Mark’s Kaddy Korner

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Everybody told me to go to the Post Office, someone would help me with accomadations. My duffel bag was slung over my shoulder and I went searching for the bar. Usually, at every tournament site there is a caddy bar. You can find your buddies and pick their brain, what’s left of it, about a cheap motel, restaraunt, or general knowledge about the area. I wasn’t expecting this treatment, but it sure made my week easier.

Bruce was a big part of the Masters; he lived and breathed for this week every April. He made the week special for a lot of us; he was the master of caddie ceremonies at Augusta. There were a few nights, organized by Bruce, that brought us all together. Professional caddies weren’t quite accepted yet in Augusta; there were a few cold shoulders walking around outside Augusta National gates. Bruce thought we should hang together, try to win over the locals, and promote ourselves in a positive light. Any trouble from us might bring major retribution from Augusta National. “They kept us out a long time, I don’t want to lose our privileges,” I heard him say a few times. Bruce considered it a privilege and honor to carry a bag around Augusta National.

Every night back at the Motel 6 caddy compound Bruce would organize a gathering. There would be a bathtub full of beer, a card game, sports on the tube, a pleasant haze in the air, and all the caddie greats talking shop. I just sat there, watching and listening to all the stories, and without Bruce I would not have been a part of the scene.

The fifth anniversary of Bruce’s death is coming up and I got to thinking about our buddy………

He didn’t have to call me over to the bar but he did. I was sitting by myself at the Post Office bar across from Augusta’s main entrance. It was my first trip to the Masters, by luck, I hadn’t earned it like the rest of the caddies gathered at the bar. Bruce spotted me, walked over, and even though I was still a stint, invited me to join them. He introduced me all around-the other caddies weren’t as hospitable-and then spent the next half hour trying make my first Augusta trip enyoyable.

He helped me with my accomadations (Motel 6 with the rest of them) and invited me out to dinner the next night at T-Bonz Steakhouse. If I remember right he even picked up the tab. Thoughout the week he made a special effort to make sure all was going well. He took me through the registration process, introduced me to the caddy locker room staff, and told me about Augusta formalities. He explained the do’s and don’ts; he didn’t have to do all this, but he did it with a smile.

Everybody knew Bruce and he had a kind word plus a contagious smile for everyone. He didn’t treat this caddy job as drudgery and low level servitude; it was an honorable profession. There was never a negative thought uttered on the course or in the general public. Among friends in a private setting you may get some criticisms from him, but around the course he was always positive and upbeat.

Every player wanted him on their bag during Tom’s off weeks, and Bruce hardly ever turned down an offer. Walking a fariway with a bag on his shoulder was sheer pleasure, almost better than sex, I once heard him say. When you were out with Bruce it was best to take notes because you were going to get a post graduate caddy degree. He did the little things that go unnoticed, and made sure everyone in the group minded golf etiquette. I saw him inspect other caddies raking skills and wouldn’t fail to let someone know if they forgot a divot. It wasn’t malicious; it was his way of putting a little respect into the caddy corps.

We were never close friends, didn’t travel or room together, but I always enjoyed my brief chats with Bruce. An early morning coffee chat in the caddy wagon or cart barn was always enlightening or humerous. He had a biting sense of humor, and his Philly sports teams couldn’t be messed with. He was quick witted, intelligent, and spoke with a flare. One morning in Hawaii I noticed a little slur to his speech and he wasn’t his quick self. I asked him if he’d had a long, rough night. He said he hadn’t and I thought nothing more.

A few months later the word started to travel; Bruce had ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease. It wasn’t possible, a nice guy like Bruce; but you couldn’t get any better than Lou Gehrig, could you? These diseases are indiscrimate and Bruce was definitely afflicted. At first we didn’t notice the effects, but his speech began to slur more and more, and his energy was sapped. The smile was still there.

Bruce was married on the Hualalai beach at sunset about six months into the disease. She was an old friend he’d met early in his caddy career, they went their seperate ways but kept in contact over her beloved Cowboys and his Eagles. When she heard about the disease she offered her help. Two family members had been afflicted; she had an emotional tie to ALS.

It was a simple ceremony with all the caddies and players present. Jack, Arnie, Gary, Raymond, Tom and their wives were there but never took center stage. It was all about Bruce and the love they shared.

Just before the ceremony Watson pulled a couple of us aside and asked for our help. Bruce wasn’t going to last long walking the courses, and he wasn’t going to quit either. Tom wanted him out as long as he possibly could so he wanted Bruce to ride a cart. Bruce despised carts, but the alternative was worse. Tom wanted us to convince Bruce and help him get tour approval. There’s no way we could say no, Bruce had made caddying a profession. He was an idol and a friend.

Bruce struggled but carried on for awhile. He made it through Tom’s memorable 2003 U.S. Open appearance and tried to avoid the cameras. His final days it was still about the player and the game, it wasn’t him. Bruce always felt he was lucky being a particpant at the highest level of this grand game. He battled to the end and remained as close as he possibly could to the game he loved.

Bruce passed away at home just before the first round of the 2004 Masters. He was awarded the 2003 Ben Hogan Award by the Golf Writer’s Assn. the night before at a Masters dinner. The award is presented to the person who remains active in golf despite a debillitating disease. His wife and parents accepted the award, brought it home for Bruce to see, and he passed away the next morning. The Masters was special and he chose to move on during the first round.

Bruce was also one of the most organized, almost anal, people on tour. Bruce chose to pass away when all his friends were close by. Ponte Vedra was conveniently located because all the tours were in the Florida area at the time. That was Bruce, always had things mapped out, even when the chips were stale. Many times I heard him say, “we’re going to have fun figuring this par out”, after a wayward tee shot. There was never a negative, and on this day he made sure things were in order.

When they announced his death telecaddy fired up, and we all made plans to be there for Bruce and his family. The Champions Tour caddies came in from Pensacola, PGA Tour came from Augusta and Hilton Head, and the LPGA was somewhere in southern Florida. It was somber but it was a celebration also.

Everyone was milling around outside the church, telling Bruce stories, but didn’t want to face the reality inside. The music began and we were seated. I gazed around the sanctuary and made note of the variety of people assembled. It was tribute to Bruce, the person, and the caddy. John Feinstein was in front of me, and I thanked him for the great book, Caddy for Life, he wrote about Bruce. I was able to read the early days about Bruce, but wasn’t able to finish it.

Tom Watson stood behind the pulpit and bellowed, “no crying, no dour faces, Bruce wouldn’t have wanted that.” He chastised us all and made us understand what Bruce meant to him and to life. Bruce was that positive layer which sheltered him throughout his career. Whenever I got down, he knew how to pick me up. He knew how to throw a jab when someone needed it, but was there with a shoulder to lean on soon after the jab.

“In our thirty years I never witnessed a negative bone in his body. He was opinionated and so was I, but we survived. It was a tribute to his personality, not mine.” Tom went on and on about how a high school kid from Conneticut helped him achieve excellence on the golf course, and peace in his personal life. We were a team on and off the course.

I was entranced thoughout the eulogy. John Feinstein had tears streaming down his cheeks. They had grown very close over the last year. Only Bruce’s wife had spent more time with him; you could tell there was a deep admiration. Later that day I overheard John relating a story about Bruce.

Apparently, when they first met years ago sitting on the Augusta clubhouse front porch, Bruce discussed raking a trap. John concluded that anyone who could passionatlely elaborate on trap raking techniques for 45 minutes must have a special appeal for life. Bruce carried that passion thoughout his life and everyone recognized his zeal.

When we arrived at the cemetary Bruce’s parents were seated under a canopy waiting for the coffin. I introduced myself, and briefly related my 1989 Masters story. They both smiled and Dad said, “that’s Bruce.” There must have been many similar stories, I was glad to be part of one, and a small part of Bruce’s life.

To this day, if I’m raking a trap or replacing a divot, I complete the menial task because of Bruce. There are a lot of caddies out here these days who would definitely benefit from that morning cup of coffee with Bruce; or beter yet, a couple of competitive rounds with Bruce and Tom. We don’t miss Bruce; he’s one of those guys who is constantly by your side. He’ll be watching, making sure we rake those traps properly and replace all of our divots.