Stolen Golf Balls

At some point in every life, we are all asked to carry a burden for another who is deemed more important. That is the job of the caddy. In the primal essence of the task, even if never having set foot on a golf course, we have all caddied for someone. 

Aside from the couple of times I worked delivering newspapers my first real paying job was as a caddy at the San Francisco Golf Club. The golf course is a beautiful and pristine venue that was and is enjoyed by a small membership of about three hundred wealthy and powerful men. During my employment, the group of caddies consisted of a bunch of local high school boys and older men most of whom existed barely out of the grasp of homelessness. On weekend mornings, the eclectic group of caddies would materialized from the aforementioned origins and take their places on the benches in front of the caddy shack. Each caddy hoping to get an early job or as we called it a “loop” and make a little money. The bags would begin to emerge from the pro shop and Ray, the caddy master, would call out the names of particular caddies to carry them. The first Saturday, I sat for hours waiting as all the other caddy’s names were called and did not get a job. I went back on the following Sunday, got my first loop, and my career as a caddy began. 

For the sake of the story it is important to understand the pay structure that existed back in the day. A member was required to pay a caddy eight dollars for working an eighteen hole round of golf. If you were paid ten dollars then the compensation was fair and it was a good loop. If you were paid less than ten dollars then that person was cheap and you never wanted to carry their bag again. If you were paid more than ten dollars then that was a great loop and you wanted to caddy for that person every weekend. In my career as a caddy, I had many people who gave me ten dollars, some that paid me a little more and only a few that were of the cheap variety. 

I think it was about my third or fourth time getting a loop that I met Mr. Quigley. I was sitting on the bench when I saw a large leather bag brought out of the pro shop. The more experienced caddies around me seemed to be strangely dismayed by the bag but in my naïveté I just saw it as an opportunity. When my name was called I was happy as I came forward to claim my loop. I picked up the heavy bag and proceeded to the first tee where I was met by Mr. Quigley. He offered me no introduction and simply asked for the driver. I gave it to him, he hit the ball, and off we went. Mr. Quigley was a terrible golfer and his inability to hit the ball remotely straight had me hiking all over the course in pursuit of him and it. It was a very long day without the hint of pleasantry or kindness but that was ok; I was getting paid. At the end of the round I handed Mr. Quigley my chit to be signed. He took it from my hand and on it he scribbled his name, membership number, and the amount I could redeem from the pro shop. I did not look at it immediately I just said thank you to which he responded with a quick nod. On my way back to the caddy shack, I glanced at the chit to see what he had paid me; the amount was $8.50. I was so disappointed that I could not hide my upset when I received my pay. The assistant pro looked at me as he handed me the money and his expression said that he understood my disappointment. His acknowledgment of the slight provided a small consolation but in my mind it did not make up for being shorted the $1.50.

The second time I caddied for Mr. Quigley I had the five hours of the round to think about my eventual substandard pay; in my deliberations, I came up with a plan to interject some fairness into our working arrangement. The 18th hole at The San Francisco Golf Club is a long par five. The golfers have to walk back to the tee while the caddies head down the fairway two hundred or so yards from the tee box. This separation left the me alone with the big leather bag and all its contents. Back when I caddied a good golf ball cost about a dollar and with that in mind I decided to levy a little tariff on Mr. Quigley. I opened the bag and took out a brand new ball and stuck it in my pocket. I rationalized my theft by internally labelling it as a forced one dollar tip to augment the substandard $8.50 I was going to receive. When Mr. Quigley signed my chit I was all smiles. I could feel the stolen ball in my pocket.

Mondays were the day that the course was closed for maintenance and so on that day the caddies were allowed to play as much as they wanted for free. I remember laughing as I pulled the stolen ball from my own bag and tee it up for my round with other caddies. I did not feel guilty, but I did not delude myself by internally claiming to be completely justified. I had stolen a golf ball from a member’s bag and if discovered I would rightfully be fired. My perception of the injustice done to me had softened the hard edges of my conscience and in that state of entitlement I had just decided to do something wrong to force my version of fairness. I caddied for Mr. Quigley a couple more times and each time I stole a ball from his bag but soon even that failed to satisfy me or quell my hate for the man. Toward the end of my stint as a caddy, I remember seeing Mr. Quigley’s big leather bag come out of the pro shop and making the decision that I would not work for him. I knew if my name was called I would have to accept the loop so I decided to escape. I casually walked around the hedges surrounding the caddy shack, ran across the driving range dogging the flying practice balls, climbed down the cliffs to Brotherhood Way, and walked home. I did not need nor want his $8.50 or his golf ball. 

I think about times I stole the golf balls from Mr. Quigley. It was just a few golf balls but along with the life I subsequently led it has given me a certain understanding. I have never married nor do I have any children. This lack of responsibility for the welfare of others has allowed me to be intolerant of people and situations that I deemed unfair or repugnant. I have never stood quietly when confronted with behaviors of a supposed superior. I never took any disparaging remarks from a boss in stride. I would respond in kind and quit. I would like to be able to claim that my decisions were based on a high standard of personal integrity but I know that most of my stands were made possible because of a fragile temperament and an easily provoked defiance of authority. I am also quite clear that because I was only responsible for myself I was able to escape any of the dilemmas caused by collateral dependance. I have always had the unfettered option of simply walking or in some cases running away. 

My story is one of individual choices and consequences but what about those who are beholden to others. Those that for the sake of loved ones, must toil in unfair conditions while being barely compensated by the Mr. Quigleys of the world; those people who, while struggling to survive, are presented with a way to make some extra cash by breaking the rules or in extreme cases the law. The single parent who works relentlessly hard to earn just enough money to raise their children, the breadwinner of a family who must stay in a job they hate and endure superiors who mistreat them because it provides health insurance for their family that they could never personally afford, or the man or woman who has bills they can barely pay or monthly obligations that cannot be met. Can they really be expected to stay honest and true to the golden rule when constantly confronted by inequities that provide others with unfair advantages? Should they take refuge in and be soothed by the words “the meek shall inherit the earth”? Those words are easily spoken by those who have much but hard to follow for those who have little. I would never argue that it is a righteous act for someone to steal or take criminal advantage of circumstances in an attempt to seek their own version of fairness; nor will I ever make the case that if discovered a transgressor should go unpunished. What I will say is that in many cases I can more than understand why they do it. After all, once upon a time, I stole some golf balls.