he wins. The top 100 pros earn at least a million dollars a year, so if Vance and I clicked, and I was hired to carry his bag on tour, I’d easily quadruple my earnings.

Rice introduced Vance to me in his office. We shook hands, he without smiling. Guys who are focused tend not to act friendly. So do jerks. Slim, Vance sported a cropped beard and dressed in what would’ve been my best clothes, a tailored bright orange Puma shirt and khaki pants. I wore the white coveralls of the caddie staff. Vance grew up in a monied Southern California neighborhood, and I imagined him as a toddler receiving private golf lessons costing more than I earned for a double-bag carry.

I found Vance’s former caddie in the bar and asked for advice. Obviously still fuming, he said in a sarcastic tone. “Just remember, Kingsley Vance is always right, especially if he’s wrong.”

As I trailed behind Vance heading for the practice range, those words rang in my head. Regardless of Vance’s personality, I had to make the relationship work. You can’t insist on always having a boss you love, or you’ll severely limit opportunities.

A PGA pro must have an attitude that he can hang with the best and be excited by the challenge of competition. My role was to help Vance get the most out of himself. I don’t swing the club, I advise. The pro circuit is awash with talent and believing you can hit the next shot is a critical success factor. Golfer confidence can be as ephemeral as a snowflake in a sauna, and caddies must sometimes be psychologists.

I carried a yardage book and knew the greens, but I had to learn my player. What was his “go to” shot? How easily did he hit balls high or low, fade or draw, and how far? With Vance, I had to acquire months of knowledge in just hours.

During the practice rounds, Vance struck the ball and putted well. He chipped a few from difficult lies to get a feel for the grass and practiced putts where we expected holes to be cut.

Tournament play is a grind. Hours of concentration and tension can be draining. Nonetheless, Vance played steadily. On the occasions he asked my opinion on a putt, I gave him the right line. Mostly, he pulled his own clubs, but occasionally he asked my advice. Despite a few wayward shots causing bogeys, he held his temper well enough to be within a stroke of the lead going into the final round.

That evening, after we’d finished on the range, we reviewed the hole-by-hole strategy for the next day, likely pin placements, and where to hit the green for the easiest putt. Throughout, Vance maintained a businesslike demeanor. He didn’t ask about me, my background, or my family, and I didn’t volunteer information. His focus was winning a tournament, and I was fine with that.

In the final round, Vance led by one shot heading to the 18^th hole, a reachable-in-two par five. We were in the second to last group and both players behind us were one stroke back. On the drive, Vance’s ball veered well right into deep rough. His lie looked like a bird had dropped a round egg into a nest. No way to get to the green in two. Best would be to gouge the ball back into the fairway and attempt to hit a third shot close and putt for birdie.

Vance called out for a metal wood.

I gulped. Getting the ball onto the green from this position would be a career shot. I pulled a sand wedge, a club with sufficient loft to get back on the fairway. He’d be far back for his third shot but could still make birdie.

Vance’s eyes showed annoyance. “I said seven wood.”

I hesitated. Pro golfers are elite athletes and Vance was rated 45^th in the world. Undoubtedly, he’d hit shots in his career that would’ve stunned me, but I still held the sand wedge.

He said in a gruff tone, “I’m trying to win a golf tournament.”

“Me too.”

He glared at me. “Seven wood.”

I replaced the wedge and pulled the wood. As he prepared for the shot, I held my breath.

His strike was better than I expected but the club face turned in the grass and the ball hooked left into rough on the other side of the fairway. Vance stormed after the ball.

Another testy lie. This time, he accepted my club selection and made a fantastic shot onto the green thirty feet from the hole. We discussed the line and miraculously, he sunk a big-breaking putt, thrusting a double fist pump and shouting “Yes,” as the ball disappeared into the hole. The crowd’s cheer sent a chill up my back. Vance slapped my palm with a hand-wrestler shake before he strode for the scorer’s tent.

The two players in the last group also birdied the hole giving us a one stroke win.

After a brief TV interview, Vance excused himself to join a couple of other pros for a victory celebration in the bar. I wasn’t invited.

The following day, Vance flew privately to the next tournament. Charley Rice called me into his office and handed me the check Vance had left for ten percent of his tournament prize.

Rice said, “After winning, I would’ve thought he’d want to keep the team together.”

I folded the check into my pocket.

He asked, “Did something happen on the course?”

I explained the drama that had occurred on the 18^th hole.

“You were right,” he said.

“Perhaps,” I said with a sigh, “that was my mistake. At least,” I patted my pocket containing the check, “my boys are going to college.”

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Published by 300 Days of Sun, May 2024