My later childhood home in South San Francisco was aligned parallel to the 16th fairway of the ‘California Country Club’, now called the ‘California Golf Club of San Francisco’. The CCC is a private club, founded in 1922 on 425 acres of wooded grassland that was previously the Baden Ranch, which in turn was carved from the Buri-Buri Mexican land grant.

This stately and verdant golf course of towering California coastal cypress trees and western white pine was my backyard, accessible from a hop over the chain link and barbed wire.

Observed during many pre-adolescent years from our backyard, indeed, from our family kitchen table, I saw golfers and their attendant caddies walking the fairway, raking the sand traps and tending the flag. At times I observed young men performing the caddying task.

“Those guys can do that”, thought I, “why not me”.

In my mind, anything that another young person could do, was within my ability. Being the industrious young fellow that I was, (a seventh grader, just turned thirteen years of age), I crossed the broad green fairways one early Spring Saturday to see if I could make some money.

My first morning at the caddy shack was eye popping.

The ’shack’ itself was a filthy room, lined with benches on two walls, a row of metal lockers along a third, the fourth wall fronting the pro-shop. In one corner was a decrepit wooden table surrounded by folding metal chairs. The bathroom unspeakable.

My caddy shack was crowded by down-and-out men, older high schoolers and assorted low-lifes. Many men were in their forties, perhaps fifties. Some of the men were moonlighting, attempting to pick up some cash outside their normal work as garbage-men, milk delivery, auto service stations or similar. There was another cohort who had no steady job, who frequented the shack almost daily, with their off days spent at Bay Meadows horse racing track.

I was not a big kid, and while not small, was still prepubescent, clearly a ‘boy’.

The older teens were often punks, the mouthy unsupervised group from the rough side of ‘South City’. This group of young punks, pseudo-tough guys who smoked cigarettes and threatened fighting at a slight, while continually projecting an air of a ‘tough guy’. Being a younger ‘good kid’ and a relatively sensitive person, I was tormented mercilessly by these future high school drop-outs. Inever everlet on that I attended parochial school, was an Altar Boy. Needless to say, this group considered me a child nuisance.

This was the later sixties, 1967, ‘times were changing’. Hendrix was big, LSD was a thing; there was one fellow, an older teen named ’Moon’, who was a ‘tripper’. Moon claimed to see purple-haze. Moon was considered strange by all.

During the morning, before the course became active, hopeful caddies lined the benches or stood outside smoking, cussing and spitting. The older ‘professional’ caddies occupied the lockers, something like a status symbol. Here they stored their second-hand golf cleats, rain pants and assorted soiled towels and socks.

Preparing for ‘work’, the only black-man in the shack opened his locker door to reveal black and white photos taped inside his locker door of nude white-women, with bare breasts, bush, legs apart. Me, the 13 year old parochial school altar boy, observed from across the room. Prior to that day, I had never seen a picture of female frontal nudity. I said nothing, but could not turn away.

The older caddies waved me aside, ‘Get out of my way’, they conveyed with a sweeping arm gesture. ‘I want to sit there’, the gesture commanded. Accustomed to obeying adults, I quickly obliged by moving aside, without standing. These slovenly men acted big-shots amongst this group, appearing to enjoy power tripping a kid.

At any moment with an unmistakable sound, the solid wood ‘window’ accessing the shack opened from within the pro-shop. The window clanked open, whereupon the caddies would rush inside, forming a semi-circle surrounding the window. From inside the pro-shop golf bags were hefted onto an extended steel sill; now was a moment of expectant silence as all ‘would be’ caddies hoped their name was called for service, for a pay-day.

A junior ‘pro’ peered through the window, surveying whom had arrived for work that day. Many club members had preferred caddies, those who carried and tended their game regularly. For those golfers, the ‘pro’ would simply say, ‘John, the Smith party’, at which time the now ‘puffed-up’ John would slide the bags from the sill and sling it upon his shoulder, make his way to first tee.

For those members without a preferred caddy, the ‘pro’ would then make a choice from among those expectantly waiting. This was my moment, and that of many others, the moment that determined if today was a work day. The ‘pro’ knew many by face or name, most were known choices. Soon after the selection, the window slammed shut, without word or courtesy.

The adult caddies and older high-schoolers carried two bags. Like the few other young adolescents, I was able to carry one. This fact was a source of derision from the big-shot caddies who comically considered themselves to be professionals, experts at golf and course management.

On busy weekend mornings the caddy shack emptied of ‘professional’ caddies within the first two hours. Soon after was my opportunity, when the depleted ranks permitted the selection of ‘kids’ packing single bags. Often a foursome consisted of an unfamiliar adult caddie with two ‘single baggers’.

I recall my first time being selected. The ‘pro’ pointed to me, the clean young polite kid, “You”. I must have beamed, while my adolescent peers looked on jealously. I picked up the bag incorrectly, the club heads facing behind me, and carried it from the shack. The others laughed and questioned my chops, whereupon I responded, without confidence, that I was just carrying the bag outside to get ready.

My first experience that day was not memorable, the ‘round’ lasting about four hours. By observation I learned what was expected of me, like raking traps and tending flags and where to wait during tee shots. The course was about three miles in length, for which I earned $5. I recall that my golfer was kind to me, called me by name, was never cross or exasperated with his game. At the end of our round he said goodbye, telling me he began golf at about my age.

I was ecstatic! A new way to earn beyond cutting lawns and delivering newspapers. I soon began to show up at the caddy-shack semi-regularly on Saturdays and Sundays, but especially on parochial school holidays like St. Patricks day, because the other young caddies ‘should’ be in school. I recall on one such day a local punk arrived and was questioned about his absence from school, “I’m suspended”, was his casual response. Shocked, I had personally never been suspended from school and considered such an event unthinkable.

Sundays were good days for work. Couples and ladies often played on Sunday, they started late, permitting me to attend Mass. I soon became somewhat preferred among some ladies, those who appreciated my politeness and diction. After a bit I realized that picking their ball from the cup after they ‘holed out’ was particularly appreciated. I began to earn $6 paydays for my work and recall the ‘pro’ remarking that some ladies had mentioned that I was a ‘good caddy, good boy’. “OK Bishop”, he said as he looked me in the eye. ‘Wow! ‘ thought I, ‘he knows my name’. My earning prospects were improving.

There were many idle hours, waiting for ‘a loop’; this was time for poker among the adult men. During these waiting hours some of the depravity of the often ‘down and out’ caddies became apparent. These were not friendly games.

I watched from a distance for some time, fascinated by the rules and different games and size of the pots. Observing the unsmiling interactions, cycles of betting, the bluffing and eventual turn of the final cards was all mysteriously new and fascinating.

Eventually I inched closer to the action and stood silently behind a fellow named ‘Grif’, someone whom I had previously spent an afternoon working alongside on the course, and knew he would not be negative or cross towards me.

Grif was a bit brighter than most, had a car, spoke well, spent days at the track, claimed to make “$100 a week” at the golf course. I remember the comment surprised me, “wow, that’s a lot”. During these years the coinage had changed from sterling to clad. Grif would always replace the silver tossed into the pot with clad coins, anticipating the day.

Grif was not bothered by my standing over his shoulder and allowed me to see his hand. I was acutely aware that I must not make a sound, movement or slightest grimace that would serve as a ‘tell’ to the other players. In this manner I learned many of the various games: stud, lo-ball, hold-em, seven card ‘roll yer own’, others.

One of the other guys, a fellow who was losing, mentioned I should not stand near. “I don’t mind at all, he doesn’t make a sound”, Grif stated, noting I was absolutely motionless.

There were a few absolute bums who frequented the shack. ‘Dickie Smith’ was the most down and out, a pickled alcoholic who lived under a tree on the course. Dickie Smith, also called Davey, was somehow grandfathered into the Country Club, a source of pity among the members. Davey was partially subsidized by members with cash, ostensibly for ‘doctoring’. The golf pros naively just gave him the cash to fix his infected eye, which he just spent on alcohol. A year later he began wearing a permanent eye patch.

‘Tommy’ was another down and out, a local homeless drunk of indeterminate age, due to the ravages of living rough and alcohol. However, Tommy was approachable, talkative with me and other kids. Also, Tommy provided the disreputable service of buying alcohol for youths and underage adults, a quality that made him popular among the school age crowd. Tommy and his drinking buddies sat by the creek, (the creeks were still open water, fringed by riparian woods) near the Buri-Buri liquor store. One could approach Tommy while he was drinking, interrupt his party, and he would comply, taking his commission.

A beverage truck parked in front of the shack one morning. The driver entered the club house restaurant for business only to return ten minutes later to find his truck panels open, the punk high-schoolers running off with cases of beer. He exclaimed, “Those punks are ripping me off!” The punks shared their score with Davey.

I caddied often for over two years earning my own pocket money. I attempted to play golf during those years, but never learned to play properly.

True to form, my parentally absent mother and father were intentionally and blissfully ignorant of my depraved ‘education’ at the caddy-shack. My mother observed me one time from the back of the house, waved to me while I was working, that was the sum total of their awareness. I was earning money, something they understood and respected. There was never an examination of the depravity of this worst of all possible social environments.