based on a true story

It is difficult to say how old the Old Course at St. Andrews is. It's been known that gentlemen have wandered the cliffs overlooking the shore, whacking balls around with wooden sticks since the 1400s. There is still a public tradition within the course, where qualified visiting golfers can sign up for a daily lottery and any time slots that are not reserved by members are randomly assigned to these visitors. My father and I signed up for the lottery and were given a 6:50am tee time. My dad, of course, was giddy at the prospect of playing the Old Course, and he wasn't dissuaded by the early time or the fact that we'd have a two hour drive to St. Andrews from Edinburgh.

"We have to wake up at 4 in the morning, but you know you're a golfer when you have to get up so early."

"Oh, dad, let me tell you about some of the retarded hours that I had to pull for my bike rides ..."

So, that's how we found ourselves at St. Andrews in the early morning, watching sunrise over the North Sea. Or, really, watching a general brightening of the grey clouds as the sun rose somewhere because: North Sea weather. The crowd was my father, myself, other golf pilgrims at the end of their Hajj, and the caddies of St. Andrews.

When I imagine golf caddies, my mind goes to the men that I've seen in country clubs that I've visited with my father -- polished, preppy and wholesome. The caddies at St. Andrews look like truck drivers and beneath the grey sky of the North Sea, they were forming their own pale cloud of cigarette smoke. My father had opted to splurge on a couple of caddies for our game, and I wasn't one to deny him that treat. I'd never played with a caddie before so was also curious to see what that would be like. As 6:50 approached, two of the them detached themselves from their flock, stubbed out their smokes, and approached us. One of them looked at my golf bag and just asked, "Och, so who fucked this up?"

And he just started pulling clubs out of my bag and re-arranging them, setting them in proper order as I just smirked and said, "Hi, I'm Cris. that's my bag."

"and you're teeing off at 6:50, yeah? I'm your caddie. Name's Tom. Good to meet you."

( Read more... )

"So, what brings ye to Scotland, then?"
"Golf with my dad."

The bartender is one of an impeccably attired quartet of stewards attending this polished oak bar with a fantastic Scotch collection. He had answered my initial query for a warmer with a dram of Bunnahaibhan 12 year, and at first displayed that practiced, quiet deference of a five-star hotel employee. However, I think my answer brought out the Scotsman in him, because he smirked for a second and said.

"Ah, golf. You Americans are all alike. Here for the golf."
"Hey, I'll let you know I have a Canadian passport."
"Ah, right, Canada. Your lot are so distinctive that you need to paste maple leafs all over your baggage because otherwise nobody else could tell the difference."
"Oooh, point. But how many Americans this week mistook your accent for Irish?"
"I don't know. Some of them may have been Canadian. But ... fair point. World's full of ignorant little bastards."

( I think I like this country. )

The idea for travelling in Scotland, to spend a week playing golf, was my father's. He proposed it four years ago, and for the last three, I had resisted. My reservations were various, but the reasons why I changed my mind over those years were also diverse and different. Still, one of the conditions that I wanted my father to meet was to let me pull some weight on this trip. I can understand why it was important to him to do this trip with me, and to demonstrate in certain ways, that he could still provide experiences such as these. I also know him well enough to know that he is happy when things are done a certain way to a certain standard. But I also wanted him to recognize that I was an adult, that I had plenty of my own travels, and could do certain things on my own. Let me book my own flights. Let's talk about the itinerary. Let me pick some of the restaurants that I want to pay for. And, yes, since we're going to have to drive, let me take care of the rental car and the logistics of getting us from place to place.

This is how I found myself leaned over a Hertz rental counter in Glasgow, early in the morning and looking into the blue eyes of a sales agent who was trying to get me to buy the upgrade and me saying, but not saying, "oh you want to play? Right now? Ok, friend, let's go."

( on being mindful of what one wishes for )