Caddie Master

It was Monday, just before noon, when I screeched onto the property at Highland Meadows Golf Club, my hair still wet from the quick shower I had squeezed in after checking into my Airbnb for the week. My credential was nowhere to be found, but having played for 20 years in what is now the Dana Open, it’s safe to say I have a good rapport with a number of staff and volunteers at the event outside Toledo, Ohio.

I sweet-talked my way into the players’ lot and texted my caddie for the week, Ryan French, to tell him I was pulling up. I popped the trunk of my rental car and pulled out my golf club carrier. It was a sight for sore eyes, as I had just busted my ass getting from the Detroit airport after a disconcerting 12 hours without my babies. Having just finished four days of PGA Tour Live commentary at the John Deere Classic, I caught a flight to Charlotte, only to discover my connecting flight was a jumbled mess of your standard fare of overworked airport workers, crews that were stuck in other parts of the country and a predictable anger in the sky, resulting in thunderstorms and canceled flights. I considered it a damned miracle that my belongings and I had made it in time to play in the Monday pro-am, as I had spent the night in Charlotte (with a free hotel room and transportation, courtesy of American Airlines) and was rebooked on a different flight from the one for which my bags were tagged.

I was very much head-down, ass-up, pilfering through my golf bag in search of my credential when I saw Ryan’s head bobbing around in search of me. I squealed in delight when I found my credential nestled in the mess of my bag and scurried over to give a hug to Ryan, a guy I’ve known of for years but had never met. I am a sucker for a good hug, having been on the wrong end of fake hugs for the entirety of my career. In fact, I don’t give out hugs to just anyone anymore, as I prefer full eye contact and firm handshakes at the end of a round, unless we really are friends. So I was thrilled to get a hug from Ryan that said, “It’s so nice to see you.” I apologized profusely for the amount of crap in my golf bag, which included weeks-old snacks, someone else’s water bottle, two foam Nathan‘s hot dogs I had procured during my travels, a couple fistfuls of used balls and other accouterments. I told Ryan I hadn’t touched my clubs in a hot minute, but I was excited to finally get the chance to work with someone I had known for a couple of years and had admired for even longer.

After I registered, we headed to the range, where a couple of my quirks came out almost immediately. Ryan had the towel ready to wipe down any club I might sully, and I noticed he had wetted it on the side opposite from what I was accustomed to. I said something like “I am particular about a couple of things,” which loosely translates to: “I am a typical basket-case golfer who has control issues, and I like having my ducks in a row, so please do not fuck with said ducks.” We were off to the races.

Our pro-am group featured a trio of big, strong, extremely athletic guys who took to my good-natured ribbing quite well. During introductions, Ryan told the amateurs I had mentioned how there were some “absolute units” in the group. Laughter ensued. Ryan and I walked some holes and rode for a few others, all while getting a feel for how each other worked. He read putts flawlessly and we had an easy cadence, so the vibe was chill. We were all having a blast.

I most definitely needed to clear out a few cobwebs, and I mentioned to Ryan how I always have a “quota day,” which means I have to reach my quota of shitty shots. The funny thing is that after Ryan left the pro-am early to head to Chicago for a speaking engagement, I almost holed out two approaches, kissing the flag with one of them. As I have told countless players who are ”going through it,” I knew somewhere deep down that the girl who has shot 62 in competition on more than one occasion, the girl who has a 3–0 singles record in the Solheim Cup, the girl who has defied all the odds to play on the LPGA Tour for going on her third decade is still around. Even though it’s easy for someone at this level to say that, most golf is played between the ears. I often say that your swing is never as far off as you think, because in order to get on tour, in order to break par, in order to win, there will always be certain markers, swing-wise, that you have to hit.

When you’re lost, it is easy to lose sight of that fact and understand that even though all the components are there, you might feel as if you’ve never touched a golf club before. We hold onto the hope that perfection is attainable, even though we know that’s not realistic. 

Much of the first couple of days at the Dana was fairly routine, and with Ryan on the bag, the enjoyment was cranked up to an 11. We did the usual practice round, which took way too damned long, spending time discussing everything from politics to poo. To me, poo is never not funny, and I love talking politics because I am proud to have been born and live in this country. I may be flawed and young in the grand scheme of things, but one of the reasons I am so proud to have donned the red, white and blue is that we live in a country that allows freedom of speech. I don’t have to agree with someone else’s politics, but I’ll be damned if I think someone is evil because he or she doesn’t see things the way I do. That said, Ryan and I share a lot of the same beliefs, and we spoke freely and passionately about the wishes we have for this country and how we navigate the world and social media.

One afternoon we ate hot dogs with fried pickles and fries at Packo’s, a longtime establishment in Toledo. I was enjoying the anonymity when Ryan went to order food for his wife and two kids, who made the trip with him. He came back to our booth with the manager, a Sharpie and … a fake bun. He was incensed I didn’t have a signed bun for the restaurant to encase, noting several people “way less famous than you” were on display. I laughed at the hilarity of signing a hot dog bun and was carefully putting my John Hancock on it when we were approached by a gentleman. He said he was in his 80s, which I thought impossible until he showed me his driver’s license, and we chatted for about 10 minutes. He loves the tournament and knew of many LPGA players who had long since retired. We had so much fun talking until he mentioned his wife was outside waiting for him. Ryan and I insisted he take some of the passes I had stockpiled for the week. They were in my golf bag, so we walked out with him and gave him eight.

As everyone knows, it can be scary as hell to invite someone into your world. It can be even scarier when that invitation is extended as you’re coming out of a depressive episode. It’s not often that I let people in during such a time, as I usually share only after I’ve come out the other side. This way I can be more removed from my trauma and my moments of darkness. Throughout my life I’ve always been the helper, lending a smile, a hand, a kind word. Asking for help can be hard and scary, and it’s something I’m always trying to improve upon. Meeting people who can truly help you be seen and heard can be a challenge, especially when working through traumatic experiences. Ryan’s warmth and good nature made it easier to invite him in.

Once the tournament started on Thursday, I was thrilled to discover that Ryan was not changing game plans. He powdered his butt with the Gold Bond, baby powder and Budreaux’s Butt Paste I had presented him as a welcome gift, and he gave no indication he was a deer caught in the headlights. We laughed throughout the round, including through the 94 putts I missed, and when he asked if I had any advice on what he could improve on for the second round, I said he had done beautifully. He read every putt correctly and with conviction. The only thing I could think of was when we were on the 2nd hole, our 11th of the day, he said the bunker had no sand in it during the practice round and that long was OK. That was immediately before I thinned it into the bunker, which, as it turns out, was raked well enough for my ball to plug near the lip. Mind you, two things: I got up and down because I’m sick like that, and it’s always the player’s fault. All I said to Ryan was that it would have been helpful to share only the second part of his advice, that long is better. It’s all about adapting and pivoting as the rounds and the days unfold.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit upset with myself for having played such a scrappy round on Thursday. I felt my old self-loathing friend start to creep in because I was struggling to make contact with the ball. I wanted too badly to impress Ryan with my game, to prove that I’m still worthy. Thankfully on our 17th hole, the par-3 8th, there was a moment of clarity, and I made beautiful contact with my tee shot. It felt compressed. It felt like I had squared the clubface. It felt like the ball might just go the distance I needed to hit it. In fact, I hit it tight and made the birdie putt. I felt a glimmer of hope, a potential change.

Then I hit a flop shot with my driver on the last, which thankfully left me short of the fairway bunker, and lipped out my birdie putt from about 30 feet. But we had something to build on.

Friday’s round started off similarly to Thursday’s. It was not a pretty 1st hole, even though I hit the green in regulation and two-putted for par. On the 2nd tee, still unsure if I was going to hit my 40th flop shot of the tournament from way too far away, I hit a beautiful shot. It was just as nice as the one at the 8th hole the day before, but it was not the right club to land softly and pin-high. I admired the shot for a moment, before my brain started screaming, “Sit the eff down!” Thankfully, it flew six yards past the flag and into the fringe, bounced left, slowed, caught the backstop and rolled back to about 12 feet above the hole. I nearly made the putt. We were on our way again. I started making better swings. I regained some of my distance. I was giving myself opportunities. My proximity was generally inside of 18 feet. I made a couple of putts but missed damned near everything else. But I didn’t give up.

Ryan kept giving me great reads. Nearly all of it came down to speed. I left more than a handful of putts in the jaws, which was infuriating. It’s a mental block almost as bad as having the yips. I know, because I had those from mid-2021 through the end of last year. We kept giving ourselves chances, but I couldn’t get anything to drop. I signed for a 2-under 70, a three-shot improvement over Thursday, but we finished two shots outside the cut line. I hit it more than well enough to make the cut, but we simply ran out of holes.

As for Ryan’s work as a caddie, I could not have been more impressed. He showed up early—like really early. For the second round, he was at the course almost three hours before our tee time. For a player, seeing your partner in crime arrive for work well in advance is a sign of commitment and a sign of his dedication and belief in you. It is also a sign of someone who takes pride in the task in front of him, and it leaves you wanting to reciprocate. Ryan was inquisitive, amiable and so quick to adapt. Yes, I asked him to wet the other side of the towel, but when I explained to him why, he understood. He had no problem separating my irons between odd and even numbers (another one of my quirks), he cleaned my grips without my having to ask and he stayed engaged from the moment I stepped on the course until I left the property. He is a phenomenal reader of greens, he has great intuition and he stayed upbeat, even after watching me miss pretty much every putt.

It takes a lot for me to recommend a caddie to other players, but I would do that in a heartbeat for Ryan. He will do as much or as little as you ask of him, and he understands everyone’s level of collaboration is different. Ryan didn’t just pass the test. He aced the damn thing. He has an exceptionally high golf IQ, and he has a greater sense of calm than a lot of people I've known during my career. He doesn't just look at this as a job, he looks at caddying as a fun exercise. His passion for the game and the grind, along with his inherent concern for others, is refreshing and something I haven’t seen in a long time.

I've been working with psychologist Dr. Josh Brant for almost a month, and I recently asked Dr. B. to be part of my team. While there is a place for sports psychology, I'm at a point in my career where I have pretty much read and heard it all. I always say that golf is analogous to life, and it's one of a myriad reasons why I love this game. As such, the patterns I see in my life are easy to recognize on the golf course. My reluctance to trust others is a means of self protection and stems from a classic millennial upbringing. An experience I had as a junior with another golfer and a well-known player who had taken on a mentor role for my opponent is one of the reasons why I feel it's so important for people to be seen. I had lost in a playoff, and I remember watching the two walk away and thinking I never wanted to make another person feel the way I did in that moment—like a loser, like I was alone, and that my self-worth was attached to my win-loss record.

So on Friday, when Ryan asked me how I felt knowing how many people I've touched, it was easy for me to be dismissive. It is easy to remember how I felt as that little kid, all alone, disgusted with my horrific golf fashion choices (pleated shorts to my neck, boxy shirts from Walmart, hemp anklets I wove myself) and recall that I would never let someone feel that way. The exchange of smiles, support and celebration benefits all parties, and it is so much easier to do than it is to ignore someone.

One of my favorite moments of the week, of which there are too many to count, came after our week on the course was over. Ryan, his wife, Stephanie, and the couple’s two children, Annie and Jackson, along with my two favorite volunteers, Steve Miller, and his remarkable daughter, Liz, and I went to dinner on Friday. While on the surface the two French children couldn't be more different, it was clear to me they inherited the same heart as their parents. Annie reminded me of a much cooler version of me at her age: precocious, inquisitive, fearless, easy to talk to, bright and creative. She's like an ethereal butterfly; you cannot help but smile when she enters your space. Jackson is more cerebral, loves his Rubik’s cube, and is not afraid to voice his opinions. Both kids are easy to talk to. They lack a sense of judgment, and they love to live in the moment.

When Annie asked me how her father and I became friends, I replied we had known of each other for years through golf and that we had finally met this week. She tilted her head and said, “Oh, so are you Internet friends?“ How do you reply to that? So I said, “Well, your father, and I share a lot of the same friends that we have both met in person. I don't like Internet friends; I like friends that I make in real life.“

While I may have been overthinking the answer to this innocent question, I hope I was able to subtly navigate the importance of knowing someone before you meet them on the Internet. I also came to the conclusion I would lay my life on the line for this remarkable child, her brilliant brother and her amazing parents.

The rest of dinner was filled with laughter, jokes, stories and questions. I called cauliflower farts, played tic-tac-toe with Jackson (1-0-1) and was gifted some beautiful art by both children, which will forever live in my yardage book. The truth is that I experienced so many wonderful moments during the week that I felt something rekindle in me. Whether it was a comment that made Ryan and me burst into laughter or that nanosecond when a perfectly placed clubhead made impact or watching my ball disappear into the hole as opposed to still seeing it, I felt something that was telling me it’s going to be OK. You are going to be OK.

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