Dear Members of the Board,
I don't remember much fancy language from my semester of college, so please just believe me when I write: I am so, so sorry for what happened at last weekend's mixed-member. I totally understand why Rick has asked me to never come back again, but please allow me to give my account.
In Friday's shotgun, Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, who I carried for, played Ed Blynthe and Cheryl Davis, who rode in a cart. We started at the third, and as the players chatted I walked down to where caddies always wait at that hole, along the hedges by the clubhouse service entrance. The truck was running, and the delivery guy had gone inside, leaving two crates unattended. The gold and silver bottle caps glimmered in the morning sun. Had there been another caddie in the group, perhaps a reproachful eye would've stopped me. I took two fifths of Johnnie Black, sliding one into my front pants pocket under my bib, and stashed the other in the hedges.
I usually just buy Old Crow and nip at it, so a half-gallon will last me a week or more. As we all know, the mixed-member format is perennially slow. The waiting between shots coupled with the smooth taste of top-shelf proved too much for a man of my weakness.
I know how this must sound, but alcohol was not responsible for the mishap at the 11th-green footbridge. My shoelace had come undone, and with the bags on my shoulders I hadn't had a chance to bend down. I've never lost a club in my life, and if given the opportunity I promise I can retrieve Mr. Morrison's lob wedge from the pond. As for the comment allegedly made by me about Mr. Blynthe, on the 15th fairway in earshot of Ms. Davis, I cannot recall. All I know was that the Morrisons were 1 down, and I was starting to really feel the spirit of the match.
There is no one to blame but myself. However, I doubt any of the later nastiness at the cocktail reception would've occurred if Mrs. Morrison hadn't holed out from the bunker behind the second green. It's a fluke bordering on divine intervention for any player, let alone a 34-handicapper, to hit such a shot at such a pivotal moment. With the playoff forced, I found myself back where it began, by the third-hole hedges and the other stashed bottle. Fateful. The thrilling golf of the eight sudden-death holes that ensued (believed to be a tournament record) afforded me too much extra time.
As we strode toward the warm chatter of the clubhouse, the last group coming off the course, I got swept up in the welcome. The Morrisons were too modest to recount their victory, and various members started tugging at my sleeve. I know caddies aren't allowed on the terrace. I should've answered with just the score, then taken my leave to wash and store the clubs. As you know, that's when I grabbed the bottle of red wine off the bar, and the microphone.
As Steve Williams reminded us, the caddie should never take the stage in triumph. I can only thank those who escorted me, whoever they were, before I could add to my already inappropriate remarks.
I do not expect to be forgiven, but if there is any way I can have my job back, I shall be forever grateful.
My Sincerest Apologies,
The Hungover Caddie