The Unlikely Caddie: How a Budding Writer’s Letter Changed a Pro Golfer’s Career

Look, we all think we know golf. We watch the guys on TV, see the perfect swings, the million-dollar smiles. But behind all that polish? It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. Especially back in the day. And sometimes, the biggest saves don’t come from a killer putt or a monster drive. They come from a damn letter. A letter from a guy nobody knew, to a guy who was on the edge of falling off the Tour. Yeah, it sounds like a movie script, but it happened. And it was wild.

The Pitch: A Letter Arrives

It’s late 1984. My rookie year on the PGA Tour is done. Not a disaster, but not exactly setting the world on fire either. I’m back in Orlando, settling into this new townhouse. Then, this letter shows up. Not an email, not a text. A real, honest-to-goodness letter. Typed out on some old manual machine. And it goes on. And on. This guy, Michael Bamberger, is telling me his life story. He’s a bogey golfer, did some caddying in high school. Worked for some small paper out on Martha’s Vineyard. And then… he asks if I need a caddie for the ’85 season. Throws his hat in the ring, he says. It was… different.

I was 23, he was 24. We were both just trying to figure shit out. I knew the Cape, knew the kind of golf clubs out there. My dad taught me the game, I even caddied myself back in the day at places like Eastward Ho! — yeah, the exclamation mark is part of the name, don’t ask me why. I grew up reading the local papers, knew the sportswriters. Martha’s Vineyard, Cape Cod… I knew that world. Knew about the ferries from Woods Hole. My grandfather even ran caddie camps during the Depression. Caddie stories? I’d heard ‘em my whole life.

My rookie year? Solid enough. Ended up 82nd on the money list. Made a decent chunk of change, enough to keep the dream alive. But I didn’t have a steady caddie. So, this Bamberger guy… maybe he was the answer. Or maybe he was just another headache.

The Road Trip and the Rookie Caddie

We kicked off ’85 on the West Coast. All the big names: Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, LA Open at Riviera. Those names still give me chills. Michael wanted to start with me in Florida, at the Honda Classic. That’s when the Tour moved east. Back then, we all drove. Players, caddies, the whole circus. I asked Michael what he drove. His answer? “A ’71 VW Bug.”

“Not exactly a caddie car,” I told him. And I wasn’t exactly rolling in luxury myself. My ride at the time was some kind of Lincoln tank. You could do sit-ups on the front seat. You could win cars for making an ace, guys talked about it all the time. Everyone knew a car dealer back home. It was a different world.

Out on the West Coast, I could feel my game… slipping. I was working with David Leadbetter, trying to make swing changes. It wasn’t easy. I needed stability. In my game, in my life. A reliable, dedicated caddie sounded good. But hiring a rookie? That’s a gamble. Michael didn’t know the courses. He didn’t know life on the road. He didn’t know the established loopers. The best I could offer him was a trial run. One week at the Honda Classic, at this new place called Eagle Trace.

First Impressions: Sunburn and Secrets

We met outside the clubhouse. Michael was taller than I expected, almost my height. Good posture. You noticed that back then. So many caddies had backs bent from hauling 50-pound bags six miles a day. He carried the bag right, high on his shoulder. Looked the part. But then… the newbie signs started showing. By the end of day one, his face and forearms were bright red. Lobster red. Wrong hat. No sunscreen. He was not ready for that damn Everglades sun and the glare.

I probably told him the same thing every new caddie got told: “Show up, keep up, and shut up.” You’d never hear that on Tour today. Michael was nervous, sure. But he was likable. He loved golf. He loved writing. His whole plan, he’d told me, was to write a book about a year on Tour as a caddie. Focused on one player. Right then, that player was me. We had one week to see if this was going to work.

Every week on Tour is make-or-break for a young guy. It’s not just about making money to pay the bills. It’s the pressure. Every damn week, you’re looking at your position on the money list. Back then, 125 was the magic number. Finish in the top 125, you kept your card for the next year. You could plan your schedule. You didn’t have to go back to Q-School. God, Q-School. That six-round torture chamber. Careers launched there, yeah. But a lot of careers died there too. Gary McCord, that witty player and Tour board member, he came up with the all-exempt Tour idea. I was always thinking about how to “stay exempt,” how to “keep my card.” I’m a Type-A guy. Like most golfers, I’m particular. I had a lot of instructions for Michael. A lot of direction. But he was all in.

The Caddie’s Education: More Than Just Carrying a Bag

Players and caddies didn’t get towels back then. I showed Michael the kind I liked. White. Not too thick, not too thin. Showed him how to clean and rub down the grips before each round. Get that tackiness just right. A club caddie wouldn’t know that stuff. We played rough cord grips, drying them in the sun was part of the ritual. Along with counting clubs, warming up those balata balls in your hands. I showed him the yardage book, the one made by “Gorjus George,” Arnold Palmer’s old caddie. How to read sprinkler numbers to the greens. How to figure out carry distances over water and sand. I told Michael, don’t give me too much info. I liked doing my own yardages, reading my own greens. But be ready if I had a question. Pin position, order of play, the wind.

He didn’t smoke. That was unusual. A lot of caddies, some players too, smoked back then. You’d watch a cigarette or cigar to read the wind. Get any edge you could. I told him about grain on those Florida Bermuda greens. How different Eagle Trace was from the Northeast. It had to be overwhelming for him. Stressful. We both wanted this to work. But I needed that week more than he did.

The Turning Point: A 20-Yard Call

Looking back, that second year on Tour was nothing like the first. I barely kept my card in ’85. Finished 124th on the money list. Had the driving yips. Saw more swing coaches than I had irons in my bag. Missed the last five cuts. If I’d finished 126th, gone back to Q-School… who knows if I could have recovered? I was losing confidence over the ball. What saved me? My short game. My putting. Michael still talks about the putting work I did at the Honda. Holing putt after putt on the practice green. His job? Sit there, pull balls, count. Good putters are made, not born.

That Friday at Honda, I was right on the cut line all day. One mistake, I miss the cut. Miss the weekend. Miss a paycheck. My money list position takes a hit. Late in the second round, short par 4. I’m about to hit my second shot from the fairway. Michael does something bold. He steps in. He realized I had the wrong yardage. Off by twenty yards. I’d told him, “Never interrupt my routine.” But there he was. I had a 6-iron in my hand. Had I hit it? I would have airmailed the green. From over the green, bogey would have been good. He almost stuttered, “Yardage’s wrong.” But he was right. We recalculated. Stiffed an 8-iron. Holed the birdie putt. Made the cut by one shot.

If I’d missed that cut at Honda… I might have fallen out of the top 125. Flamed out at Q-School. I’ve known guys with more talent than me who couldn’t keep their card. Keeping my card in ’85 paved the way for ’86. That’s how it goes. One tournament. One year. It all builds.

The Hard Decision and the Enduring Friendship

Sunday at Honda. We got in my Lincoln. Went for a drive. I knew I had to fire him. Tough decision. I liked the guy. But I felt I’d have to spend too much time managing him, teaching him the ropes. How would that season have gone if I’d kept Michael on the bag? Golf is unpredictable. Life is unpredictable. We’ll never know. You can’t know.

But we do know about the book he wanted to write. It came out. The Green Road Home . Published in ’86. The second chapter, “Basic Training,” is all about that week at the ’85 Honda. I read it the day it came out. Forty years later, a special edition dropped, with that piece as the foreword. There’s a photo in both versions. Me at bat during the Caddie-Player Softball Classic. We played it every year at the B.C. Open. Michael played. Any player and caddie could. It was a different Tour. Same goal: ball in the hole fast. But a different Tour.

My library is full of golf books. History, architecture, psychology. Instruction books, biographies. Books by caddies, about caddies. Books by legends like Darwin, Price, Wind, Jenkins. But of all of them? None I’ve enjoyed more than Bamberger’s. When you read Michael, it’s like he’s sitting right there with you. For 40 years, he’s been taking people inside this game, seeing the obvious in new ways, seeing things others miss. More than once, I’ve read something he wrote and thought, “Damn, I wish I’d thought of that.”

We were in our mid-20s at that Honda tournament. Now we’re in our mid-60s. We see each other around, compare notes on our paths. We have this unique, enduring friendship. Connected forever. It’s been a long ride. Still trying to figure out golf and its damn puzzles. Little did I know that letter from over 40 years ago would change my life. Both our lives.