Back in the 1970s caddies referred to each other as Looper, pronounced loopah in New York, as in, “Hey, Loopah!” Caddyshack the movie came out right as my looper days were ending. Our real caddyshack was more fun than the one in the movie. We also referred to it as the caddy yard more than caddyshack.

The YardThe Yard

My friends and I started looping at the local country club the summer before freshman year of high school. It was a summer job for us, but not for the group of black men who made their living carrying members’ bags. We all shared the same space in the caddy yard, although the full timers had their own lockers in the back room. The main part of the shack was open on all sides, with just a roof to protect us from the summer sun or unexpected downpour. Occasionally an errant drive off the first tee would come screaming into the yard. That was scary. There was an old table and a few chairs in the middle of the space, with long benches along two sides. That table was where we played cards. I probably spent more time sitting at that table, waiting for a loop, than I did actually caddying.

TonyTony

The yard was run by Tony, an older Italian American who was officially the caddymaster, but also a very busy bookmaker running his business from the pay phone between the yard and the golf pro shop. He would have probably been labeled a “mafia associate” by a law enforcement agency if they were doing an investigation back then, but no one was investigating. In fact, I don’t ever recall even seeing a policeman at the country club. Tony was an expert multi-tasker. He assigned us to golfers and barked orders to the locker room employees, all with the phone to his ear as he jotted down bets with a pencil into his little notebook. Every August he would leave for Saratoga when the race track opened. It was his only vacation, if you could call it that.

We all loved Tony. He was a walking, talking stereotype. He was gruff, always chomping on a cigar. He wore the country club uniform collared shirt and pants held up with suspenders. He tried, but he never looked like a country club employee. When he got angry, which happened frequently, his normally high pitched voice would rise an octave or two, in sort of a Joe Pesce way. We all tried to imitate him when he was out of earshot. He looked out for the caddies. He particularly took care of the older black men, who would wake up while it was still dark to take the Long Island Railroad from their homes in Queens to our town’s train station, then walk the half mile to the country club.

The older full timers got the choicest loops. The yard was a meritocracy. They were simply far better caddies. They were much stronger than us, and they knew more about golf than the members whose bags they were carrying. We didn’t mind at all. We were in awe of them. They put up with our adolescent antics. Some gave us fatherly advice, while some kept to themselves. There was one man, known only as Mr. Butler, who scared the hell out of everybody, though I never saw him get angry. In fact, he would never speak to anyone. He was very physically powerful, lifting the two big golf bags to his shoulders effortlessly, in one motion. He also was considered the best “clubber” in the shack. That meant he could advise a golfer on which club to use for each shot, taking into account the distance to the pin and the golfer’s ability. He always got the best loops. I never knew his first name. Everyone else went by first names, but he was Mr. Butler, as in, “excuse me, Mr. Butler”, if you passed too close. We all stole each other’s newspapers to read the sports page or to check the day’s races, but no one went near Mr. Butler’s newspaper.

The yard broke down demographically into three distinct groups. You had the professional caddies, who were all adult black men. They were at the top of the food chain, and got priority in everything. Then, you had young men, either local guys or commuters from the city, who didn’t have many prospects for employment and were just trying to make ends meet. Some had drug or alcohol problems. This group was racially and ethnically mixed. That didn’t seem to matter in the least to anyone, as far as I recall. Age and caddy skills meant more than skin color. We were the third group, white kids having summer fun and earning a few bucks while fully intending to go to college and get better employment in the future.

GutsGuts

We sat around the card table and played a game called guts. It is a simple game, with the dealer choosing to play either one, two or three card hands. Bluffing is key. Pots got big quickly. We would gamble our caddy earnings whenever we weren’t on the course. None of the older guys would play. Most of us had been playing poker since we were kids anyway, so it was an easy game to pick up.

My father was not a gambler, nor did he want his son to be a gambler, so I avoided talking about the card games with him. I recall once losing a big pot, and having to sneak home to grab some money from the savings I kept in my room. Luckily, my dad worked six days a week and my mom was busy with housework.

One day, I was in the middle of a game when my father walked into the caddy yard. I was in shock. I didn’t even think he knew where it was located. He called my name, and saw me sitting at the table in front of my stake with cards face down in front of me. We looked at each other. He said “finish your hand, and then let’s go. Your grandmother is in the hospital.” He didn’t embarrass me in front of everyone. I was surprised that he didn’t give me a hard time for that at all, even after we got in the car. By the way, my grandmother recovered from that health scare.

I still remember the going rate. For a loop, 18 holes, we would get eight dollars per bag. A good tip would be two dollars on top of that. When we were young we would only get to carry one bag, a single. As we got older and more experienced we graduated to a double. We were always paid in cash. My friends and I could usually count on an extra few dollars (at least) from winnings at the card table. We were by no means hustlers, but some of the local guys who hung around the yard were, well, really bad card players. We didn’t cajole them into sitting down at the table. They all wanted in on the action. As a result of this experience I had an unrealistically high opinion of my own card playing abilities. When I moved to Los Angeles that notion got abruptly destroyed. I got quickly cleaned out by housewives and little old ladies at the poker tables in Gardena.

"The Worst Caddy Ever""The Worst Caddy Ever"

I do recall one incident that almost got me fired, if that was even possible. In retrospect, it did give everyone a good laugh. Some of my old buddies still remember it, all these years later. I have to give some background information: Most experienced loopers did not want to caddy for a woman. Fair or not, women had the reputation for being nasty and cheap. Women did not tip. They usually couldn’t hit the ball too far either, so you were constantly picking up the bags and putting them down as you walked the fairway, and playing 18 holes took forever. Tuesday was ladies day. That was a good day for me if I needed work, because none of the good caddies would show up on ladies day. This one ladies day I was hanging around the yard with a friend of mine, and Tony gave us each a double. It was a ladies foursome. I was happy since I didn’t often get a double at that point, and ladies bags were lighter. We were happy to be together, since there would be time to mess around and catch up during down times.

From the first hole, one of my golfers was giving me a hard time. She wanted me to tell her what club to use for each shot. I knew a little about the game at the time, but she was not a good golfer. I tried my best to match a club to her ability, but she wasn’t happy with me. She would only hit the ball ten or fifteen yards. Despite this, she still asked advice for every shot. After a few holes I responded “it doesn’t matter” when she asked. She was insulted by my answer.

Around the seventh or eighth hole she hit her ball into a sand trap. It was on a steep uphill incline. The shot was making her nervous. I gave her the sand wedge and tried to be encouraging. She was still a bit angry at me. She entered the trap, set her legs, and started her backswing. I don’t know exactly how, but she fell over backwards into the trap, with her legs swinging in the air. She was in her sixties and not very agile. What was worse, she was wearing a skirt, so her underwear was on full display. I couldn’t help myself. I laughed out loud. So did my friend, and so did her friends. She didn’t find the situation amusing in the least. And guess who was to blame for this? Now I was getting a little frazzled. She was barking orders at me. I had to rake the trap that she had messed up, and it was also my turn to “tend the pin” on the green. What that means is the caddy removes the pin from the hole. When each golfer putts, the caddy holds the pin vertically over the hole so the golfer can line up the putt better. When a caddie has two bags, you rest the pin, which was long and heavy back then, horizontally across the two bags you are holding while moving around the green. This whole process was new to me. I rarely carried two bags. My other golfer asked for her putter. As I swung around, Mrs Personality suddenly moved in the wrong direction, and got impaled in the midsection by the metal end of the pin as I turned to hand the putter to the other golfer. This was not funny. She doubled over in pain, then fell to her knees. I knew it couldn’t be too bad an injury, because I didn’t hit her that hard. My buddy on the other side of the green burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter. I’m not certain, but I think he had been sneaking off to smoke a joint between holes, and was thoroughly enjoying the scene. He was so beside himself that he dropped both bags. I felt bad for her, but laughter is contagious. I did my best to control myself, but a few chuckles escaped. This time her friends didn’t see the humor at all. I tried to help her, but she didn’t want me anywhere near her.

We walked the ninth hole in silence. Well, not complete silence. She told me repeatedly that I was the worst caddy ever (she may have had a point) and that I would never work in that club again.

I walked back to the yard to await my fate. Usually golfers took a half hour break after nine holes anyway, but I knew I would not be walking the back nine. Tony wasn’t at his usual spot. I was sure he was getting an earful from my golfer. When he emerged he began screaming at me: His voice must have gone up three octaves. He began with his favorite exclamation: “Jesus Christ, Siggy, what did you do to that lady?” Then he let out a bilingual stream of obscenities directed at me. I didn’t understand Italian, but I was fluent in Italian American vulgarity. All the other caddies seemed to be enjoying the show. It WAS incredibly fun to watch Tony erupt, even if you were on the receiving end. Then he told me to go home before the foursome came out for the back nine. I tried to explain what happened, then asked if there was anything I could do to make things right. He shook his head and said “No. Now go home. See you tomorrow.” That was it. It was over. I couldn’t believe I wasn’t fired.