Joe Garrity and Caddying.

Joe Garrity is the winner. He just beat the shit out of a dude while wearing running shoes. 

I've mentioned my life as a caddie on here multiple times. I've actively tried to repress as many of those memories as possible because of all of the torment and anguish that comes with thinking about how many hours of my life were wasted away on the golf course. This past summer was the only summer I didn't caddie in almost 12 years and I don't think I missed it very much. When I talk to some of my old caddie buddies I cringe at their complaining because the pain is all too familiar. I thank god I'm not them.

I got an e-mail a few days ago from a good friend of mine and a longtime caddie who plans to do what almost every single one of us has said at some point in the past 10+ years. Joe Garrity has decided to write a book. And I couldn't be more excited. 

For years, hundreds of caddies came through "our" country club but only 10-15 of us stayed and suffered. The others were smart to get out quickly. But the ones that stayed...we've lived and we've seen some wild shit. We had seen kids hospitalized after falling off the back of golf carts, we had seen kids pop their retainers out of their mouths to take titty shots (Tom, you had to be the luckiest 13 year-old on the northwest side of Chicago), and we had also seen cop killers on the run get arrested in the pro shop. And we made a shitload of money doing it. 

He was kind enough to send me a short sample of what he wrote and I'm unbelievably impressed at how well he captures the bitterness we've all grown so used to. I found myself laughing while asking, "Why the hell did we do this to ourselves?" 

Please take a minute to read it...

The Invitational tournament is the most miserable three days of the summer for a caddy, but the money draws us like moths to a flame. For three days, caddies endure the grueling heat of late July in the hopes of landing a high paying loop, partially for the money and partially for the chance to throw it in other caddies' faces. Hundreds of affluent golfers flood the golf course, packing the parking lot with bewildered guests. There they stand, looking around helplessly, weighed down by massive bags with collectible tags from every golf course they have ever been to. Why they don't just cut the shit and wear their salary on their foreheads is beyond me.

"How do I get to the driving range?"
"Follow the signs, sir."
"Where did my clubs go?"
"We put them on a cart, sir, just like we said we would when we took them."
"Hey kid, is there a bathroom around here?"
"We have bathrooms inside, sir." 

You slowly realize how helpless these full grown men truly are without underlings to hold their hand for even the most basic tasks. The fourth time a fifty something year old CEO gets out of his Cadillac and immediately asks you where the bathrooms are, you're not sure whether he expects there to be a stall in the middle of the parking lot or you to have a spare bedpan on hand. By this point, your response is so heavy with malicious sarcasm that you're surprised it doesn't put a hole in the asphalt between you for the idiot to piss in.

"Generally our bathrooms tend to be indoors, our club is old fashioned like that, but they may have moved them outside for the tournament."

The man is so used to being taken seriously and being catered to that he looks around expectantly.

"Eat the rich!" screams a voice in the back of your head as you watch him become confused again and revert back to helplessness.

"The bathrooms are inside, sir."

I wonder if he'll know what to do when he gets there.

He's off to a great start. I can't wait to read more and I hope I somehow can help him out. 

Hey Joe. "Don't forget to tend the flag when you're pulling the pin." But this time make sure the pin you're pulling is the one of a grenade. Blow that motherfucker up. I'm rooting for you.