Cast of Caddy Characters

Article by Mark Huber - 20 Year PGA Tour Caddy

BIO - Mark's Kaddy Korner

 

Most of them are all gone now. In the late 80’s the characters were still aboard the PGA Tour’s traveling circus. Convicts, conmen, de-filed lawyers, drunks, bums, shysters, hippies, Rastafarians; all walks of life were carrying bags for professional golfers. Brother James, Lost Lee, Penitentiary “Work with me” Larry (he had a bunch of names), Golfball, Big Lee, ol’ Lee Lynch, Hobo, the Russian, Levi, One Armed Mikey, Dolph, Fluff, Boats, Egal; I’ll add to the list as we go on.

The caddy yard had a variety of smells, looks, and feels back then; the boys weren’t quite as prim and proper. The clothes were often hand-me-downs from some pro cleaning out his trunk, or they could be borrowed from some merchandise shop on the course. Many guys would show up the next week with a couple of new shirts with last week’s tournament logo, ratty pants, and you knew they couldn’t afford the shirt’s price tag. They all got by somehow; you didn’t ask any questions or try to piss anyone off. There could be a knife or club waiting for you in the parking lot. Moosehead Ed, Squeaky, Sampson, Creamy, Roadmap, Sully, Shitty, were all part of the cast of characters. Each one of us was probably running from some life difficulty; we didn’t talk about our pasts to often. It was all about some immediate gratification; cheap motel for the week, good cheap breakfast, cheap cold beer, cheap hookers, cheap drugs, cheap anything. We only wanted to get by for the week and move on to the next town. You couldn’t appear above even the lowest of caddies; you had to maintain respect for the guy who was down and out, unable to find a job. Walter Montgomery, usually found sound asleep anyplace on the grounds, had caddied for over a dozen wins but couldn’t buy a job these days. You still had to give him a bit of respect. There was an odor and an air about him. Walter would be sound asleep sitting in a cart; guys would walk by him and gently tuck a twenty in his pocket. In his day he was a “caddyin’ mo-fo” the brothers all said. Downwind Vick was the best till the car accident and brain damage. Now you couldn’t stand next to him, the odor was so bad. All the clothes he owned, he wore, and he would sleep in the woods. He could really go before the accident, all the old pros would say, it’s just too bad.

There were a lot of similar vete ran caddy stories when I came out in 1988. The transition from vagabonds to college professionals was beginning; there was a new breed filtering in each year. Bad Luck Chuck, Big Artie, Little Red were finding it hard to get work. Bruce “Little Red” Berry helped Wayne Levi to four wins and player of the year honors in 1990. He was destitute and couldn’t find a job a few years later. The horse track and booze will get you out here if you let it. Moosehead Ed worked for John Mahaffey and Leonard Thompson before he decided to become, Stella. We watched his coming out of the closet show on the Jerry Springer Show. Players and caddies gathered around the fitness trailer TV at the Mixed Team Championship (how appropriate), watching a taped version and not believing our eyes or ears. It was Ed Clampett explaining his story and actually looking better as Stella than he ever did as Ed. His job resume didn’t work very well after that expose. We still kid John and Leonard about being to tough on him and driving him over the edge. Golfball, Mitch, Preacher Man, Leroy, Seymour were all good in their day and I learned from them a bit. Golfball helped me with Raymond. Slowing him down when he was playing well was the most important thing I could do. “Grab his belt loop, tug it a bit, and say slow down a bit Fat-boy, enjoy the walk. That ball ain’t going anyplace now,” were Ball’s words of wisdom. Raymond said he always had trouble getting to the tee on time, but once he was there he sure knew what to do and say. “I was leading Pebble Beach once, and Golfball showed up Sunday on the seventeenth tee box, grabbed the bag and said come on boss I’ll get you home from here,” Raymond reminisced. That takes balls doesn’t it. Those old caddies sure had, I think it’s called, moxy.

Those old black caddies didn’t take a liking to me very quickly. Big Lee had worked for Murph for years and in their eyes I was stealing a black man’s bag. Standing at the end of the range one day, watching Murph hit balls, one of the old black caddies, Seymour walked up behind me. “You better watch it kid, you might get stuck; you got a black bay here,” he whispered. I turned quickly, looked in his eyes, and could tell he wasn’t kidding. A little later Murph returned to the bag, Seymour had left, and I asked Murph who he was. Murph said, “That’s Hale’s old caddy. He was a good caddy, kind of bitter these days, I wouldn’t trust him.” I didn’t tell Murph what had transpired but did heed his words. Seymour never bothered me much, but always made a point to try and intimidate me. I was working for Barry Cheeseman and we were in the Tuesday long drive contest. I was sitting there, chewing a bit of Skoal, and I started to spit. Seymour was a few feet away, brandished his knife discreetly, smiled and said, “don’t get any that shit on me rookie boy.” I got the message and spat downwind away from the crowd.

When I got to the Senior Tour with Murph, Smitty, Bob Charles caddy, introduced himself and said, “So you’re the whitey who took Big Lee’s job.” You learn to deal with it but you don’t like to be thought of as a thief. The Growler, Minnesota Mike, Boston Mikey, Fitz, Scraper, Gypsy had all made names for themselves, and I was slowly accepted among their ranks. I could stand close to their conversations, discreetly eavesdrop, and if I didn’t open my mouth they wouldn’t walk away or quit talking. They’d let me near by but still didn’t want to listen to me. My first encounter with the Growler in Doral’s first fairway wasn’t the most pleasant. There were no cordial introductions on the first tee so I decided to introduce myself walking to our second shots. “Hey Lynn, I’m Mark. Heard you played some minor league baseball.” Before I could continue he spun, growled, “who cares and who told you,” with menacing eyes. I think I was set up by some boys, and we didn’t talk the rest of the round. Lynn “the Growler” Strickler was notorious for speaking his mind and not being very friendly with strangers. He’d worked for all the big names and once told Payne Stewart his philosophy on caddy yardages. They were playing in Hilton Head and Payne kept getting even yardages from Lynn. They were always ending in zero or five. Finally Payne asked Lynn, “How come I never get a 132 or a 168 number?” “If it’s a two I round down and a three I round up because none of you guys are that good,” the Growler scruffed. He didn’t work for Payne much longer but his reputation was intact.

Boo, Dolph, Boats, Beauty, Smiley, Punk were all working for some top notch players; and I tried to work my way into their ranks. It took awhile but I managed. They allowed me in after a couple of years proving myself on and off the course. Not only did you have to show your caddy skills, but traveling skills were recognized also. If you could jump in the car Sunday afternoon, drive all night and be ready for afternoon cocktails Monday afternoon, you were admired. Dolph and Boo always held court Mondays and Tuesdays and Punk was always wondering about your long drives (vehicle), and the route you took. My coast to coast drives moved me up the caddy ladder quicker than my caddy skills. I was rather flexible. I crossed the Canadian border with Penitentiary Larry and camped out with Brother James. Lost Lee and Pablo were often given floor space or a closet to sleep in for free; they were usually jobless. I attended many Major League games with Squeaky, Cubby, and Joe. Squeaky always brought his glove, and was almost in tears when he thought he’d missed out on a foul ball while he was at the hot dog stand. You should have seen him when we were two rows behind home plate and Nolan had no-hitter going in the eighth.

Gradually you find your niche, and it’s usually with the other caddies who are just starting out also. Rodney, Kevin, Quad Todd, Brit, Egal, the Whittle brothers, Montana, Visorhead all became room mates and road trip buddies. You got along with most everyone around the course but you weren’t true friends until you spent at least one week together, traveled cross country, or spent the night sleeping in a rest area or truck stop. The Springer bothers always wanted me to travel with them; they didn’t like to drive and I didn’t like to ride; we made a good pair. I was without a car that first year; I couldn’t have made it without some of these guys. Those were your true mates and the ones you clung to during the rough times. Father Murphy, Butchie, Buchna, and Satch were always had a room walking distance from their watering hole. They usually put in a couple of shifts during a day. I was flat broke one year and Father Murphy gave me his next to last twenty. “Here’s twenty, I’ve only got forty, just make sure I get it back before Happy Hour tomorrow,” he said. There was a big heart underneath that polluted exterior. The boys were always smiling at the bartender and fighting with each other; it was quite the scene.

The cast of characters has dwindled and the fun has slowed down. Everybody goes their own way these days; you try not to depend on to many people. That interdependence helped cement friendships back then; now they are just brief acquaintances. You may spend Thursday and Friday together on the course but your name is forgotten the next week. Everybody is so worried about themselves and how they come across. Most everyone is afraid to speak out fearing it might reflect poorly, get back to their pro and cause a bit of friction. Years ago what happened off the course stayed off the course; or it might be a source of amusement during practice tee talk. Pinecone had a bit of a fetish; he liked to dress up as a girl. It wasn’t a problem back then, he was a good caddy, we just laughed at him and shook our heads. He has trouble finding a job these days; players are too concerned about public appearances. Players loved to hear about our evening exploits, conquests, and consequences. Murph turned to Todd and I one time as we were discussing our evening plans. “God damn it you guys are boring. I want to hear some good pussy stories, maybe have to bail your ass out of jail or something. We used to always have to bail somebody out of jail each weekend. Give us something to talk about, would you,” he demanded. I guess each generation of caddies mellowed or became professional, take your pick.