Nick was short, overweight, and not beautiful. As caddy master Nick had a deal going that if a caddy wanted a loop — carrying a golfer's bag for eighteen holes — he had to pay up. The going rate the summer of 1957, just before I started high school, was 15 cents for one bag and 25 cents for two bags. I once carried three bags, but Nick only charged me a quarter.

Small as it was, Nick had a dread of any club member seeing him take the bribe. During my first month as a caddy, I committed the egregious error of publicly trying to give Nick money. He looked at me as if he was St. Francis of Assisi and I had asked him to step on some birds. He saw me later and told me never to do that again, and then he took my 15 cents. St. Francis accepted donations.

I knew curse words before I started to caddy, but they were mundane compared to the lurid lexicon of the experienced caddies. Their language became particularly colorful when they played cards. Poker was the game of choice.

Because it smelt of cigars and urine, no one went into the small caddy room except in bad weather or to play poker. I had been caddying for over three years when I became a "made man." In caddy land, this meant playing poker with the men. Lucky me.

After playing a couple of hands, I felt as if I was walking through a minefield. I was betting more money than I ever had before, and if I made a stupid play, I would be taunted as "a dumb kid." Scariest of all was the fact that some of these guys were belligerent losers.

Things were all smiles and jokes if they were winning, but if they started to lose, especially to a kid, their banter turned to verbal assault. In a malevolent tone of voice they would snarl, "You're a lucky#//!*#, but it ain't going to last."

Fortunately for my stomach — and perhaps the rest of my body — things worked out great. I lost all my money and didn't say, or do, anything too stupid, according to the older caddies code of social graces.

One senior caddy was different from the rest. "Skeets" never cursed or gambled. He was tall, thin, and walked with his head and shoulders slanted forward. It looked as if he had to focus on every step to keep from falling down. Looking back, I think he must have been at least in his early 60s. He caddied every day — always carrying two bags — and sometimes for 36 holes.

I caddied all through high school and got to know Skeets pretty well. In the spring of my senior year, Skeets told me he had married a younger woman and that he had recently become a father. I was incredulous and envious.

My last memory as a caddy involves Skeets. It was late afternoon and the sun was the background as I watched Skeets walking down the fairway of the first hole, the heavy golf bags stretching the skin on his normally wrinkled face like a tight drum. As usual, he walked with a tilt. He told me before he took the loop — he had already done 18 holes that morning — that he had to go out again because his baby needed shoes. I knew as I watched him go down the fairway I would never see him again. I would be going away to college and would not be returning.

In the more than 50 years that have passed since I first gave Nick that 15 cents bribe, I have often thought about my experiences as a caddy. My clearest memory is always of Skeets, with the afternoon sun illuminating and enveloping him, walking down the first fairway to pay for his baby's shoes.

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