E.J. Budrowski

                                                                            Two years later
                                                                           September, 1975


I'm a caddie now and have been ever since my last job at the bottling plant. I have to say that this job suits me much better than my four previous jobs. For one thing, I can show up when I want to or not at all if I don't feel like working any particular day. For another thing, I like working on a golf course. It's pretty out here and peaceful.

So peaceful in fact, that going to the golf course was my only refuge from the constant turmoil around my house during my high school years. Back then, I sought the solace of the golf course whenever I could. It got me away from home and the incessant harangues of my father, aimed at both my mother and me. My mother turned to alcohol to dull the pain. I turned to golf.

I spent hours on the golf course, playing and practicing endlessly. I was smallish in size and not very well-built, but I was flexible and wiry and could hit the ball a long way. I would go to the course after school and often wouldn't return until it was too dark to see. I became quite good and played number one on my high school golf team.

With all the time away from the house, I never studied, and my grades were only mediocre--mostly Cs, occasional Bs, though always an A+ in math. Of course, this was another sore point with my father who claimed I would never get into college with such atrocious grades.

Eventually he managed even to ruin golf for me. I was playing in the last pairing in the finals of the state championship during my senior year.
Whether my team won or lost depended on the results of this final match, as both teams were tied at this point. It came down to the 18th hole where I needed to sink a 5-foot putt to halve the hole and extend the match to a playoff. As I prepared for the putt, I glanced at the crowd of onlookers around the green and spotted my father among them. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I could hardly breathe. I had never before felt such pressure on the golf course. When I settled over the ball, I froze for a few seconds. When I was finally able to stroke it, I tensed up and left the ball hanging on the lip of the cup, but it never dropped.

That night at home, my father said to me with disgust, "The only thing you're halfway good at, you find a way to blow. How will you ever manage to succeed in life if you can't stand a little pressure?" How indeed? I never played again after that.




Today I was caddying for an old fart named Bertram Olsen. I was still hung over from the previous night's excursion to the bar and was perhaps a little wobbly on my feet. As we were passing by the pond on the second hole, there was a clump of grass clippings in my way that was left by a mower on this dewy morning, so I kicked at it. My foot came down wrong and caused me to lose my balance. I started to topple, but Olsen grabbed my arm to keep me from falling into the pond. I stayed dry, but unfortunately his clubs didn't; his bag slid off my shoulder and landed in the pond where it promptly sank to the bottom.

"I'm so sorry Dad... uh, Mr. Olsen." Boy, was he pissed! He berated me for my clumsiness and swore I'd never caddie for him again. He then hollered at me to go in there and get his clubs out. Fortunately, the pond wasn't too deep right on the edge, so the clubs were only about two feet down. I took my shoes off, rolled up my pant legs and stepped in. It was squishy on the bottom, and I nearly slipped. The bag was full of water now and was quite heavy, but I managed to lug it out and lay it on the side of the pond to drain.

Olsen ordered me to go back to the Pro Shop to get some towels to dry everything off, so I rinsed the mud off my feet in the edge of the pond, put my shoes back on, and hoofed it back there. I had to tell the caddie master what the towels were for, and he was not pleased to hear it. He drove me back down to the second hole in a cart so as not to hold up my group any longer than necessary. He apologized to Olsen for the mishap and offered to replace the bag if it ended up being ruined after it dried out.

Right then a frog crawled out of the bag and hopped back into the pond. I thought that was pretty funny, but no one else seemed amused at the time. I proceeded to take out each club and dry it off as best I could.

When the round was over, Olsen gave me the required minimum for the loop with no tip. Guess I couldn't really blame him.