The Case to Have Homeless People Caddy for Me
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As I regale in the majesty that is the 2009 Masters Tournament, my thoughts turn to the time honored traditions of this great game of golf. I tend to think about the storied history, the celebrated champions, and the fact that I have never used a caddy for a round of golf.
I am never more aware of the caddy, per se, then when it is Masters’ time. The other tournaments see fit to let the caddies maintain a code of casual wear in order to stay cool and comfortable while lugging 40 pounds of iron for 18 holes. However, the masters of “The Masters” require that these minions in metal wear a uniform - the obligatory white overalls with the player’s names printed in green letters across the back. The last time I saw so many monochromatic overalls in one place was when I did sixty-days in county lockup… my lawyer assured me it was going to be a “country club,” but I knew it was going to be the kind of place where I would want to avoid having any “holes” played... I digress, sorry.
To be sure, the caddy must take on multiple roles throughout a round of golf – acting as the shallow-land shirpa, psychologist, and scapegoat. I like the sound of scapegoat best; and I believe that it’s high-time I hold someone else responsible, for mis-clubbing me, for mis-reading my putts, and for letting me wear these pants with those shoes. In addition, I remember hearing somewhere once that golf is supposed to be a gentleman’s game; and as a supposed gentleman, I should never ever have to engage in any form of physical labor - pushing, pulling, or carrying stuff is strictly the work of my trusty valet.
You say, “Get a motorized cart.”
I say, “As a gentleman, I shall still require the services of a chauffer.”
If Happiness is a Long Walk with a Putter…
I’ve never formally belonged to a country club. My brief membership with the folks at the Middlesex County House of Correction was only a misdemeanor membership – so I am operating under the impression that I still meet one of the eligibility requirements to be considered for the U.S. Amateur Public Links Championship. No, I am the proud player of muni-tracks. Occasionally I do contemplate selling a kidney and using the proceeds to pay for an over-priced round at some semi-private snobatorium, but both of my kidneys are things I really don’t mind carrying during a round of golf. I like to walk, in fact, my chief form of exercise is pacing. I just want to experience having the services of a caddy for a round of golf, and I want to do it on the cheap.
The Homeless Will Work for Food… I See Their Cardboard Signs Every Day
I would be willing to wager one of my internal organs (one of my kidneys I guess) that I could get a homeless guy to be my caddy for the bargain-basement price of five dollars and a hot dog after nine holes… with the open option to compensate him with one additional hot dog after eighteen holes provided he does a good job serving as my caddy. The accumulated labor cost would be fewer than ten dollars – one of those bumper-car golf carts will cost me twenty bucks. Just to be philanthropic, I’ll establish a charitable organization and call it “The Broken Tee Program®.” This phantom program will be organized around the idea of enabling society’s broken individuals to get some outdoor exercise, while attending to my need for a temporarily indentured servant.
The seven eleven, only a few miles from my house, is replete with potential caddies. I regularly see this one guy who resembles a clean-cut Mike ‘Fluff’ Cowan (that’s Tiger’s old caddy). I could conceivably create the masterful affectation of being Tiger-like… if but for a day while on a muni-track in Denver. I’ll supply my fluffy homeless servant with a set of white painter’s overalls stained with house paint (just to keep it ironically interesting), and even go so far as to stencil my name in green Sharpie on the back of the overalls. I’m going to have to check with my tax attorney Shep Silverman, but it should be possible to arrange a 501(c)(3) write-off for the whole thing too. After all, even the homeless know its Masters’ time, and if they don’t, well… we’ll have hot dogs.
