Chapter 1

OK, so I was a college senior, about to graduate, and I was still caddying at the local country club. Not a very high-falutin' job for someone only millimeters away from an honors A.B. degree, about to confront the infamous Job Market.

But, hey, caddying -- at least at Brookdale Country Club, is a reasonably high-paying job. The flat rate for a round maybe isn't anything to write home about, but folks at Brookdale are not members of that club only because it's got the two best golf courses in North Carolina that are not named "Pinehurst."

No, they're members because they've got the extremely large amounts of excess cash necessary to become members. And so, most of them (not all, God knows, but most of them) tip the caddies awfully generously.

I'm well-known around Brookdale. I'm a local boy. Well, I sorta am. My folks live in Raleigh, about 40 miles from here. But I've been a caddie, at Brookdale, ever since high school. This is my eighth year working there, weekends. And, since becoming a college student and living closer, I've been there several afternoons most weeks, as well. Brookdale provides employment almost the whole year 'round in our mild North Carolina climate.

By now, I pretty much know my way around the place. The caddie master, Rob Kendricks (unlike many people who hold his position at other clubs), is a square-shooter who doesn't cheat the caddies and who has friendly, professional relations with all the young men and women who work for him. Rob takes no bribes, plays no favorites, fucks nobody over.

I get asked for, by name, to caddie for a whole lot of the members, men and women alike, and I go -- willingly and cheerfully -- with any member who asks, no matter how poor a reputation that member may have for being a lousy player, or a lousy tipper, or even both. I figure it's all part of Life's Rich Pageant.

The caddie's share of the flat rate for 18 holes isn't that much, but it's the rate I figure I've agreed to take, in order to work at the club. If the person who hires me decides to stiff me at the end of the round, or if he/she gives me an insultingly small tip, I just doff my cap, give him or her a big smile, and wait until next time.

I'm not a golfer myself -- at least, not a serious one. I learned the game from my dad on a nine-hole public course in Raleigh that is a genuine slum compared to Brookdale. The grass in the first cut on Brookdale's fairways is far superior to the putting greens at my "home" course.

But I learned the game and, despite not being a particularly good player, I learned to love golf, too.

If needed, and asked for, I can provide, after eight years caddying, some pretty damned good advice about club selection, course peculiarities, and any other arcane issue that might arise in the course of somebody's trying to break 90 on Brookdale's troublesome Course Two.

There's a little old lady -- Laura Hoop -- who still plays occasionally with three other women. Mrs. Hoop always asks for me by name. I know Rob Kendricks hesitates to repeatedly tag me with rounds with her, because he knows Mrs. Hoop is a terrible tipper, and that her play is so slow it's likely to be the only round I can get in for the entire day -- even on a weekend.

But Rob is only human. He also knows that, unlike a lot of the other caddies, I won't give him a lot of grief for having assigned me to old Mrs. Hoop. So if I'm available when she shows up, she gets yours truly -- Smiling Young Will Everett -- just as she (always) asks.

Several times, though, the other women in her threesome have had mercy on me and have slipped me $10 or even $20 bills after their round -- covert extra compensation for the single dollar that Mrs. Hoop apparently still thinks is perfectly adequate -- just as it had been, back in 1957, when she played her first round at Brookdale.

"How much did she give you?" Rob always asks when the round is, finally, completed and I'm back at the caddie shack.

"A dollar," I always answer -- truthfully enough. Mrs. Hoop really did give me only a dollar. If the other women, between them, have slipped me twenty, or even more, well, that's not what Rob asked me about. Let him feel guilty. Let him admire me for my even temperament.

Well, Mrs. Hoop may be an out-of-date tipper, but she knew a good caddie when she saw one, and it turned out that once again, word-of-mouth was going to work in my favor.

It was a Sunday morning -- very early. The dew was still heavy on the Number Two course, and most of the regulars wouldn't be around for at least two more hours.

I was one of only three caddies waiting around, that early, for work.

"Will! 'Got one for you." It was the caddie master, Rob Kendricks.

"Hey," Buster Franklin, another waiting caddie, protested. "I'm next up!"

"So you are," Rob agreed, "but this player wants Will. She asked for him by name." In Rob's operation, member preferences, if they could be accommodated, outranked seniority and any other factor in determining assignments.

"Who is it?" I asked, figuring it would be one of my regulars.

"It's Tess Henderson," Rob said. "She just may be the best woman golfer you've ever seen!"

"I think I've heard of her," I said, "but I don't know her. How'd she hear about me?"

"'Ton 'a Tits Tess' Henderson is Laura Hoop's granddaughter," Rob said. "Tess told me that her grandmother said you were the best caddie there was."

"'Ton 'a Tits?' What kind of nickname is that? It's not like you, Rob, to speak so disparagingly of a member!"

"It's not disparagement, College Boy," Rob said, smiling. "It's the girl's regular nickname. Just about everybody calls her that. Not to her face, maybe, but I suspect she's well-aware of the name. When you see her, you'll see why."

"Who's with her?" Buster Franklin wanted to know. "Doesn't her partner need a caddie?"

"No partner," Rob said. "Tess is on the varsity golf team at UVA. She's going to play a practice round -- maybe two. That's why she's starting so early."

I hustled out the the first tee and found Tess Henderson standing just off the tee, alone, taking practice swings with a three wood.