Bring Me The Head Of Sergio Garcia - Plot & Excerpts
Back in January, I’d received all kinds of unexpected offers from would-be bagmen. My subsequent analysis of their potential for the job had been enormous fun, and had prompted me to think of the flaws and strengths of long-term acquaintances in whole new ways.1 But by August most of these offers had dried up, as friends in regular nine-to-five employment realised the impracticality of travelling halfway across the country to spend two or three unglamorous days helping me look for my ball in heavy shrubbery, and friends out of regular nine-to-five employment did the maths on a 10 per cent cut of nothing. Casual slave-driving had always been a fundamental part of my golf fantasy life. I liked picturing myself strolling the fairway, twirling my club, with some affable hunchback at my side eagerly humping the tools of my trade. A character of indeterminate age, he would have a nickname like ‘Croaky Joe’ or ‘Ankles McGill’, and would stare off wisely towards the flag and say things like, ‘There’s a lot of wind up there you can’t see, sir.’ After a remunerative week in a faraway place, I would send him off to explore the local nightlife with a wad of £20-notes in his fist, and he would not be seen until the following week’s tournament, where he would be waiting for me faithfully on the range, a devilish flicker in his one remaining eye and a gnarly hand resting on a set of irons buffed to a face-reflecting shine.
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