Watching the U.S. Open reminds me of my experiences as a caddy in 1958, when all of my golfers were clearly unhappy.
The ball ended up in the trees? “It’s your fault, caddy!” It Ianded in a lake: “You made too much noise!” No one could find the ball? “You should have been watching it!”
And then if one really hit a great shot—a hole in one—he wanted to keep it secret so he won’t have to buy a round of drinks at the bar.
Possibly I was given the worst golfers. I was smaller and less experienced than some of the caddies, who had gone to the Mira Vista Country Club in El Cerrito for years. I was only there for a few months: When one of the caddies pulled a knife on me and demanded a quarter I identified him to the manager, and he was fired. I’m lucky I left the course alive.
So it’s no wonder my golfing adventures didn’t last long either. After reporting on the Las Vegas Invitational and watching Jack Nicklaus and others, I had to try one of the courses with a friend later. Believe me, Las Vegas in July is no time for golf!
I did a bit better with miniature golf, though I came in third behind my daughter and son-in-law in Danville a few weeks ago, At least I beat my grandchildren. Aria, age 7, shot the ball into the creek on her first try. Bryce, age 5, ran through the revolving windmill, which hit him in the head and knocked him down.
So, Tiger, Jack and Arnold: Your records are safe.
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