The Heat Was On, Caddying For Holtgrieve

St. Louis amateur standout Jim Holtgrieve watches a putt go in on his way to winning the 1981 U.S. Mid-Amateur Championship won the Metropolitan Amateur championship in 1994.

The MAGA Amateur Championship is on the local golf schedule this week, July 31 - August. 2 at Westwood Country Club. 

The Amateur, as we old-timers like to call it, has a special place in the Bogeyman’s heart. One might say he cut his golf-corresponding teeth on the championship. Still others, who were there to witness it, might say it’s where he nearly cashed in his chips, met his maker, signed his last scorecard.

To explain … you can bet it will be warm when the lads put the tees in the ground at Westwood. It’s August in St. Louis, after all. But I’d bet you Titleists to Spalding X-outs that it won’t be as hot as it was at Spencer T. Olin Community Golf Course on Aug. 18, 1995. 

Hard to believe almost 30 years have passed. I remember it, not like it was yesterday, but like you remember something horrific. The temperatures reached triple digits over those three days, on a golf course that absorbs heat like Eric Fedde absorbs runs.

The only place hotter than Spencer T. Olin that week exists in the hereafter,  unmentionable in a family publication. Things were so hot in the area, local dairy cows were giving evaporated milk.

As a correspondent on duty, the Bogeyman was surprised to see defending Metro champion and celebrated amateur Jim Holtgrieve carrying his own bag during Thursday’s opening round. O’l Bogey was new to the golf landscape, but something seemed terribly wrong about that, like Eric Clapton stringing his own guitar, or Colton Parayko sharpening his own skates. 

When informed Holtgrieve planned to do the same for Friday’s second round, Ol’ Bogey wasn’t having it. With Holtgrieve's approval, he seized the opportunity to experience life in the trenches and volunteered to make the loop. 

Holtgrieve accepted, hesitantly, but insisted on returning to his car to get a lighter bag. “No, no,” Bogey insisted, “I want the real deal, the full enchilada, the big boy.” So Holtgrieve relented and handed over a tour bag, fully loaded, the type of bag recruits carry during Marine boot camp. 

Our threesome that day included Dan "Bummer" Barry and his caddie Donnie Meyer, along with David Rhoads and caddie Jo D Blosch, who was a fine player in her own right, winner of the MAGA Women’s Amateur that same summer.

Also a fine player and a club rep for Ping, Jerry Waitulavich was standing by the tee as we prepared to start. He gave the Bogeyman some advice:

“What you want to remember is, when he hits a good shot, when he puts it right down the middle of the fairway or five feet from the cup, it's 'We did that.’ But when he hits it out of bounds or chunks one in the water, it's 'You did that.' “

Made perfect sense.

Moments later, Holtgrieve missed the fairway with his drive off the first tee, as it sailed right. Bogey chimed in, ”Don't worry, you should be all right."

On the second hole, Holtgrieve was in the rough and couldn't positively identify his ball. He called Rhoads over to witness as he marked the spot with a tee, lifted and turned his ball to display the identifying mark. He then returned the ball, pushing it down into the thick grass to recreate its original situation. 

Moments later, his wedge from that position came out a little fat and short, landing in a creek in front of the green. Bogeyman realized he had learned a valuable lesson and logged the mental note - after marking your position with a tee and identifying your ball, always return it to the position by simply setting it on the tee. 

As our group reached No. 7 green, it was nearly noon and the environment was beginning to blister. Spencer T. Olin is a top-notch golf course, designed by Arnold Palmer. But a runway at Lambert Field has more shade. The Bogeyman felt like Gasim, stranded in the desert in Lawrence of Arabia. 

He was losing his boyish enthusiasm for the loop, as well as substantial quantities of body fluids. A dark thought popped into his head — "I might not make it."

At the same time, he looked across the green at Blosch. The women's Metro champion was caddying for educational purposes. "You can't help but learn by being around players of this caliber,” she said. This was her second straight day of crossing the desert and she showed no signs of weakening.

As for Meyer, he was in constant motion. The crafty, veteran looper, was constantly propping up his player, generating good karma, deflecting negative thoughts. The heat seems to have no impact on Meyer. In fact, he ran from the last green to the next tee, the bag of bats rattling as he went.  

That’s when the Ol’ Bogey Man realized there was no off ram. Anything less than a distance-going performance would be a white flag waving he would never live down.

Meanwhile, Holtgrieve was trying to find a groove, and the process was intriguing. Ol’ Bogey figured a player like Holtgrieve rolls out of bed in the morning and hit it on the sweet spot. 

But Holtgrieve was fighting it. "Coward! C'mon, take a full swing at the ball," he would snap at himself. "I wish I had the swing I had at Shinnecock. I just don't have that same feeling."

As he observed, the Bogeyman imagined how he might talk to himself - if he were 1 over par on the back nine of a golf course. The vibe would be a bit different. 

“Somebody pinch me!”

”Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.”

“Watch out Mr. Titleist, here comes Peter Cottontail, hoppin’ down the birdie trail.”

Suffice to say, complaints would be off the table.

When we reached the 11th green, Holtgrieve had about a 20-foot putt for birdie. Now, to this point, Ol’ Bogey had been mindful to stay out of the “reading room,” leaving things like shot selection and putting exams to the more educated eyes of Holtgrieve. But in an inexplicable

moment of bravado and pretentiousness, he studied the pending putt and blurted out: "I don't think it's going to go that far right, Jim, not as much as it looks."

Holtgrieve hit the putt … solid stroke … speed was good … and as it approached the hole, the ball slid right … way right … way, way, way right. The putt missed the hole by some 3 feet.

They don't call him the Bogeyman for nothing.

We reached the most physically demanding part of the course — holes 14, 15 and 16. The 14th is a par-3 with an elevated tee and elevated green.

In between the terrain went straight down and straight up, roller coaster style. It was now mid-afternoon and the heat index was at 119 degrees. You could not only fry an egg in the pavement, you could do the hash browns and whole wheat toast to go with it. 

The walk to the 14th green was a killer and the climb to the 15th tee was worse. As we reached No. 16's tee, word came that four players had required medical attention. One was talking in tongues, another mistook his caddie for Raquel Welch. 

Frankly, things were getting a little dicey for the Bogeyman as well. He  was about to ask the others to leave him a canteen and a pistol, and go on without him. His ears were ringing, his arms had goosebumps and his legs were mush. 

On they marched. Then Holtgrieve did something on the par-5 No. 18 to make it all worthwhile. He hit a 3-iron the way God meant for it to be hit. The ball soared into the distance and nestled on the green 5 feet from the hole. The Bogeyman staggered to the green and took the bag off his shoulder for the last time.

"Great shot," he told his partner. "We roll this one in and it's been a heck of a round."

The eagle putt just missed, but Holtgrieve birdied for a round of par-72. The score, combined with his opening round, was enough to make the cut and put him in a tie for third heading to the final round.

The Bogey Man felt a sense of gratification. He was soaked in sweat and barely able to stand. On a day fit for camels and Gila monsters, he caddied 18 holes for one of the best to ever tee it up in St. Louis, and he brought him home without yielding a single stroke to par.

He savored the moment, and as he did, Ol’ Bogey realized he knew what it felt like to be a big-time looper. And a thought popped into his head:

"Never again."