Caddies tell the darndest stories
Tucked away from the bronze sculpture galleries and the flowery blouses with pleated pants unable to parallel park the G-class on Ocean Avenue, Brophy’s is a locals’ establishment which caters to reputable drunks and lost husbands who order up quick before the missus starts texting.
It’s always crowded in other words.
I set up camp between two known cohorts wearing beat-up Titleist hats at the only vacant spot facing the tap handles and flat screens. A couple conversation-lubricating rounds later and I was stitched into their narrative. Both were caddies. You know, a caddy, a looper, a jock.
I’ve been around bars enough to know the dim lights and…
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