My stomach turned when I saw the first bit of panic cause creases in Jake's forehead. His caddy had called. He had mixed up the dates and couldn't make The 2003 Southern Farm Bureau Classic. This was only Jake's third PGA Tour experience ever. He had been exempted into the event because of his title of 2002 Player of the Year for the Gulf States Section of the PGA of America.

Jake frantically dialed the numbers to friends he felt worthy of the job. One was on a trip to Dallas, one couldn't get off work and one wasn't home to ask.

He had been so excited right up until that point. Tour veteran Paul Azinger had recognized Jake's name and had spoken to him during his practice round. He had seen Scott Laycock, with whom he had played in New Orleans, and they had talked about Ben Curtis, the other member of their threesome. Yes, that's right; the 2003 British Open Champion had played with my husband at the HP Classic.

But now, after beginning to feel a little like he might belong there, this was a kink in the enthusiasm. I don't think Jake blinked for a full five minutes. Then I looked at him and confidently said, "I'll do it." His shock turned to fear. He was speechless, and then he realized he might not have a choice. The WifeCaddy was born.

I had caddied only once before, in the practice round for the HP Classic. But this was for real. I searched the Internet, grilled my nervous husband, and then had a panic attack. This was really happening. I really was going to have to strap a 35-pound bag on my shoulders and try to look like I knew what I was doing, even though I had played a total of about 25 holes of golf in my entire life! Where would I stand? How would I act? What would I say? When would I say it? How would this marriage survive the next two days?

Fourteen hours later, we were in the car for the two-hour road trip north to Madison, Mississippi. It could've been nostalgic, considering we lived in Madison for the first year of our marriage and Jake has family there, but all I could do was concentrate on the job ahead. I think I asked every question imaginable during the ride. Jake laughed at most of them, and about half-way there, he got nervous again, making a last-ditch effort phone call to find someone to caddy for him who knows the difference between irons and woods. His friend, Mike, couldn't leave work; however, he did get on the phone with me and sternly say, "Don't yell at him." He made me promise 17 times that I wouldn't. What he didn't do was tell Jake not to yell at me!

When we got to the course, my father-in-law met us for lunch. He's a retired sports writer who knows just about everything there is to know about the subject. He and I are polar opposites. Mr. Ray definitely didn't think I was equipped to do the job, if you know what I mean-it's the whole "women should be rattling pots and pans; I was born in 1930" thing. As soon as Jake walked to the locker room, I got the lecture, which included "Don't let him miss the hole on the amateur side."

Huh? The what? I was really in trouble now. At that point, I truly realized I had no idea what I was doing. I would never have let Mr. Ray know that, though. "No problem. We got it covered," I said.

After fighting the bag for the first 20 minutes, adjusting the straps and then trying to memorize where each club belonged, we finally got to the practice green. Jake looked great, sinking just about every putt. And then, on the driving range, where his father still loomed heavily over my shoulder-how the heck did he get in there without a pass?-Jake could not hit a bad shot. I couldn't wait until it was time to go.

And then it was. I shook hands with several folks on the first tee. I was trying to figure out who was who. I was able to spot the other two caddies-they were in shorts. I wasn't allowed to wear shorts. My husband had told me I needed to wear khaki pants with deep pockets, of which I had none. So, at 11 o'clock the night before, I'd been in Wal-Mart getting dress slacks with pockets-and now I was the only one in them. Peculiar. I said nothing, though. I was a good caddy.

The first guy in our group, Tom Gillis, was called to tee it up. Swoosh! Right down the middle. Then came my first mistake-the clap. "Honey, we don't clap; we say good job." My face was on fire. And, of course, the other two caddies immediately knew I was the ultimate rookie. Doggoneit! Jake did make up for my embarrassment when he birdied the hole. Thank God.

"This is the first time I've ever been under par in a PGA Tour event," he said. I smiled and gave him a gentle hug. Ooops, no wife, just caddy. It was also the last time he'd be under par for the event. He bogeyed the next hole, bringing him to even par, and leading him to the worst nine holes ever. And, another oops, I almost stepped on his ball in the rough! He thought that was pretty funny, but I'm sure he wouldn't have if I had actually cost him a couple of strokes.

"There's too much in your hands." "You're walking too slow." "You're walking too fast." "No, I'll rake the sand." Now, that really cheezed me off! Any idiot can rake sand. I was insulted, but I was cool. Then, splash. His ball went into the water, and he had to drop a new one back into play. When he dropped the ball, I should've been the one making sure it didn't fall back into the water, but the other two players picked up my slack. "You should've been the one doing that," Jake said. But he was very patient with my mistake. He then introduced me to one of the other caddies, Rick.

After the round, I told Rick that I had actually prayed for one of the other caddies to be really nice and help me out. He got a kick out of that. I don't think I'll ever forget him and his Marlboro Reds. He was definitely a great guy, and a great caddy too. I told Rick that I'd never caddied before, and that I didn't really play, either. He actually said I was doing pretty good. I appreciated his dishonesty. He helped me out a lot. A couple of pointers around the green, ways to help Jake out a little more, where to put the bag. I'm thankful to him for saving me lots of grief from my player.

I certainly didn't want to cause any waves with Jake, especially during those nine holes. This was not pleasant at all. And then, it happened. "Don't try to comfort me," he snapped. I had to remember the promise to Mike. I didn't yell at him, but boy, I wanted to!

The tears welled in my eyes. I was so hurt, thinking things like, "To heck with this, I'm doing you a favor. You'd think you'd appreciate the fact that I'm standing here at all." If I'd had a voodoo doll of him at that point, he would've been jumping. Still, I said nothing. And, I didn't cry either. After all, Rick and Kyle weren't crying, so obviously, caddies didn't cry.

Later that night, Jake told his sister, "Amber had to bite her tongue off eight times." He was right. But still, I knew I had one more day with him, another 18 holes and 7,200 yards. I was a good caddy through the entire conversation, even when my father-in-law suggested three times that Jake should consider another caddy, one which Mr. Ray had scouted for him.

We decided together that, despite the horrible score, we were going to have a great time the next day. It still started a little shakily, though. Jake got up that morning and wanted to go anywhere but Annandale Golf Club. He was exhausted in every way imaginable. And so was I, and I had a blister. Both of us stumped toes on the same bedpost, and it set the tone for the day when we began laughing hysterically at each other's pain.

The second round was so much better. I was getting used to the idea of caddying, and Jake knew the cut wasn't reachable, so he took the opportunity to try and make me a better backup. He forced me to walk yardage and figure out which way the wind was blowing and how hard, and he even let me choose a bunch of clubs, or at least guess which one he should use. Then, on the first of the last five holes of the tournament, he told me that I needed to clean his ball after he marked it on the green-wow, what a concept!

I hated the flag job. I said a prayer on every stinking hole that Jake would be closest so I wouldn't have to deal with it. You have to walk in a certain place to grab it, and then give it to one of the other caddies if you think they might be the one who'll place it back in the hole, or something like that. Jake had another pretty good laugh at me when his ball was farthest away on one of the greens and he couldn't see the hole. I was to tend the stupid flag. That wasn't happening. I couldn't reach the darned thing. I'm 5 feet 3 inches tall! He waved me out of the way, and, bless his heart, putted blindly to save me from humiliation.
I even got to rake the sand once, but only once. He told me, "You almost did OK." I didn't quite know what to think of that remark.

The second round began on the back nine. Once again, he started out pretty poorly. Then came number 18, the ninth hole of the day. The eagle! The eagle that made the local evening news, even though his 20-over, two-day score placed him dead last. The eagle that was the first hole both of our mothers and our eight-year-old son, Shayne, had arrived to see-and Shayne consequently couldn't understand why Jake's score was so high. The eagle that was the second of the last 11 holes, which he played one under par.

When the ball sank on 18, we heard his mom scream, "Way to go, Jake!"

And then he tried to kiss me, and I backed up. "I'm the caddy, remember."

We still hang on to those last 11 holes, since the cut was at one under. We like to think that if he'd played both days for the love of the game, as he did on those last 11, he would've made the cut and maybe even finished well. After all, we did beat John Daly's 83 with our 79 on the second day. (You like how I threw "we" and "our" in there, huh?)

And we did have a great time, just as we'd planned. He even said I did a great job. His mom told me I was definitely the cutest caddy, after about half-a-dozen old guys who were volunteering as "quiet sign holders" had made similar comments. I liked it better when his mom said it.

The night after the tournament, he took his wifecaddy to dinner. And, I found myself in the most engaging conversation-about golf! This had always been a subject in which I really had to try to show interest. We sat outside at a local restaurant and discussed every bloody shot. I couldn't believe my mouth. I was actually talking golf, listening and enjoying it, too.

I finally let myself cry. The people at the other tables probably thought we were breaking up. The emotions just finally got to me, and oh, the guilt! Did I feel guilty for not stating the obvious sometimes and letting him make stupid mistakes because his nerves were making him second-guess his talents?

He just rolled his eyes and laughed at me. Then, he said the sweetest thing: "I want you to caddy for me again. It'll be fun." I couldn't believe he asked.

Back to being my husband again.

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