In the curious geometry of life, it turns out that some of the best philosophers and psychologists in the world carry golf clubs for a living in Scotland. They are as tough and determined as sled dogs, and they are also generous teachers and spiritual advisers, raconteurs and even meteorologists when they are called on to be. One of the great privileges of my life was to work for two seasons in their company, and though I poured everything I had into this work and tried to measure up, if I were to return there and work for ten more seasons, I would still be learning from Neal, Big Brian, Wee Brian, Adam, Andrew, Gary and Jimmy, Kenny, Paul, Alan, Colin, John, Scottie, No Chance, Pots and Pans, Billy the Bullet, the Beast, the Goose, Donuts, Stretch, Johnny, Connor, Kim, Stevie, Kevin, Mark, Sean, Arthur, Gavin, Robert, Ian, Duncan, the wise old veteran Glen, and half a dozen Malcolms, including the incomparable Malcolm of Stirling, who held me up on my sixtieth birthday, and big Malcolm, aka the Whale, who once in a sleet storm took my glasses off for me and dried them when I was too cold to move.
I am grateful to my caddie masters for every round of work, especially Davy Gilchrist, who got me started, and good old Kenny McLeod in his red jumper up the road at St. Andrews Bay, who should be called by central casting if Hollywood ever needs a caddie master.
Every caddie needs a home, and I am grateful to Philip Rolfe, who runs the Scores Hotel to perfection and who always made me feel welcome in the Chariots bar, where my journey began and my long days often ended.
Long ago, after Bryce Roberts first showed Jack how to swing a golf club, there were some fine young golfers at the Algonquin in St. Andrews-by-the-Sea, New Brunswick, who taught my son a lot about the game: Marty Mitchell, Peter Young, Chad Parks, Matt Myers, Todd Duplessis, and Timmy McCullum, who could hit the ball almost as far as Jack grew up to hit it.
David Scott, a glorious golfer and one of the best people you’ll ever meet, was the first person I caddied for, and though I got all the yardages wrong, he never held this against me. While caddying for my son, I often turned to David for advice, as I did the fine Canadian golfer Gordon McGarva, who, in the summer of 2011, won the Victory Cup in St. Andrews, and Ray Farnell, an outstanding caddie on the PGA Tour who took a walk with me on the Old Course the night before he caddied his first round of a major. And there was the brilliant young Irish golfer Barry O’Neill, who helped Jack and me on the Adams Tour. I know that someday I will watch Barry play in the Irish Open, and if there’s any justice left in the world by then, he will be paired up with Rory McIlroy in the final group, on Sunday afternoon.
The friendship of John Carr, Zac Sherman, Charlie Woodworth, Mike and Pat Ciesla, Brian Durocher, Colin Harrison, David DeSmith, and the matchless writer Daniel Asa Rose carried me through this book. I owe them for this, as I owe Jim White of Toledo, Ohio, who was the first person to tell me that I had to go to Scotland if I wanted to learn to be a caddie, and his son, Jimmy, who has been such an important person in Jack’s life and in mine. The whole time I was away from home, I had the support of my old friends Glen York, Jim Sullivan, Jeff Sullivan, Ed Beem, Mel Allen (my first editor, “back in the day,” as Jack says), and Doug Eisenhart and his dear wife, Gilly, who grew up in Edinburgh and moved to the States and thinks me perfectly daft for loving her Scottish weather. It meant so much to me after Jack moved away when Jono Sexton would come to Maine from time to time and take me golfing out at Prouts Neck.
For the years when I was living this story, and then writing it, I had people in New York City whose belief in me made all the difference. Thank you, Victoria Pryor, Rich Morris, Lynn Nesbit, Jason Kaufman, and Robert Bloom.
Of all the fine philosophers I worked with in Scotland, Stevie Morrow, who walked me through some early season jitters, delivered the best caddie line I ever heard. “Don,” he said one sunlit morning as we made our way to the 1st tee of the Castle Course, “when I get stuck out there with a real wanker, I give him the bronze treatment instead of the gold, which means the same lousy reads but without the smile.” I have a deal with Stevie. When I am old and facing the end, I am going to ask Colleen to take me back to St. Andrews for one last walk on the Old Course with some of the old caddies who were still young when I knew them. I will wear my black rain jacket with the Links Trust emblem over my heart and the word CADDIE on my left sleeve. Stevie will help me out to the 11th green, and then we’ll turn and slowly make our way back toward the timeless embrace of the old gray town, and I will remember.