The Tao of Creative Caddying
By Tom Renz

Chapter 2-The Pro

Every golf club has a head pro. His job is a thankless one. He must teach the game of golf to people who have as much adroitness in this area as there are snakes in Ireland. In addition, he must manage the pro shop, tend to the golf range, assure that all club tournaments run smoothly and, when time permits, hone his own golf talents. The result is often a cognitive and emotional meltdown.

Then there is the assistant pro. His job is the same as the head pro only he gets paid half as much. Assistant pros often take up mail carrying or retail sales after a few years. Montammy had a couple of lu-lus and one good one.

Tex Slater was a good old boy from down Houston way. He was big, buck strong-and shoot-just down right friendly. When Tex was being his goofy, friendly self, he would invariably come out with, “Say, why don y’all git pregnant?” Did not matter whom he was talking to. Man, woman or child got the same line, “Why don y’all git pregnant?” Unfortunately for Tex, that is exactly what the fourteen-year-old daughter of a prominent member did. See ya later Tex Slater.

Sonny, one oh one Martini, came by his nickname after shooting and carding that score in a local tournament. Alan, master of all caddies, told him you shoot one oh one you goddamn well had better not admit it. What you do, he told Sonny, is no-card then go throw your clubs in the fucking ocean.

Nathan Whitley spent three years as an assistant pro, and then got the big enchilada. He was part Cherokee with jet-black silky hair cut long. His chiseled face and physique was a direct effrontery to those members who had surrendered the battle of the bulge. An easy self-assured demeanor was the selling card Nathan used to convince the gods that be he could handle the head pro job.

Alan took to liking Nathan right off and showing him the ropes was a holy charge. “Don’t let these fucking cocksuckers intimidate you.” He would tell Nathan while giving him a neck rub. “They give you any shit, tell me and I’ll have a rabbit caddy for them the entire summer.”

Such endearing words bolstered Nathan’s confidence immensely. He began to learn the nuances and idiosyncrasies of each member’s personality. He was ambivalent toward most, disliked some, and had a tender spot for one.

Mort Zuckerman was a fifty seven year old Alan King wanna be. He loved to make fun of others, loved making fun of himself more. He smoked six long cigars and drank a fifth of scotch each and every day. The drinking began when his wife of forty years died two summers before Nathan’s arrival at Montammy.

Defying both their families, Mort and Edie eloped and married when he was seventeen and she was eighteen. He worked as a door attendant in a luxury apartment complex, she a waitress. Both attended college at night. They had two children during the time it took to earn their degrees. Mort then worked as a limo driver for movie and music people. His wit and lively banter soon got around and the rich and famous began calling the limo company requesting,” That funny Jewish kid.” Edie tended to the children and sold vacation lots in the Pocono’s over the phone. By the time he was thirty, Mort had become agent to several of the movie and music people he had once driven about. The seven Zuckerman children-Edie had hot been idle during this time-moved from their Brooklyn apartment to a starter mansion in a New Jersey suburb that at least was not overtly anti-Semitic. He joined Montammy at age thirty-two, primarily to make whatever business contacts he could. He learned to tolerate golf but not some of his playing partners. Over the years, he developed a reputation as somewhat of a gadfly. He violated some of the club’s sillier rules-the no tipping caddies being the most flagrant-and postured for more reasonable ones. His children grew and prospered. At fifty, Mort retired to spend more time with his family. At fifty-seven, his wife was dead and his children were spread throughout the country. His only true friends became his fifth of scotch and Nathan Whitley.

Friday afternoon’s Nathan and Mort would shoot nine holes together. Nathan marveled at the unbridled zest and-a new word for Nathan-”chutzpah”-that Mort attacked life with. Though noticeably in a state of clinical depression, Mort was able to make Nathan’s side hurt from laughter. Even from the after world, Mort could make Nathan laugh. He had been head pro six years and married three when Mort died. On his gravestone was etched:

SCHMUCKS!

I TOLD YOU I WAS SICK!

Nathan may not have been overly enthralled with some of the members but he sure did not mind taking their money. A select group of Montammy golfers were besieged with a desire to play, and hopefully beat, the pro.

With Sonny one oh one Martini it was like shooting fish in a barrel. When Tex Slater lost, he would just tell the members to “go git pregnant.” Going up against Nathan could best be described as benevolent butchery. It was hard to tell from his facial expression-always smiling-if he was winning or losing. Not so with the members. Grimaces and scowls would be followed by,” Another boide, Nathan, this is not right!” or, “The man is a gorilla. He is this. Vat, I don’t get more strokes?” From the non-Jewish contingent generally came, “Fuck it, let’s get a drink.”

The money Nathan extracted from the members was not that big, twenty here, twenty there. It added up though. Nathan lived rent-free at Montammy. He had a sort of apartment next to Alan and his wife Lois. Living room was also the bedroom, bathroom and kitchenette. Alan told Nathan he didn’t need anything more ‘til he got married. Which brings us to Susan Wills and Mort Zuckerman.

One fine and dandy day Mort decided it was just about time to bring tennis to Montammy. He did a feasibility study, sent out bids to construction companies, then presented his seventeen page typed, double spaced proposal to the governing board. Two days later one of Mort Zuckerman’s several son in laws was awarded the contract to build one pro style, eloquent but not gaudy, tennis stadium. Knowing he was on a roll, Mort advised the governing board that if you are going to have a tennis court you had better have a tennis pro. When they said, “Who?” Mort told them he had someone in mind.

Sometimes sitting in front of a blank TV screen with his fifth of scotch did not do it for Mort. He always took a taxi when he was on the prowl. Just some laughs, lively conversation, preferably with those of the fairer gender. Susan Mills was not fair; she was goddamn exceptional. Mort told her, after toasting champagne, that if she walked past a clock the darn thing would stop ticking. Susan liked that. Also, the way Mort treated her like a beloved daughter, not some Lolita itching to hop in bed with Humbard Humbard.

At twenty-three Susan had just about had it with men. Not quite good enough to make it on the pro circuit, Susan took private lesson jobs whenever she could get them. Her clients were male, rich and rude. That is what she told Mort over a bottle of champagne. Two days later, she was head tennis pro at Montammy. Having conquered his latest challenge Mort was beset with an emotional malaise. He spoke with Alan about it.

“Now what do we do?” He asked Alan

They were sitting in a golf cart observing the fifth fairway drinking perfect Rob Roys on a Sunday dusk.

“Gotta get these two kids together.” Alan responded

At first Mort looked upon Alan as if he was an obscure apparition. Then the plan was hatched.

The first go round of linking Nathan and Susan did not go round, or any other way. Nathan told Alan he was not hot on the idea of a blind date with a fellow Montammy employee, and Susan just wanted to give tennis lessons, thank you very much.

The direct approach having sunk miserably, Alan and Nathan-after several Sunday dusks on the fifth tee-constructed what they believed was a master plan of subterfuge. In fact, it was a rotten plan but they were both blitzed on Perfect Rob Roys so they shook hands and drove off into the sunset.

The following Sunday they put their plan into motion. Mort was to remove the distributor cap from Susan’s car, then wait for her to finish work. When she tried, and subsequently failed, to start her car Mort would make his way inside the clubhouse and call Alan. He was to have gently sequestered Nathan in his apartment under the guise of male bonding. When Mort’s call came Alan would be like,” Guess we had better see what the problem is.” Nature, reasoned Alan and Mort, would take care of the rest.

This was a rotten plan because, in the first place, Mort did not know what a distributor cap was or where it was located, and in the second place he and Alan were so giddy over potentially putting one over on the fates they were hopelessly crocked.

Mort opened the hood and stared at Susan’s 1972 cherry red Ford Pinto engine. He was befuddled to the point of fragmented reasoning. He figured if he could not remove, or even identify, the distributor cap he had better yank something or the whole glorious plan was going down the shooter. So he yanked the oil filter.

“Nuts!” Yelled Mort as oil squirted up on to his sportily tailored long sleeve white silk dress shirt. He stupidly tried wiping the oil off his shirt, and then, melding stupid with crazy, wiped his face. He now possessed the countenance of a minstrel. The members who witnessed Mort’s mad dash into the clubhouse appeared as if they had been zapped by a Martian ray gun.

Alan was in the middle of a tall one regarding his golf prowess when the phone rang. “Stay put!” Alan roared into the phone, then grabbed his shocking pink Fedora and Nathan. It took Nathan scant moments to re-align Mort’s misdeeds.

“Wonder how that happened?” Alan mused, thanking the good Lord and the stars above that he was not Pinocchio.

“Let’s find out,” Nathan said, nodding his head toward the clubhouse.

Susan and Mort were sitting at the bar. She was sipping club soda and he was knocking back double scotches like the four horsemen of the Apocalypse were on his tail One look at Mort told Alan dark times were upon them. After a few minutes of finger pointing and name calling the true nature of Alan and Mort’s antics were revealed.

“So,” Susie said, winking at Nathan, “looks like these old timers were playing cupid.”

Nathan took an ill advised venture into his right brain hemisphere to conjure up and image of the sun and alcohol beaten visages of Alan and Mort pasted upon the chubby little cherub bodies painted by Renaissance artists. This effort induced a brief psychic palsy, which Susan mistook for love quivers. She entwined an arm in his and sighed contently. Mort, elbows planted on the bar, chin cupped in his hands, staring at the new love birds, also sighed contently. Alan, the lone malcontent, kicked Mort’s bar stool, which caused him to collapse on the floor like a detonated tenement building.

“C’mon,” Alan said, tapping the near comatose body with his foot, “Twenty three skidoo. Let’s leave these two be.”

Mort was wobbling like a newborn colt as they left the bar. Alan was in parade march as he made his way through the clubhouse lobby. Mort, in fluid mimicry of legendry pilot “wrong way” Corrigan, veered left into a banquet hall. There, young Josh Rendell, along with three hundred fifty close friends and relatives, were celebrating his bar mitzvah. The fact that Mort knew not a soul in this festive gathering did nothing to dissuade him from joining in. He took a brief swipe at chanting Talmudic verse to the assembled but ceased after being shuttled toward the door by the rabbi, who thought he had seen it all. His intoxication beyond any prayer of retrieval, Mort began a long, slow sojourn around the perimeter of the lobby. Meanwhile, out in the parking lot, Alan realized he was alone.

“Fuckin’ Mort,” Alan mumbled, as he retraced his steps back to the lobby.

Mort was now rearranging the lobby furniture in order to secure a clear route when Alan bounded in. “Mort!” Alan bellowed. “S’matter, you drunk or something?”

Mort paused in his tracks to ponder the obvious, then said, “Yes.”

Alan spat on the lobby floor, grabbed hold of Mort and exited the clubhouse; again. They barely made it to the caddy yard, where Alan commandeered a golf cart, and, after heave-hoing himself up to his apartment to fetch two Tom Collins glasses filled with scotch and ice, headed off to the fifth tee for commiseration and contemplation. Alan and Mort nodded off shoulder to shoulder in a hybrid of alcohol haze and emotional serenity. The wood nymphs, fairies, and hobbits of Montammy gathered round and shared Alan and Mort’s dream wish of total harmony at Montammy. All the members had scratch handicaps, Tex Slater and Sonny one oh one Martini were relieved of their handicaps, and Nathan Whitley and Susan Mills raised a family of golf and tennis pros. It was a wonderful dream, enjoyed by all. There would, of course, be a mother-loving hangover come the morrow.

Such is the crazy life.