Cast of shadows

Caddies quietly, professionally handle the load

By Jim McCabe, Globe Staff, 8/28/2003

Thousands of people were spread out over Oak Hill Country Club recently as the 85th PGA Championship in Rochester, N.Y., attracted enthusiastic spectators -- even for a Monday in which only a small percentage of the players got on the course.

The few players who did show up grabbed their share of fans, though it's doubtful any of them took note of the guy with the big, white mustache walking down the middle of the fairway alongside a young man wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. Even when Mike "Fluff" Cowan and John Wood stopped to write things in books they would later stuff in their back pockets, surely no one paid them much mind.

"And I know nobody saw him walking the course again Wednesday night, all alone, long after the place had cleared out. No way people saw him," said Wood, the caddie for Kevin Sutherland, in reference to Cowan, the caddie for Jim Furyk. "He's been out here a long time, but he's still doing his job like that? People don't see that."

All the while he talked, Wood had the towel going, furiously wiping the grips to Sutherland's clubs. His man would be ready to go momentarily, which meant Wood had been ready to go for close to an hour. The grips had been done once, now he was doing them again, just to be sure, but was this Sutherland's personal towel? The one Sutherland constantly has in his hands before he chips and putts?

"No, it's mine. I always take two towels, one for a backup," said Wood, a proud smile breaking out. "But I've never lost Kevin's."

He is prepared. He is passionate. He is loyal. Most of all, he is serious about his profession.

Which makes Wood very much like the huge majority of his fellow PGA Tour caddies.

Even if most of the time they are grossly overlooked and underappreciated.

. . .

The caddie has always been a part of golf. Sometimes, the relationships between player and caddie have been publicized for the way it flourished into friendships, like Francis Ouimet and Eddie Lowery decades ago and Tom Watson and Bruce Edwards today. But all too often, people will take the profession for granted, uttering the stale and unfair joke that a caddie's job is to "show up, shut up, and keep up."

"We hate to hear that," said John "Cubbie" Burke, who works now for Davis Love but was with Brad Faxon for years. "I don't want to overstate our responsibilities. [The players] are still the show. They hit the shots. But all the caddies out here take a lot of pride in their work. They're professional and they're very [obsesssive] about their players' comfort so they can perform to the very best of their ability.

"There are a lot of classy guys out here."

More times than not, you only read about a caddie when a mistake has been made. Or when a player changes his caddie. Or when a high-profile name such as Tiger Woods is caught in a public disagreement over club selection, as he was with Steve Williams at the Masters this spring. The caddies understand it comes with the job description. They know players have little security and caddies have less, but you can't blame them for bemoaning the fact no one seems to take into account that great player-caddie relationships far outnumber the bad ones.

"Let's face it, he spends more time with me than my wife does," said 21-year PGA Tour veteran Dan Forsman, who for years has worked with caddie Greg Martin. "He's a close confidant, someone that I can spill my inner-most feelings and insecurities and fears and hopes and dreams to. He's going to take it all in. He's going to try and work with you and be a team. I think that's what it's become."

Forsman is not just offering lip service. He is a man of his word and for proof consider the anguish of the 2002 Bay Hill Invitational, 18th hole of the third round, the quest to get into the hunt a very real possibility. Forsman's playing partner, Brett Quigley, had hit into an awkward spot short left of the green, in rough above a bunker, but with his stance on a sprinkler head, there would be a free drop.

Standing by and thinking he could lend assistance, Martin retrieved the ball when it rolled into the bunker. Quigley remembers thinking, "I don't know if he should be handling my ball, so I'll drop again." Carelessly thinking the first drop shouldn't count, Quigley took another. When that went into the bunker, he dropped again and right there was Mistake No. 2 because you're allowed two, not three drops. Mistake No. 1 had been committed by Martin. Indeed, you are not allowed to touch an opponent's ball that is in play.

Both players were disqualified -- Quigley, because he didn't factor in the penalty shot for the illegal drop and thus signed an incorrect scorecard; Forsman, because his caddie is technically an extension of him.

It hurt Forsman, in desperate need of a boost on the money list. But despite the public's perception that players routinely fire caddies, Forsman demonstrated a sense of loyalty that is more prevalent than people think.

"We all make mistakes," said Forsman. "But we've come a long, long way -- 18 years. That's 18 years of a lot of things that he's done for me. I recall when he pulled a club at the [1992] Buick Open. I wanted to hit 6 [iron], he said, `Dan, it's a 5. You hit 5 and you can get it there and make birdie.' He was right. I made birdie and I went in a playoff and won the tournament.

"So any time we all want to be quick to let somebody go, you have to say, `Hey, wait a minute here. He's been there when I've needed him. I have to be there for him.' He made a mistake. He's forgiven. I've made a number of mistakes and he's stayed on my bag. He hasn't fired me."

A number of longstanding relationships prove how this loyalty is a two-way street. Phil Mickelson and Jim Mackay. Freddie Couples and Joe LaCava. Hal Sutton and Freddie Burns. Rocco Mediate and Pete Bender. Tom Lehman and Andy Martinez. Greg Norman and Tony Navarro.

"I don't think John Q. Public thinks the caddie is as important as he has become," said Forsman. "There's only a select group out here who knows how to handle the Tour player, how to be in the environment, in these conditions, how to calm the crowd, how to be there when you need him, how to back away when you don't.

"Caddies are important. There's no question about it."

They come from all walks of life, these guys who lug the heavy bags and eat the cold, stale sandwiches, and put in the long, thankless days in the sun, then sit in some out-of-the-place caddie shack.

Burke ran a ski shop in Duluth, Minn. Wood was friendly with Sutherland from the Sacramento area and loved working outdoors. Cowan was an aspiring club pro in Maine who got fired halfway through his first job and realized he wasn't cut out to be a club pro. Martinez discovered the game as a teenager in Southern California, won a junior club championship at 15, and knew he wanted to be involved in it forever.

Different routes, but one common denominator.

Love, feel for game "These guys love the game," said Forsman. "And when you have a love of the game, sometimes as a player you feed off of that."

That explains why they show up long before their player arrives in the morning, why they stay well into the day, why they come into town a day ahead of time to walk the course, why they carry enormous bags, why they put up with the substandard treatment that is often extended them by tournament organizers.

"I would say it's become as competitive amongst the caddies now as it has amongst the players," said Martinez, who made his professional debut on Grier Jones's bag in 1968. That most likely makes him the senior member on Tour today and certainly one who can speak for how the profession has changed. Martinez mentions technology, agronomy, television, and larger crowds as aspects that are most obvious, but one thing hasn't changed: The financial rewards.

"There is so much more prize money that there are more guys who can make a decent living," said Martinez. "But I still don't think there are as many guys making a decent living as some people think. People think we get our expenses paid."

Said Cowan: "People think that we all make 10 percent or that there's a big pool that we split."

Those perceptions are off base, of course, as are others that gnaw at the caddies.

"I think there's still the old stigma about caddies, the hard drinking and hard living," said Burke. "That doesn't apply anymore. Our lifestyle is hard, just from the sense of the travel and being away from home."

Indeed, they are a humble lot for the most part, guys committed to their profession. So much so that you won't often hear them boast or take credit, even if there is a sense of pride over their track record. Connecticut native Greg Rita, for instance, worked for Curtis Strange on those US Open triumphs in 1988-89 and for John Daly at the stunning 1995 British Open win. Cowan has a Masters (Woods, 1997) and US Open (Furyk, 2003) win to warm his spirits. Wood was side-by-side when Sutherland won the Accenture Match Play Championship in 2002 and while he knows his man hit the shots, he can take pride in knowing he lent valuable assistance.

"There's a big difference between being a caddie and being a good caddie," said Wood. "You have to think of things before your player and be ready when he asks."

Many times, the most important tasks are the basic ones.

"When he walks out of that [clubhouse] door, I want him to see me," said Cowan. "I don't want him looking around for me, wondering if I'm there. I need to put his mind at ease right away."

Easy? It sounds that way, as does much of what the public considers a caddie's job to be -- carry the bag, rattle off yardages, clean the golf ball at the green, hold the pin. Only it's not an easy job, even if the public can't be convinced.

"There's not a lot of respect for our profession," said Martinez, who can remember the days when players were banned from using professional caddies in the Masters and US Open (which is why he didn't get a chance to carry in 1973 when Johnny Miller recorded his historic 63 to win at Oakmont). "You have to be good at what you're doing and you have to have the benefit of working for a good guy, too."

A guy such as Forsman, who recognizes the worth of a good caddie.

"It's a common-sensical job," said Forsman, a five-time winner. "But unfortunately, that's not so common for a lot of people. It's not an easy job."

Call it his just reward for having such an understanding and loyal friendship with his caddie, but six months after the snafu at the 2002 Bay Hill Invitational, Forsman won the Pennsylvania Classic. So did Martin.