“Youth is wasted on the young”, lamented George Bernard Shaw.

Sorry Gen Xer’s , but when it comes to making pilgrimages to golf’s historic sites, I agree with Mr. Shaw.

In order to truly appreciate the aura and nuances of the great courses of Ireland and Scotland a golfer should have; “click-clacked” across a parking lot in metal spikes for a minimum of two decades, honed one’s game swinging woods made from wood and played golf when carts were only used in supermarkets.

Even more importantly, some grey hairs should grace the temples to enjoy the wit and
wisdom of Europe’s infamous caddies. I had heard the tales, legendary or factual, of the Irish caddies and their unique attitudes. My favorite story concerned the obnoxious
tourist, more talk than game, who was playing The Old Course at St. Andrews. While
pulling a five iron out of his bag to hit a 175 yard shot into a gale wind asked his caddy,
“Think I can get there with this?”

The caddy paused, then supposedly replied, “Eventually.”

So, as I walked towards the first tee at Ballybunion, one of the great tracks in Ireland,
I wondered what fate would await me in the caddy selection. The gentleman’s name was
Jim and he treated me and my partner cordially for the first few holes, gauging our games as he politely dispensed “local knowledge.” I was spraying my drives all around the sacred Irish sod, so heading for the sixth tee I said, “ Jimmy, let’s leave the driver in the bag the rest of the way.”

Jimmy replied, “If you like, I can show you a spot at the turn where you can toss it into
the North Sea.”

“That’s a little drastic, Jimmy, maybe I’ll take some lessons or at least try to sell it whenI get home.”, I answered.

Jimmy pursed his lips, then confessed with a smile, “Sure, that’s a shame. I was fixin’
on coming back tonight to pick it up!”

My partner and I unwillingly worked Jimmy hard that day, my slices and his hooks combined for a caddy’s nightmare of tracking back and forth, like a pinball, across every fairway.

Finally, on the fifteenth hole we both managed straight drives and our shots came to rest within three feet of each other. As fate, and bad techniques, would have it, I pushed my approach shot far right while my guest pulled his hard left into the gorse.

“Well, Jimmy”, I joked “looks like you have a decision to make.”

Jimmy hoisted the bags on his shoulders, took two strides then looked back at us and said, “I’ve already been paid, I’m going down the middle.”

Eventually we found ourselves coming down the home stretch, #18, humbled by Ballybunion’s tight fairways, heavy rough, wrist breaking gorse and distracting beauty. Our entire foursome had struggled mightily.

As we headed towards the final green, Jimmy, having heard us discuss our itinerary, asked, “So, you’re playing St. Andrew’s on Tuesday?”

“Yes,” we said with pride.

“Same foursome?” he pressed.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll have to call my caddy mates over there and warn them.” he concluded.