Caddie Quotes

“And even if he weren't, a person can't hold on to another person forever. At some point, their muscles give out, or the authorities get called.”
― Rachel M. Wilson, Don't Touch

“Dad used to read to me before bed when I was little, and if we heard the whistle, Dad would say, 'A train's coming to bring you good dreams.'
Tonight the whistle just sounds lonely. I don't think I'm going to be falling asleep anytime soon.”
― Rachel M. Wilson, Don't Touch

“When we locked eyes, the ease of his stare and the welcome of a smile made me feel like one of two fixed points in a hurricane. The building could have crashed down around us as he smiled, and I wouldn't have noticed.”
― Rachel M. Wilson, Don't Touch

“Fear tugs at me and I'm falling.
I grab at the mattress, dig in with my fingers, flop onto my stomach, hold tight. Press my face into the pillow so hard it hurts. The quilt twists like it wants to smother me.
I can't scream out loud, but there has to be some release. I kick my feet against the mattress in a muffled frenzy, legs flying fast and hard enough to carry me miles away. And when it's done, nothing's changed. I'm still stuck right here.”
― Rachel M. Wilson

“The mornings came hard, and our caddie master, Dick Millweed, had a temper that could make a hangover seem like a seismic fracture. He was a small man with a soft, friendly voice. He was not intimidating at all, until he lost it. In his defense, he took shit from all sides - from the members who wanted their favorite caddie and their preferred tee time, from the golf staff who wanted him to perform a million menial duties, and from us when we showed up bleary eyed and incoherent and sometimes didn't show up at all. And God forbid a caddie should stumble in late, because then Millweed's lips would begin to tremble and his blue eyes would explode from his head. They grew as large as saucers and shook as though his skull was suffering earthquake. And he appeared to grow with them. It was like some shaman or yogi trick. Pound for pound, I've never met anyone else who could so effectively deliver anger. He would yell, "You like fucking with me, don't you? You like making me look bad! You wake up and say, 'Today I'm gonna fuck with Millweed!' and it makes you happy, doesn't it?"

And we had no choice but to stand there and take it - hang our heads and blubber apologies and promise never to be hung over again, never to show up late again, because he held the ultimate trump card _ he could fire us and cut us off from the golden tit. But once we were out on the course walking it off, the hanover and any cares associated with it (including Millweed) evaporated into the light mountain air. And after the round, with our pockets replenished and our spirits restored by the carefree, self-congratulatory ebullience of the uberrich, we were powerless to resist the siren song of clinking glasses, the inviting golden light of the street lamps and tavern windows in town, and the slopeside hot tubs steaming under the stars. We all jumped ship and dined, danced, and romanced the night away and then were dashed against the rocks of Millweed's wrath all over again the next morning.”
― John Dunn, Loopers: A Caddie's Twenty-Year Golf Odyssey

“Even when you're keeping score, golf is all about focusing on the shot at hand, the total score being a sum of those shots. On magic mushrooms, each shot was an act of self-expression - a karate kick, a pirouette, a paintbrush stroke. The course was an aren, a stage, and a canvas.

That's the way it felt playing in the backcountry, too. Going beyond the simple visual appreciation of a landscape and interacting with it beyond the reach of the physical body. Launching shots across canyons and rivers and down mountainsides and beaches. The motion of the body determining the motion of the ball - its flight an extension of the body like a spider riding the wind on a silken thread or a perfectly cast fly arcing down onto the surface of the water.

This is the part of the game that is hard for nongolfers to see. You have to play to feel it. It isn't visible through the TV screen or from outside the picket fences and privet hedges. The forest gets lost in tress of tartan and argyle, visors and V-necks. Golf seems to be one thing but is very much another, and backcountry golf and mushroom night golf are as true to the nature of the game as any stuffy country club championship or Saturday Nassau or fourball.”
― John Dunn, Loopers: A Caddie's Twenty-Year Golf Odyssey

“The grille of the Caddie plunged right into the middle of the bonfire, scattering smoke and flames and bones to the wind. The Cadillac finally bounced and jolted to a stop among a rain of burning human skulls.

The voice of John Fogerty garbled and died. The driver's door opened and John flung himself out, clutching a sawed-off shotgun. He screamed, 'DID SOMEBODY ORDER SOME FUCKING PRISON BREAK WITH A SIDE OF SHOTGUN?”
― David Wong, This Book Is Full of Spiders

“I caddied—more accurately, I drove the golf cart—for Father O’Leary and his friends throughout most of the summer of that year. I was a good caddie because I saw nothing when they passed the bottle of whiskey and turned a deaf ear to yet another colorful reinvention of the words “motherless son of a bitch from hell” when the golf ball betrayed them.”
― John William Tuohy, No Time to Say Goodbye: A Memoir of a Life in Foster Care

“In the sleepy village of Lower Newton Falls, as they had promised their mother they would do the night before, the Lowery brothers [ages 12,10] rose early, ate their breakfast, packed their books, and headed straight for school. When a mile later they reached the turn in the lane that led to the schoolhouse, only Jack Lowery took it; Eddie [the younger brother] stopped and handed Jack his book bag.

'I'm not going,' said Eddie.
'What are you talking about?'
'I'm going to the [Brookline Golf] club,' said Eddie. 'If you had any guts you'd come with me.”
― Mark Frost, The Greatest Game Ever Played

“Jack, you can't go to school, you promised Francis you'd be on his bag tomorrow [for the 1913 US Open] Eddie whispered harshly.
'I know I did -'
'You can't do that to him, he's counting on you.'
'They caught me fair and square, Eddie, what am I supposed to do?'
'You're supposed to live up to your promises.'
'I can't do it, Eddie,' said Jack. 'Francis'll catch on with somebody else, you'll see. He'll be all right.'

Eddie remained unconvinced, but nothing he said could change Jack's mind. Before he went to bed, Eddie changed the bandage on his foot; there was a fair amount of blood soaked into it. He examined the wound and decided it would stand up to what he was about to put it through. It would have to. As he lay there restlessly trying to sleep that night, Eddie Lowery, tough and tenacious beyond his size and years [10 years old], had already made up his mind that it didn't matter what his brother decided to do.

Both Lowery brothers weren't going to let down Francis Ouimet.”
― Mark Frost, The Greatest Game Ever Played