Caddies tell the darndest stories
Last year at this time I was enjoying a long weekend away with Robin at the AT&T Pebble Beach National Pro-Am. I happened into the only sports bar within Carmel city limits, Brophy’s Tavern.
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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