TEMP WORK

OUR WRITER goes farther inside the ropes to caddie for pal Matt Fitzpatrick

- DANIEL RAPAPORT

“The Text” came while I was asleep, as all my favourite texts seem to do. It was one of those messages you have to read a few times before you can convince yourself it’s actually real:

Got a question for you, pal . . . looks like I’m going to be playing AT&T. Would you want to caddie for me?

On one hand, this was a long time coming. Matt Fitzpatrick—always Matt to me, never Matthew—and I became friends during his 10 minutes on campus at Northwestern. (I graduated in four years; he pulled out after one especially cold freshman fall to prepare for some major tournament in Georgia.) Matt had won the U.S. Amateur about a month earlier and was the No. 1 am in the world. I had been following his rise closely because I was trying to walk on to the golf team, and the coach had communicated that there was only one roster spot open, and it was going to this British kid, Fitzpatrick. So, if I were to make the team, I’d have to convince the coaches that I was better than the best amateur golfer in the world. In related news: My dreams of playing for the team didn’t last long.

I’D BE LYING if I said I wasn’t looking for this Fitzpatrick fellow when I arrived on campus, and sure enough, I saw him eating alone in the dining hall during the first week. (He denies that he was eating alone, but trust me, he was full Steven Glansberg.)

Being the generally shameless person that I was in my teenage years and the golf perv I still am, I plopped next to him and immediately began babbling about all things golf. Miraculously, he didn’t run away, and a friendship was born.