Bags to Riches

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🔹 Our new feature “Dear Caddie” debuts today! Be sure to read all the way down to the end after the poll!

Dear readers, in Southern California golf circles, few stories spark more locker-room debate than the rise of Sammy Meade (not his real name). Some call it the greatest hustle in club history. Others insist it's a cautionary tale of gold-digging and social climbing. But everyone agrees on one thing: watching your former caddie dust you in tournament golf while wearing a better club's logo hurts worse than a shank into the parking lot.

The Romance

The affair began quietly during the spring of 2009. Meade usually looped at a very nice club just over the hill, but had been called to help cover a husbands and wives event at an elite club. Victoria Whitman (not her real name) was married to Bradley, a successful investment banker who was a decade her senior. Her family had the membership at the elite Southern California club. It was a classic case of new money marrying into old money, then old money got bored.

Victoria noticed Meade first – not as a caddie, but as an athlete. His well-defined calves and smooth strides down the fairway while carrying two bags with ease contrasted by her husband’s constant complaints about his lower back while he rode in a cart with a handicap flag triggered something inside of her. When Meade mentioned he'd played collegiate golf before financial necessity forced him into the service industry, Victoria found herself asking questions that had nothing to do with course management.

One "tip" led to another. By the next year, Victoria had traded Bradley's pedigree for Sammy's passion. The 18 month affair was hot and heavy, and not a particularly well kept secret. The divorce papers may have cited "irreconcilable differences" but the locker room whispered screamed "caddie lessons."

The Windfall

California community property laws did the rest. Victoria was already wealthy and didn’t need the money, but still took Bradley to the cleaners. Because the club membership was in her family, he got the boot and Meade happily stepped into his place as a “new member” of this elite club that would never have had a chance of being admitted through the traditional membership process!

Meade went from hauling bags for $40,000 a year to teeing it up at a venue with a $200,000 initiation fee. Now free from double-bag shifts, he dedicated himself to golf full time – practicing daily, entering every event and sharpening the instincts he'd honed while watching rich guys hit bad shots for a decade.

The Revenge Tour

Then came the fun part. Meade started showing up at regional tournaments in his new club's colors. Suddenly, the same members from the “club over the hill” he once fetched Diet Cokes for were staring him down on the tee box – and losing.

At the annual Interclub Championship, Meade shot 68 to win the scratch division by four strokes. His victims included Dr. Patterson, whose bag he'd carried for three seasons, and real estate mogul Blake Buck, who'd never tipped more than twenty dollars for eighteen holes of service.

At a West Side member-guest, he and his new "family friend" partner walked off with the flight and a $5,000 calcutta pot – more than his old monthly pay. But the crowning achievement came at a storied tournament that attracts touring professionals. Meade posted rounds of 71-69 to finish second overall, ahead of several tour players and dozens of members who'd once discussed his tip percentages in locker rooms.

Rumor has it, one ex-boss muttered, "If he wanted to beat me this bad, he could've just given my wife lessons."

The Backlash

The reactions split the membership. Some tipped their caps – he'd earned it. Others seethed.

"He studied our games for years, got paid to learn our weaknesses, then married his way into a better club and used it all against us," one member hissed. "That's not golf. That's espionage."

Whispers flew: Was his handicap legit? Had he been sandbagging? Was the marriage love or leverage? The louder the complaints, the clearer the sting. Despite the irony that many of those complaining were themselves “born on third base,” watching a caddie climb the ladder into their social stratosphere burned hotter than any double bogey.

The Champion's Perspective

Meade played it cool. "I always loved the game," he told one golf publication. "Now I just have the chance to play it properly."

What he didn't say: that nothing feels better than stuffing an iron inside ten feet while your ex-boss hacks out of a bunker.

The Verdict

Years later, Meade remains a fixture on Southern California's competitive golf scene. His scoring average hovers around par, he's won multiple club championships at his new venue, and his marriage to Victoria appears genuinely happy.

Meanwhile, Meade's former workplace continues operating much as it always has, though several members have upgraded their caddie tipping practices. Now, the bag room is less about yardages and more about double-checking references - because nobody wants to hire the next guy who leaves with a trophy wife and the actual trophies.

Remember, dear readers: at most clubs, the help stays in the bag room. At this one, he walked out with the bag, the girl and the trophy. Sometimes the most dangerous player at your member-guest isn't the out-of-town ringer – it's the guy who used to clean your clubs and count your strokes, now representing a better address and playing for higher stakes.

Poll Question

Dear Caddie,

I have been with the same caddie at my club for about three years. Things were great at first - every read was perfect, every ball in the bushes was found. But lately he seems distant. He’s mailing in his reads, and it’s like he doesn’t even care if I shoot 100. Am I expecting too much or is it time to move on? - Confused in Bunkertown

Dear Confused,

Three years is a long haul in caddie years. The honeymoon fades, the spark dies down and suddenly he’s calling out yardages with the enthusiasm of a bingo number reader. Before you toss him aside, try communicating: ask him how he’s doing. Maybe he’s tired of watching you three-putt from fifteen feet. Or maybe he just needs a bigger tip. But if you truly think you can do better, remember this: greener grass is nice, but it always comes with a higher bag fee!