'Who's Your Caddy?'

Each week, millions of readers open up "Sports Illustrated" and go straight to the back page to read the "Last Word" - Rick Reilly's popular column.

Reilly decided to combine two of his passions: writing and golf. To do that, he volunteered to carry the bags of several well-known and pro and amateur golfers.

The resulting book "Who's Your Caddy?" is currently on the New York Times bestseller list.

He visited The Early Show on Wednesday to talk about it.

Read an excerpt from Chapter One:

THE MASTERS

Get Your Mouth off My Ball!

Having never caddied in my life, I needed a smallish place to start out, away from the spotlight, a podunk kind of tournament.

Naturally, I chose The Masters.

In front of thousands of people, in the greatest tournament in golf, I made my professional caddying debut, looping for 64-year-old Tommy Aaron, the 1973 champion. I think he'd tell you it went quite well, unless you count tiny, little nitpickings, such as my dropping the towel eleven times, the headcover four, the puttercover six, standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, standing in the right place at the wrong time, forgetting to give him his putter, his ball, his driver, being too close to him, being too far from him, letting the clubs clink too much as I walked, letting myself clink too much as I walked, the infamous "mouth" incident, and the awful, shameful thing that happened on No. 5 that none involved shall ever forget.

This was Friday. We were paired with "Sponge," who caddies for New Zealander Michael Campbell, and "Fanny" Sunneson, who won six majors with Nick Faldo and now is the bagwoman for Notah Begay, who hates me very much, despite the fact that I've never caddied for him.

Sponge and Fanny. Sounds like a British sex club.

I say, Nigel, didn't I see you last night at The Sponge and Fanny?

What happened was, Aaron hit a 3-iron at No. 5 into the left greenside bunker, then splashed out. I handed him his putter and then nervously set about my raking duties. The crowd was huge around that green, as they are around most Augusta greens, and nobody was ready to putt yet, so I could feel all the eyes on me. I had dropped my towel once already that day and had 500 people yell, "Caddy! Caddy! Towel!" as though I were President Bush's Secret Service agent and had dropped my gun. Caddy! Caddy! Uzi! So I knew they were watching. I raked as I have raked my own bunkers far too many times, climbed out, then placed the rake on the grass behind.

That's when I noticed Aaron staring at my rake job, then glancing at Fanny. Aaron nodded at her. She nodded back. Begay nodded. Sponge nodded back. For all I know, the huge crowd nodded. Only one of us had no idea what all the nodding was about. Suddenly, Fanny dashed over to the rake, picked it up, got back in the bunker, and did it again. Completely.
I was to suffer the ultimate caddy humiliation: Re-raked.

I was left with nothing to do but stand there and watch, humiliated. It was like a coach calling time-out in the middle of the Super Bowl and showing a quarterback how to put his hands under the center's butt.

And that's when I realized the horrible flaw in this book idea: Just because somebody "lets" you do something, doesn't mean you necessarily should go out and "do" it.

The fact that I, an absolute novice know-nothing, could get a bag and traipse my size 12s across the hallowed ground of Augusta National tells you how dangerously easy this whole idea was.

At the 2000 Masters, every past champion got a lifetime invitation, even if they were 111 years old. The rule has changed now, but then, it meant if Byron Nelson, then 89, felt like playing in next year's Masters, he could play. Naturally, since 1966, he has had the good sense not to.

Luckily, guys like 1957 champion Doug Ford (then 78) did not have good sense. He played every year until they made him stop in 2002. In the 2000 Masters, he went out there, threw a little 94 at them, and then withdrew. Meanwhile, a very good player sat home and bit his putter.

Naturally, figuring Ford was not exactly "counting" on winning and therefore might suffer an insufferable caddy and get in a book, I called him first.

"Mr. Ford," I began, "I'm doing a book on caddying and--"

"Already got a caddy," Ford snapped. "Had him for 25 years."

"Sure," I said, "but I was thinking, just this once, you might allow--"

Click.

May his bunions burst.

Finally, the agent for Aaron called back and said Aaron would let me caddy Wednesday only, as a tryout for the next year. Said we'd play nine holes and then the par-3 contest and that would give him an idea of exactly how horrible I was.

Yes!

I started researching Aaron, who, it turns out, is famous for three things: 1) Saving the Masters from having to put up with J. C. Snead every year by beating him by one shot in 1973; 2) Writing down an incorrect par "4" instead of a birdie "3" on the 17th hole for Sunday playing partner Roberto De Vicenzo in 1968. De Vicenzo signed the card anyway, causing him to keep that one-stroke higher score, causing him to miss his rightful spot in what would've been a two-man playoff with Bob Goalby, who was then declared the winner. When told of it, De Vicenzo did not blame Aaron. Instead he said, "What a 'stupid' I am." 3) Not being Hank Aaron's brother, though people ask him all the time anyway, despite the fact that the baseball Aarons are black and this golfing Aaron is white. ("No," Tommy tells them, "I'm taller.")

He'd played in 37 Masters, won the par-3 tournament one year with a five-under 22, and had missed more cuts than a drunk surgeon. However, in 2000, Aaron became the oldest player ever to make the cut--63 years, one month--when he shot 72-74-146, three under the cut, the first two days. Of course, he wound up dead last by five shots at 25-over, but still, on that Friday night, he was three shots better than Ollie, seven than Daly, and nine than Ben Crenshaw.

My man!

I reached him on his cellphone. "Meet me at the bag room at 7:30 sharp tomorrow morning," he said. "We'll play a practice round and then we'll play the par 3."

Having slept not at all, I was at the holy place by 7a.m., and by this I mean the Augusta caddyshack. It was a white brick building, with lockers, tables, a TV playing ESPN, and a little caddyshack grill where a huge black man cooks delicacies for the caddies, such as hamburger ($2), cheeseburger (also $2), soup (50 cents), and fries (50 cents). Of course, business was a little slow this week on account of--for Masters week only--a giant cake-display case being brought in and filled with pimento-cheese sandwiches, fruit, Gatorade, pop, and candy. Now who is going to pay a whole 50 cents for soup when you can get free pimento-cheese sandwiches?

I saw Pete Bender, who carried Ian Baker-Finch at the 1993 British Open--which tells you how good Bender is--and he said that Augusta is good, but the best caddy room in the free world is the Players Championship. "Oh, man, hot breakfasts, hot lunch, big-screen TV, couches," Bender said wistfully. Here's a guy carrying Rocco Mediate and probably making $100,000 a year, and he's thrilled at the idea of being able to actually eat a meal during his 10-hour workday. The worst, he said, was Arnold Palmer's tournament, Bay Hill. "They got nothin'. Zero. Not even a room to change in."

Shame, Arnie, shame...

Excerpted from "Who's Your Caddy?" by Rick Reilly Copyright© 2003 by Rick Reilly. Excerpted by permission of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.