All Barkley No Bite

Think Charles Barkley’s swing is brutal? Try being his caddy.

By Sam Adams

In these times of economic uncertainty, an unemployed sportswriter can ill afford to ignore a job opportunity.

So when public relations guru Phil Weidinger offered me a gig caddying during the pro-am round of the 20th annual American Century Celebrity Golf Championship in July, acceptance was a no-brainer.
No pay, mind you. Just an opportunity to walk Tahoe’s 7,500-yard Edgewood course in the hot sun, with a guarantee of being on the bag for a well-known celebrity.

In the perfect world I’m in the fairways with Michael Jordan, Jerry Rice, John Elway or Dan Marino. We don’t live in a perfect world. I’m getting the hookup with one of the worst golfers—and happiest souls—on the planet.

Charles Barkley. That’s Charles Wade Barkley—basketball Hall of Famer, colorful television analyst, star pupil of the Golf Channel’s “Haney Project” and the unofficial mayor of Tahoe.

I already know a few things about this gig. One, expect a long night when Sir Charles takes the stage with keyboardist Arthur “Arty” Hervey in Harrah’s casino during tournament week. Barkley enjoys buying rounds of beers and tequila shots for friends and strangers alike.

And two, a round of golf with Barkley usually lasts a long time. So I skipped the “Party with Arty” to get a good night’s rest. Thing is, I couldn’t sleep. I was worrying less about being on Barkley’s bag and more about Barkley’s bag being on me. On size alone no one will confuse me with Caddy Shaq. I’m 49-year-old brown-skinned man with pipe cleaner arms and a back about to be permanently hunched from dragging a golf bag hole-to-hole for the 300-pound Round Mound of Rebound.

We meet at the driving range around 8 a.m. Barkley, his bodyguard (James Haywood), tournament caddy (Chris Detsch), San Francisco Chronicle reporter Ron Kroichick (who will loop the front nine) and me.
  
Detsch is there to make sure Kroichick and I don’t screw up. I’m thinking, how do you screw up caddying for a guy listed at 499-to-1 odds to win the tournament? Meanwhile, Barkley has checked some playful text messages from cyclist Lance Armstrong, who is competing in the Tour de France.
  
Armstrong: “I heard you only bought 500 Coronas (the night before) . . . ”

Barkley: “I heard you’re still in third place.”

At the driving range Barkley’s swing seems just fine. But it takes a severe change for the worse once he steps onto a tee box. You’ve no doubt seen it on television: A backswing, then an abrupt stop in the follow-through—as if he’s heard the ball threaten to jump off the tee and slap him—and a big dip before he eventually makes contact. It’s a hideous, if not hilarious, sight.

Question is, can Barkley’s swing be cured? Tiger Woods laughs at it. Woods’ coach, Hank Haney famously tried to fix it—with modest success during nine episodes on television.

We head toward the first tee for his 8:50 a.m. start—a rare morning tee time in Tahoe for Barkley. There is a small gathering of fans waiting to greet Barkley and wish him well on the round. Meanwhile, I’m trying to gather my thoughts for the day’s assignment when the starter at the 10th tee shouts, “Sam Adams.” Talk about an eye-popping surprise. Turns out there’s a female namesake playing in a foursome with former NHL star Jeremy Roenick.

“Nobody can break my spirits—ever,” Barkley proclaims while walking toward his first tee shot—a short liner he counts as a fairway hit. Fortunately it’s a best-ball format. Barkley’s foursome will play the first of many long drives hit by partner Jim Ballengee.

Never mind the drivers, wedges and putter. Barkley is at his best dropping a verbal hammer, and he doesn’t wait long to use it. When a fan teases Barkley about his reality show with Haney, the Chuckster goes off on Woods—first for wearing “muscle shirts” and then for playing so poorly in the first round of the British Open. “Hank should have been here with me the way Tiger played today.”

Then it’s Jordan, a rant that is ignited by someone in the gallery standing next to MJ’s life-sized cardboard likeness.

“Overrated,” Barkley tells the fan. “First of all, he’s not good-looking. You’ve got a better chance of man flying to the moon than of Michael Jordan signing an autograph.”

Shortly thereafter, a woman in the gallery heckles Barkley. She wants to bet five bucks that he won’t hit a decent shot out of the fairway. “What you laughing at, lady? I got this,” Barkley says. His shot plunks a tree. “I’m not trying to suck,” Barkley mutters.

After sending a tee shot low and well left of the fairway—nearly hitting spectators— Barkley grumbles, “If I could find the guy that invented this game I’d beat the s–t out of him.” His frustration seems genuine. Soon, I will be on the bag and more frustrations are sure to follow.

Barkley is very polite. Hand him a club and he says, “Thank you my brotha” every time. But it doesn’t take long for me to learn a valuable lesson while working his bag—don’t quiz him when he swings well. After he lofted a shot 100 yards onto the 10th green, I asked why he doesn’t have more swings without a hitch. His menacing glare carved a basketball-sized hole into my boney chest.

Sometimes Barkley’s glare is an act. But the 14K gold in his heart is real. He has endeared himself to the Tahoe community after donating nearly $200,000 over the past two years to aid families whose homes were destroyed by fires in Angora, an area near Lake Tahoe.

“To come up here and gamble, drink and play golf—and these people have had their houses burn down . . . it was worse than I thought it was,” Barkley says. “That was really devastating for me. I had never seen fires like that . . . you see what the fires did, every house is like a pancake.”

After offering a glimpse of his sensitive side, Barkley quickly gets back on stage at the Fairway Improv, with off-the-cuff lines that drop jaws, raise eyebrows and draw laughter all in one breath.
  
When a Barkley chip shot lands onto the green and rolls toward the pin, he gets real excited and shouts, “Run ball. Run—like a freed slave.” Members of his foursome, all of them caucasian, look baffled—as if they’re not sure whether to laugh or apologize for oppressions of years past.

Barkley’s playing partners haven’t been off limits to his smack talk. He teases Mark Killen for a poor tee shot—“The ball has 375 dimples and you hit six of them.” Ballengee got his share before the round began, for wearing a shirt with shades of pink, green and blue to a pair of red, white and blue spikes. “You can’t wear that s-it if you can’t play,” Barkley said.
  
One minute Barkley cogitates, then delivers a seemingly sincere like, “I want to hear somebody say, ‘Great shot’ before I die.” Then he swings the club and says, “Aw, I hit it chunky like Oprah.” So I give him a ‘You can’t talk about Oprah’ look. “What?” he says. “Oprah knows she’s chunky.” No one—not even Oprah Winfrey—gets a pass from Barkley, who sees a pal riding in a cart.
  
“Oh s-it, it’s (NBC commentator) Roger Maltbie. I knew s-it was gonna go bad for me.” They laugh. At this point in the round, it’s all about laughs for Barkley.

While walking toward the 13th green Barkley calls on the memory of his younger brother, Darryl, who died in March at age 42—six years after receiving a heart transplant. His message to me is simple: “Enjoy life, my brotha, because it’s too short.”

Meanwhile, the strength in my arms and shoulders are starting to fade. I’ve got the bag by its handle with one hand. “You know the bag has a strap,” Barkley cracks. Moments later he catches me daydreaming.
“Hey caddy, how does this putt read?” Barkley asks, knowing I’ve been caught off guard while standing on the side of the green. Read a putt? Shoot, I’m trying to figure a new way to carry his bag.

My reply? “Oh wow. Ummm . . .”

“Did you hear him?” Barkley asks the gallery. “I’m gonna call Tiger and ask if Stevie (Williams) ever answers ‘Oh wow’ when he asks how a putt reads.” My skin turns a shade of embarrassed pale as Barkley flashes a sheepish grin. But payback is lurking around the corner.

Out of thin Air, Jordan appears.

“Oh man, it’s Chawles,” Jordan says while strutting across the 16th tee box, his southern-fed diction silencing the “R” in Charles. They hug: big brother Michael who takes pleasure at verbally swatting little brother Chawles upside his noggin.

“Keep that big ol’ head down,” Jordan bellows. “Nike’s gonna be mad you’re wearing Callaway shoes.”

MJ’s sarcasm does little to improve Barkley’s confidence or swing. His drive off the 18th tee lands well left of the fairway. I search for another Nike ball in Barkley’s bag. “Man, I got a ball,” Barkley barks. “Get over here before I kick your ass.” I knew he wasn’t serious. I think.

Barkley’s round ends after what feels like an hour per hole. I heard that caddies usually receive a tip. But I wasn’t the usual caddy, so there was no tip—just a friendly handshake and grin from Barkley, who says,

‘Take care, my brotha.’ Later we posed for a photo.

My arms and shoulders ache, and my feet are sore. But I’m smiling, my ears still ringing from listening to Charles Wade Barkley play golf.