Teach
01-23-2019, 01:45 PM
“Give the guy a whack! Elbow him,” “The Ref” said.
I was working as a “soda jerk” at a local Dorchester (Boston), MA drugstore. That summer, 1960, I was about to enter my freshman year in college.
One day, one of the “regulars” (I’ll call him Joe) stops by for a “tonic” (a soda in the rest of the civilized world). We get to talkin’. Joe says, “Walt, do you know anything about golf?” I tell Joe I’ve played golf at two of Boston’s public courses, Dorchester’s Franklin Park Golf Course (I believe greens’ fees in those days were $1.50) and at Hyde Park’s George Wright Golf Course.
I go on to tell Joe that I frequently watch golf on television. Joe then says, “Then you know something about the game.” I reply, “Yes.” Joe continues, “The reason I ask is because we’re short of caddies at the private club that I’m caddie-master. Do you think you’d be interested in caddying?” I say, “Yes.”
Joe goes on to tell me what it’s all about. He says, “The women go out in the morning. You’ll carry “doubles”. They pay $2.50 per bag for 18 holes. He adds, “Be sure to tell them you’re a ‘Double-A’ caddie. The men usually go out in the afternoon. Again, you’ll carry ‘doubles’. They’ll pay you $3 per bag. So you can make $11 a day.” Joe then adds, “It’s ‘bankers’ hours’.”
The following Monday I take public transportation to this golf club just south of Boston. I meet up with Joe. He directs me to the caddy-shack. There are three caddies already waiting there. We “shoot the sh*t.” They fill me in on the “ins” and “outs” of caddying.
It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes later that the caddy-master, Joe, summons me and another caddie to the first tee. It’s a foursome. I can’t recall if the two women I was caddying for asked for a driver or was a 3-wood off the tee, but, in any case, we’re down the fairway.
After doing “the morning 18,” we took a break for lunch (if a caddie brought a sandwich, the club let us keep it in one of their refrigerators). In any event, this is when I first met up the man everyone called “The Ref”. He was an assistant golf pro who had been a former NBA referee.
Everybody loved the “Ref.” He was, in a manner of speaking, “a celebrity”. A “hail-fellow, well-met” kinda guy. Hey, he had been a professional basketball referee.
“The Ref” would regale anyone within earshot with his stories about his basketball officiating days.
On that first day, when I got back to the caddy-shack to sit down for lunch, I mentioned to one of the other caddies that I had just met “The Ref”. The other caddie would go on to tell me one of the “Ref’s” stories.
The other caddie (I’ll call him Charley) tells me that “The Ref” is officiating a game at the Boston Garden. One of the Celtics players – I’ll call him “S” --“drives the lane.” As this player throws up his shot, he believes he’s been fouled. The “trailing” official, “The Ref,” makes no call. The Celtics player is livid. He’s jawing with “The Ref” as they walk back down the floor. This apparently goes on for a good ten seconds. The player is verbally “blazing away” with “both barrels” (he was probably fortunate not to get a technical).
Shortly thereafter, according to his story “The Ref” tells one of my fellow-caddies, there’s a time-out. “The Ref,” according to his story, subtly says something to an opposing player about the next time “S” “drives the lane” give him “a wallop”. “Elbow him. He tells the player “he may have to call a personal, a referee’s thinking but you won’t get ‘a technical’.”
According to “Ref’s” story, the next time “S” “drove the lane,” sure enough, he was hit hard by an opposing player. Just an idle story. A figment of “The Ref’s” imagination. Did it happen? I would have no way of proving that. Could it have happened? Possibly. Embellished? Possibly. Yet, it shows me how personal feelings and human emotions can creep, consciously or subconsciously, as “payback,” into a ref’s thinking.
I was working as a “soda jerk” at a local Dorchester (Boston), MA drugstore. That summer, 1960, I was about to enter my freshman year in college.
One day, one of the “regulars” (I’ll call him Joe) stops by for a “tonic” (a soda in the rest of the civilized world). We get to talkin’. Joe says, “Walt, do you know anything about golf?” I tell Joe I’ve played golf at two of Boston’s public courses, Dorchester’s Franklin Park Golf Course (I believe greens’ fees in those days were $1.50) and at Hyde Park’s George Wright Golf Course.
I go on to tell Joe that I frequently watch golf on television. Joe then says, “Then you know something about the game.” I reply, “Yes.” Joe continues, “The reason I ask is because we’re short of caddies at the private club that I’m caddie-master. Do you think you’d be interested in caddying?” I say, “Yes.”
Joe goes on to tell me what it’s all about. He says, “The women go out in the morning. You’ll carry “doubles”. They pay $2.50 per bag for 18 holes. He adds, “Be sure to tell them you’re a ‘Double-A’ caddie. The men usually go out in the afternoon. Again, you’ll carry ‘doubles’. They’ll pay you $3 per bag. So you can make $11 a day.” Joe then adds, “It’s ‘bankers’ hours’.”
The following Monday I take public transportation to this golf club just south of Boston. I meet up with Joe. He directs me to the caddy-shack. There are three caddies already waiting there. We “shoot the sh*t.” They fill me in on the “ins” and “outs” of caddying.
It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes later that the caddy-master, Joe, summons me and another caddie to the first tee. It’s a foursome. I can’t recall if the two women I was caddying for asked for a driver or was a 3-wood off the tee, but, in any case, we’re down the fairway.
After doing “the morning 18,” we took a break for lunch (if a caddie brought a sandwich, the club let us keep it in one of their refrigerators). In any event, this is when I first met up the man everyone called “The Ref”. He was an assistant golf pro who had been a former NBA referee.
Everybody loved the “Ref.” He was, in a manner of speaking, “a celebrity”. A “hail-fellow, well-met” kinda guy. Hey, he had been a professional basketball referee.
“The Ref” would regale anyone within earshot with his stories about his basketball officiating days.
On that first day, when I got back to the caddy-shack to sit down for lunch, I mentioned to one of the other caddies that I had just met “The Ref”. The other caddie would go on to tell me one of the “Ref’s” stories.
The other caddie (I’ll call him Charley) tells me that “The Ref” is officiating a game at the Boston Garden. One of the Celtics players – I’ll call him “S” --“drives the lane.” As this player throws up his shot, he believes he’s been fouled. The “trailing” official, “The Ref,” makes no call. The Celtics player is livid. He’s jawing with “The Ref” as they walk back down the floor. This apparently goes on for a good ten seconds. The player is verbally “blazing away” with “both barrels” (he was probably fortunate not to get a technical).
Shortly thereafter, according to his story “The Ref” tells one of my fellow-caddies, there’s a time-out. “The Ref,” according to his story, subtly says something to an opposing player about the next time “S” “drives the lane” give him “a wallop”. “Elbow him. He tells the player “he may have to call a personal, a referee’s thinking but you won’t get ‘a technical’.”
According to “Ref’s” story, the next time “S” “drove the lane,” sure enough, he was hit hard by an opposing player. Just an idle story. A figment of “The Ref’s” imagination. Did it happen? I would have no way of proving that. Could it have happened? Possibly. Embellished? Possibly. Yet, it shows me how personal feelings and human emotions can creep, consciously or subconsciously, as “payback,” into a ref’s thinking.