Bad Coffee or Vodka Cranberry

Lee Trevino once said, “Columbus went around the world in 1492. That isn’t a lot of strokes when you consider the course.” Lee wasn’t wrong when you played a links-style course after years of dealing with the amenities of golf in Central Indiana.

When my wife and I arrived at the Turnberry Hotel, a bagpipe player entertained in front of the hotel during Happy Hour.

Today, we would tee it up at The Ailsa Course in Turnberry, Scotland. You can fill in your own names of your golf buddies in the story.

This is Billy. He will be your caddie, and Sandy there will be your friend’s caddy,” the Turnberry Caddy Master said.

Billy and Sandy followed us to the practice tee and watched as we hit each club.

“Pleased to meet you, Billy,” I said.

“Let’s start with your sand wedge.”

I thought back to my wife and me arriving in Scotland and the Eurocar shuttle bus driver asking me how long I’ve been waiting for the bus. I thought she asked how long we’ve been in the UK. I replied on Tuesday. “Tuesday, she exclaimed, you’ve been waiting on the shuttle since Tuesday!”

Golf-wise, Chi Chi Rodriguez came to mind. He once said, “The last time I was in Scotland and asked my caddie for a sand wedge, he came back ten minutes later with a ham and Swiss on rye.” I didn’t think Billy would see the humor.

“What brings you to caddying, Billy?” I asked as we walked down the first fairway.

“Times are hard for amateur golfers in the UK. Tournament entry fees are outrageous, and caddying helps ease the financial burden with the wife. Sandy, there is just picking up some drinkin’ money.”

My wife tagged along for a few holes to take pictures. Turnberry encouraged females to follow along for pictures, unlike our experience on the goat path called St Andrew’s the previous day. The St. Andrews Caddie Master had paired us with Ashton and Dylan, two Canadians, on a two-round per day whirlwind tour of golf. Since arriving in Dublin fourteen days ago, the Canadian’s played their way to Northern Ireland, jumped a ferry, and continued their tour through Scotland.

“Fourteen days, that’s a lot of golf,” I remembered saying as I shook Aston and Dylan’s hands.

“Three more days to go and then we’re heading home,” Ashton replied.

“Ashton here convinced my wife to let me come, but told her it was only for a week. I figured it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission,” Dylan said, laughing. Our foursome shook hands and began teeing off on St. Andrew’s number one. There were no yard markers, trees to give perspective, or ball washers. The teeing areas were barely marked. All the caddies were hired, so we carried our own bags. My wife walked over to take a couple of pictures on the first tee, and the starter chased her off the course. No women allowed.

Back at Turnberry, my caddy was about to earn every bit of his thirty-pound sterling caddie fee.

“Looks like I’m about 120 yards away, Billy. What do you think, a nine?”

“The greens raised about thirty feet, and it’s blowing in from the Ailsa Craig,” Billy said. “So, pull out your 4-iron and give it all you got.”

My ball dribbled on the front of the green.

“Well done.” Billy smiled for the first time.

Billy wasn’t much for words, but I assumed that was just his professional approach to caddying. As my playing partner walked down the fairway, he noticed some furry creatures racing about the gorse.

“Don’t let them bother you, son, they’re harmless,” Billy said. “By the way, how long have you been in Scotland?”

“We arrived in England on Tuesday, Billy.”

“Lad, I asked you when you got to Scotland.”

“Point made, my mistake. We arrived in Scotland on Sunday.”

“Are you ready for Turnberry’s trademark hole, lad?”

I peered off the stony ridge on the edge of the Irish Sea. The landmark lighthouse cast a shadow over the 13th-century ruins of Bruce’s Castle. My boys, Cole and Trent, designated each lighthouse on the Outer Banks as ‘theirs’ if it was the first one they climbed. Cole’s lighthouse was Hatteras in Buxton, North Carolina, on the Outer Banks. He climbed it when he was only seven, stepping on his toes to reach the height limit. Trent’s was the Corolla Lighthouse in Duck.

“Stay focused and just bang it across the corner of the bay,” Billy said. “If you’re lucky, Robert the Bruce’s ghost will guide it across.”

Two holes later, I had a straight shot to the green from 175 yards away.

“Get out your 9-iron and put it up in the wind.”

“I only hit a 9-iron 130 yards.”

“Lad, the Ailsa Craig’s force is behind you now,” Billy said.

I hit it high, and the wind snatched the ball, carrying it to the green.

“I do have a question,” Billy said. “Are ya a playin’ for anythin’?”

“Just a pint a side and one for the eighteen,” I said. “Why?”

“Because your friend there, he’s a cheatin’ ya.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sandy there says he’s a movin’ his ball, grounding his club in the hazard, not countin’ his strokes.”

“No worries, Billy, he paid his hundred pounds sterling, so he can do whatever he wants.”

“He’s a cheater, lad, and I don’t like cheaters.”

“I understand, but as long as I don’t lose money, I don’t care what other golfers do. You know a lot of golfers think a round of golf is just a lot of walking, broken up by disappointment and bad arithmetic.”

“Funny, you just think that up?” Billy asked.

“Nope, it’s anonymous. Probably came from Bob Hope or Arnold Palmer.”

We finished our round and shook hands. We tipped our caddies, and they said nothing. I shot a respectable eighty-seven. I think even Billy was maybe even impressed.

Back at the hotel, we settled up the bets at Sean Connery’s favorite snooker table. Tomorrow we’ll fly back to London and head to Bath and maybe catch Stonehenge on the way.