In the summer of 1956 I had just turned fifteen. I was small for my age, probably no more than five, five or at best five, six and couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred twenty-five pounds. My family was irrevocably broken, and money was dreadfully scarce. There were five of us kids to feed, and our Mother, the only wage earner, cooked at a local café.

During summer vacation I worked a hustle five or six days a week as a caddy at Inglewood Golf and Country Club, an elegant private course like one might imagine after reading The Great Gatsby, a book I would not read until ten years later when I finally found my way to college.

Inglewood was a four-mile walk down railroad tracks from my home. Besides the two dollar fee and the usual one dollar tip for each round I carried, the real bonus was they allowed us caddies to play the course on Monday mornings from the first light of dawn until noon.

I had scrounged a collection of misfit clubs that I’d found or bought for a dollar each out of a bargain barrel for lost clubs. I packed them in a narrow white canvas bag that resembled more an archer’s quiver than a golf bag.

I had never in my short life bought a golf ball. There were plenty of lost ones to be found just outside the manicured fairways under the rhododendrons and among the towering trees. I’d also stolen a few from the bags of some customers, mostly those few misers who never gave tips, but a stolen ball never seemed to fly as straight as one more honestly gained, and I always felt a twinge of shame after the theft. I’d already been taught the Thou Shall Not Steal commandment at the nearby Baptist church I attended with my sisters each Sunday morning, and Mom hammered it home every chance she got.

My golfer’s garb was also my everyday outfit—a pair of smooth-bottomed high top black Converse sneakers, blue jeans, and a t-shirt.

We kept score in our heads and jogged between shots. We never marked our ball on the greens or bothered to pull the pin. We played a hurry up game of golf and usually we could finish thirty-six holes before the noon whistle blew in the nearby town. None of us owned watches.

Toward the end of summer the caddy master who controlled our working lives and income, picked four of us boys, all seventeen or under, to play in the Seattle Junior Amateur Tournament to be held at Sandpoint Golf and Country Club. I had never before heard of the golf course nor stepped foot upon it.

The four of us caddies gathered on a summer Monday morning at Inglewood, and piled into the caddy master’s old car, jalopy more like. After he parked just to one side of the pro shop, he handed each of us a sleeve of three Titleist golf balls, the very first unblemished golf balls I would ever hit.

He instructed us to act like gentlemen as we were representing Inglewood that day. We certainly didn’t look like gentlemen in our jeans and t-shirts, but we worked for some of Seattle’s finest doctors, lawyers and businessmen every day, and had some notion of how they behaved. Actually, we didn’t realize it then, but we already were gentlemen. We had learned early on how to throw clubs, spit, cuss, fudge the ball with our foot, and pee behind trees.

The caddy master drove off then, leaving us to find our own way home. Apparently, in 1956 there was a minimum of adult concern for the welfare of young boys getting home on their own after a day of golfing only God knows where in Seattle.

I played in a threesome of boys about my same age. I remember little of them except that one was from Bellevue and the other West Seattle. I do recall they both wore real spiked golf shoes and their bags were nice smaller versions of the ones I carried for the members at Inglewood. We weren’t allowed to use the driving range to warm up, or take a few putts on the practice green to get the feel of the how they might roll that day.

The quality of the other two in my group’s play was similar to mine and we moved along up the fairways together as we should, following the rules of golf as best we could. My career as a caddy had taught me to replace my divots and rake the sand traps, making as few permanent dents in the golf course as possible.

At some point that day the play had slowed to a crawl. It was a difficult, hilly course, and tested us physically and mentally. My threesome had paused in the middle of the fairway waiting for the boys in front of us to clear the green so we could hit our next shots.

I had hit a splendid tee shot and was quite proud of myself standing there slightly ahead of the other two. Suddenly a cry of “Fore!” rang out behind us and a ball bounded fiercely by, coming to a rest dead center twenty yards or more past my ball. I looked back, and someone from the tee gave a friendly “sorry” wave. I thought nothing of it and we continued on.

The fore routine was repeated two or three more times, and I was becoming curious who this long hitter was. Every time I looked back the person would wave a friendly arm. No harm was done.

On the par three 15th, a one hundred and eighteen yard nightmare with sharp edges that tossed mis-hit balls down a steep slope, play had almost come to a complete stop. When we walked up to the tee, the group ahead of us had yet to tee off. We stood quietly off to one side of the tee box, waiting our turn. Golf often tests manners and patience this way.

Behind us, the following threesome stalked off the 14th green and started up the slope toward where we all stood. At last, I thought, I’ll find out who the powerhouse hitter is.

They greeted us quietly on the tee, with a quick apology from the source. I didn’t yet know her name or anything about her, but I could see for myself she was a force, a good five or six inches taller than I was and probably outweighing me by twenty-five pounds. She had expensive looking equipment, equal to any I’d seen, and she held court on that tee box like the regal young lady she was. Standing beside her for a few minutes made me feel more like the real gentleman l hoped to be.

I remember little else about that day. I vaguely recall walking down to Sandpoint Way from the golf course and hitching a ride out toward Bothell where I lived. Surely it was dark by the time I walked in the front door, worn out and hungry as only a fifteen year-old boy who’d played 18 holes of golf without lunch can be.

I’m certain Mom re-heated a plate of whatever my brothers and sisters had eaten for their dinner, and no doubt I studied my scorecard while I wolfed down the food. I had shot a respectable round in the low 80’s and was reasonably pleased with myself. I’d missed a few makeable putts and one sand trap had given me fits.

The next morning I turned to the sports news in the now defunct Seattle Post Intelligencer newspaper. She stood tall in the photograph smiling as an older gentleman handed her the magnificent trophy. As it turned out, she was the only female entered in the tournament and had beaten all of her male competitors.

Her name was JoAnne Gunderson, of Kirkland, not far from where I grew up. She was seventeen.

JoAnne would become a professional golfer and win forty-three times on the L.P.G.A. tour. She became a member of the World Golf Hall of Fame. As a collegiate player she was the N.C.A.A. champion while playing for Arizona State. She won the U.S. Women’s Amateur five times. As a pro she won the U.S. Open for women twice.

Her close friends on the women’s tour sometimes referred to her as “Big Momma,” not only for her industrial sized stature, but also for her kind and motherly manner.

And so it was, that the young girl who tried her best to bean me one hot summer day on a Seattle golf course, became an inspiration to me, not only for the improvement of my own golf game, but also as a beacon for my life. JoAnne, as an example of what it is to be a lady, you see, helped me become the very best gentleman I could possibly be.

John E. Irby
April 26, 2018