‘Jimmy Dunne Says’

The Palisadian-Post presents an homage to Will Rogers’ column, “Will Rogers Says,” with a column by Palisadian Jimmy Dunne—on life in the “greatest town in America.”

‘Caddying Days’

I just got back from a rare round of golf. Snappy club, snappy caddies, snappy everything.

On the 18th green, I handed my caddy $140.

As I forked over a wad of 20s to that caddy, I flashed back to my caddy days. $4.75 and a “caddie special” hotdog after nine.

La Grange Country Club. A lovely club in our town.

I still hold two records in my town as a kid. One, as a pitcher in Little League—for beaning 22 batters in a single season. That’s pretty good aim when you consider I only got to pitch six games in a season with six-inning games. And some of the games, they pulled me out because I beaned too many kids.

I stunk as a pitcher, but let’s just say I put the fear of God in anybody getting in that batter’s box.

The other record is for being the “worst all-time caddie at La Grange Country Club.”

In my rookie caddie season in sixth grade, I started like every kid in my town as a “shagger.” Our driving range was only about 150 yards, and golfers had their own bag of “shag balls.”

As a “shagger,” you’d stand out in the driving range with a catcher’s face mask and baseball glove, and catch the guy’s iron shots he was aiming at you.

I was shagging for Sandy Austin. A nice guy. Really rich. Owned a bank downtown. Even his shag balls were brand-new Titleists.

Since I was making only $1.75 to shag balls, I had a rule standing out there like a big dope in a catcher’s facemask. The first ball I’d catch would go in his shagbag. Next ball went right into my shorts’ pockets.

I figured it was kind of like a mandatory “tip.” One ball for him, one for me until my pants were stuffed.

The problem is I got greedy that day. I ran out of room in my pockets. Started shoving ’em up in my underpants.

After an hour of shagging, you’d carry the guy’s clubs to the bag room. As he was standing next to me, signing the chit for my whopping $1.75, I bent over to set down his bag.

About five golf balls with his name on ’em fell out of my underwear—and started bouncing up and down on the cement.

Whoops.

I got a couple of months “hiatus” after that lovely stunt.

Who cares. It was rookie year. On to being a real caddie in seventh grade.

I had a number of legendary stories to earn the title of “worst all-time caddie,” but here’s one of my personal favorites.

Scorching hot, I mean a scorching hot, muggy August day. Mosquitoes having full-course meals on your neck, arms and legs.

Caddying for C. J. Kenter. A big ol‘ grump.

He thought my name was “Caddie.”

That morning, the club just got brand-new golf carts. The fancy kind that didn’t steer like go-carts—they steered like a car. You had to turn the wheel a lot more to head in a direction.

It was totally against the rules to let a caddie ever get in the carts. You just ran after the thing like a big dope and then handed them their clubs.

Cut to the 15th hole. Long par four. Sun sizzling everyone—with the foursome getting ready to putt. I reached into Kenter’s bag to get his putter and realized I committed a mortal sin. I left his putter back on the green of the last hole.

Let’s just say those four sweating, liquored-up golfers weren’t happy campers.

He screamed at me to get in the cart, get the putter and bring it back.

I hopped on that horse and gunned it straight down the fairway.

Pulled right up to the side of the lake next to previous green—with a lovely six-foot pitched brick embankment around the water’s edge.

Ran over, grabbed the putter off the green and threw it in the cart.

Here’s where things started falling apart.

I forgot the carts didn’t steer like go-carts anymore. I gunned it, and the next thing I knew, it was down the embankment—and most of me and most of the cart were underwater.

I put it in reverse with the wheels spinning and splashing—and got in the water trying to shove the thing back up the embankment.

Good luck with that one. All the cart did was spit mud in my face.

I left it in reverse, grabbed his putter and ran as fast as I could down the fairway.

Completely covered in mud, I said to Kenter, “Good news, bad news. The good news is—here’s your putter. The bad news is your cart and your clubs are in the drink.”

Here was my takeaway …

Cost of the tow truck yanking the cart and clubs out of the water? $250

Amount I made that day? Goose egg.

The look on that ol‘ geezer’s face when I handed him his putter?

Priceless.

Jimmy Dunne is modern-day Renaissance Man; a hit songwriter (28 million hit records), screenwriter/producer of hit television series, award-winning author, an entrepreneur—and a Palisadian “Citizen of the Year.” You can reach him at j@jimmydunne.com or jimmydunne.substack.com.