got a lot of guts,” Tatum told him, having seen Bruce toss the two clubs onto the ground.
Bruce didn’t see it that way. He knew, regardless of what happened, that Watson wasn’t going to fire him. He was trying to get his player pumped up, breathe some confidence and fire back into him at a time when he was lagging. He knew perfectly well that whichever club Watson picked up, it would be Watson’s decision and he would take responsibility for the outcome. He wasn’t 100 percent correct in this case.
“He embarrassed me into it,” Watson said. “That hasn’t happened very often in my career, but that time it did. I figured if he was angry enough with me to call me those names, maybe I should think about what he was saying.”
Watson picked up the three-wood—“I did hold my breath a little bit while the ball was in the air,” Bruce now says, laughing—and cleared the water and hit the ball just to the right of the green.
“I
still
didn’t make birdie,” Watson said. “I took three to get down and made par.”
It is not surprising that Watson would remember that. But he knows, just as Bruce knows, that isn’t the point of the story.
Of course that incident occurred after the two had been partners for years. During that first year, the two men were still feeling each other out, growing to know each other as their comfort level increased.
“You have to remember that back then, caddying was different,” Bruce said. “I would go out and check yardages, but Tom, like all the players, had his own yardages. I never read putts back then. He was so good at it, there was no reason for him to ask me to do it anyway. But most caddies didn’t read putts in those days. Most players just wanted someone who would show up on time, keep the clubs clean, and carry the bag.”
In fact, Bruce and his contemporaries are seen now as the group that changed caddying, not only in the way they did their job, but in the way they were viewed by players and by the public. There were other very good caddies who came along at about the same time as Bruce did, but because he was caddying for Tom Watson, he became the public face of those changes. Once Watson exploded and became the world’s number one player, Bruce’s face and walk and smile were as familiar to the golfing public as most players not named Watson or Nicklaus or Palmer. Because he did walk fast and never lingered behind, it often seemed as if he and Watson were walking down the fairways in lockstep, Watson with the gap-tooth smile, Bruce with the red-and-white Ram bag appearing to sit lightly on his shoulder. He had a way of carrying the forty-pound bag that made it look as if it wasn’t the least bit heavy.
“That was probably,” he said, “because I always enjoyed being out there carrying it.”
Bruce was the best-known of that first generation of—for lack of a better word—professional caddies, the ones who helped make it a true profession. He is seen by today’s caddies as a crucial figure in the evolution of caddying. “To me, he’s our Arnold Palmer,” said Jim Mackay, who has caddied for Phil Mickelson since Mickelson turned pro in 1992. In many ways, Mackay is symbolic of today’s PGA Tour caddy. He is a college graduate, a very bright, well-read man who clearly could have opted for graduate school or a career in business. But, like Bruce thirty years ago, he enjoys the travel, the competition, and the camaraderie of being part of the PGA Tour. And because purses have soared and the way caddies are paid has changed so much since the 1970s, Mackay, like any caddy who works for a successful player, makes an annual income well into six figures.
“Palmer changed the way people looked at golfers,” Mackay continued. “Bruce changed the way people looked at caddies. He was the person a lot of us looked at in the ’80s and said, ‘Now that would be a cool thing to do.’ I can remember when I was a kid and I had done some caddying, going out
Bruce didn’t see it that way. He knew, regardless of what happened, that Watson wasn’t going to fire him. He was trying to get his player pumped up, breathe some confidence and fire back into him at a time when he was lagging. He knew perfectly well that whichever club Watson picked up, it would be Watson’s decision and he would take responsibility for the outcome. He wasn’t 100 percent correct in this case.
“He embarrassed me into it,” Watson said. “That hasn’t happened very often in my career, but that time it did. I figured if he was angry enough with me to call me those names, maybe I should think about what he was saying.”
Watson picked up the three-wood—“I did hold my breath a little bit while the ball was in the air,” Bruce now says, laughing—and cleared the water and hit the ball just to the right of the green.
“I
still
didn’t make birdie,” Watson said. “I took three to get down and made par.”
It is not surprising that Watson would remember that. But he knows, just as Bruce knows, that isn’t the point of the story.
Of course that incident occurred after the two had been partners for years. During that first year, the two men were still feeling each other out, growing to know each other as their comfort level increased.
“You have to remember that back then, caddying was different,” Bruce said. “I would go out and check yardages, but Tom, like all the players, had his own yardages. I never read putts back then. He was so good at it, there was no reason for him to ask me to do it anyway. But most caddies didn’t read putts in those days. Most players just wanted someone who would show up on time, keep the clubs clean, and carry the bag.”
In fact, Bruce and his contemporaries are seen now as the group that changed caddying, not only in the way they did their job, but in the way they were viewed by players and by the public. There were other very good caddies who came along at about the same time as Bruce did, but because he was caddying for Tom Watson, he became the public face of those changes. Once Watson exploded and became the world’s number one player, Bruce’s face and walk and smile were as familiar to the golfing public as most players not named Watson or Nicklaus or Palmer. Because he did walk fast and never lingered behind, it often seemed as if he and Watson were walking down the fairways in lockstep, Watson with the gap-tooth smile, Bruce with the red-and-white Ram bag appearing to sit lightly on his shoulder. He had a way of carrying the forty-pound bag that made it look as if it wasn’t the least bit heavy.
“That was probably,” he said, “because I always enjoyed being out there carrying it.”
Bruce was the best-known of that first generation of—for lack of a better word—professional caddies, the ones who helped make it a true profession. He is seen by today’s caddies as a crucial figure in the evolution of caddying. “To me, he’s our Arnold Palmer,” said Jim Mackay, who has caddied for Phil Mickelson since Mickelson turned pro in 1992. In many ways, Mackay is symbolic of today’s PGA Tour caddy. He is a college graduate, a very bright, well-read man who clearly could have opted for graduate school or a career in business. But, like Bruce thirty years ago, he enjoys the travel, the competition, and the camaraderie of being part of the PGA Tour. And because purses have soared and the way caddies are paid has changed so much since the 1970s, Mackay, like any caddy who works for a successful player, makes an annual income well into six figures.
“Palmer changed the way people looked at golfers,” Mackay continued. “Bruce changed the way people looked at caddies. He was the person a lot of us looked at in the ’80s and said, ‘Now that would be a cool thing to do.’ I can remember when I was a kid and I had done some caddying, going out
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