ON THE LINKS

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 58, Issue 185, 19 May 1938, Page 3

ON THE LINKS

ROLE OF THE CADDIE. EMBARRASSING HELPMATE. (By "Silver King.”) Caddies in Auckland who can give players really useful advice on the round are rare. Some of them, of course can play the game better than the men whose bag they carry, and they can often impart their knowledge to advantage. But most local players are satisfied with “.bag carriers" who can keep up with them and occasionally find the ball without the assistance of the player—admittedly often a matter of some difficulty. On the other hand, caddies in Great Britain—not lucre lads in their early teens, but veterans steeped in the knowledge and traditions of the game—do everything but play the shots. Often this is perturbing to the player, as the following story from an American amateur in England will illustrate. For years I had read about the obstinacy of British caddies—how they virtually played the game for their members by selecting their clubs, lining up putts and advising players on distances. So proud were they of their part in each round that it just wouldn’t do for anyone, British or visitor, to disagree with them. Stories had it that several Americans, over for Ilyder or Walker Cup matches, disregarded the information of their caddies and found themselves alone on the course. Their bag-toters had left them promptly and returned to the caddie shack to get another kit of sticks. The treatment accorded us in Scotland naturally, caused me to forget the eccentricities accredited to caddies abroad, but my companion, Wilford, and I were soon to learn the truth. It hit us between the eyes, so to speak, at the Royal St. George’s Club at Sandwich, England, where we figured in the St. George’s Vase event and then in the British amateur.

In the professional shop we signed with the registrar and were told caddies had been provided. .Bad fog had settled and we decided not to play the first day, but said we’d like to meet our caddies. The caddie master called them, by number. My companion's worker was a' slick-haired personable fellow of about 30, with a ready smile, who said his name was Cecil.

“Imagine me getting a caddie with a name like that?’’ Wilford whispered with cupped hand.

“Chawles" Introduces Himself

Out of the fog, finally, came my caddie. He looked like something the sea had washed up. He wore-a sailor’s hat. Horn-rimmed glasses hung far out on a pointed nose. Stuck on hjs 6ft 3in frame was an ill-fitted sweatshirt that might have been comfortable for a man half his size. The sleeves dropped just below the elbows. His pants, too, were short and tight and cut off inches above his shoes. Shoes! What shoes he wore—seven-mile hoots! “I’m Chawles,’’ he volunteered. I learned in the next few minutes that he was 44, the father of six children, had caddied all his life, rode a bicycle eight miles to and from work, that lie knew golf upside down and inside out and that with his help I’d have no trouble reaching the semi-finals. Nothing to it at all if I’d listen to him.

The following morning he was early on the job, waiting for me. Before driving, Chawles, ranging high over me, gave full directions as to where to place the tee shot. I got a straight one to my surprise, and figured on getting ‘‘home” with a spoon second on the 412-yard hole. The turf was waterlogged. I asked for the spoon, but Chawles had a spade mashio, all set for me. I told him I’d play the spoon. Instead, he chirped, in a squeaky voice: “Toik th’ spoid and ’it it.”

All right—all right, I decided just this once to give hint his way. Off of a side-hill lie came a beaut of a shot that reached the green, eight feet from the cup. He said nothing. American caddies would have beamed and offered at least a complimentary word. But not Charles. No, indeed. He took the shot for granted. No Practice oft Green. On the green, Chawles, arriving there first, was lining up the putt. First behind the bail, to the cup; then behind the cup, to the ball. Holding a club behind the hole, to indicate the line he had chosen for the putt, he told me: “You ’it it ’ere—don’t let the green fool you. You borrow six inches, and ’it it firm. Green’s wet. Just ’it it for the back of the cup.” He stayed right there behind the hole in my line. Guess I looked at nim instead of the ball , for I missed the bloomin’ thing three inches to the right and then tapped it in for a good enough par four. Immediately Chawles picked the pill out of the hole and started off the green for the second tee, 75 yards away.

“Give me the ball,” I yelled at him. But he either didn’t hear or wasn’t bothered. He kept on walking all the way to the tee. When I reminded him that I wanted to practice putting and had to have the ball lie simply told me: “Ye don’t do any practising, on th’ greens ’ere. They ’nve a green hack at the ciub’ouse for practice.” And that was that.

Chawles and 1 just weren’t going to get along. That was obvious. On no fewer than three holes that lound Chawles handed me the “spoid” when I wanted a longer dub, and twice, trying to flit too hard, T dug up turl badlv and splashed mud in my face. I wish you could have seen his expression. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His looks were enough to show what he was thinking.