DAVID Down the hole
Forecaddying is a different job. Here is the honest version.
A walking caddie lives next to you. A forecaddie lives where your ball might die. That is the whole idea, and it is why four-balls on tree-lined courses hire one person to roam ahead while everyone else rides.
I have done both in the same week. They use different muscles and a different kind of attention.
What I am actually watching
Flight, bounce, kick, then the last two seconds when the ball disappears against shade. I pick a landmark — a pale tree trunk, a bunker rake, a bald patch — and I stay there until you arrive. I do not wander off to philosophise with the next tee. Your Titleist is not a concept. It is in the left rough, two paces short of the cart path, and I will still be pointing at it when you get there.
On doglegs I stand where the corner reveals the green, not where the photo looks nice. If three of you fade it, I shade right. If one of you is a hooker with pride, I keep a second eye on the trees. Groups are mixed. The job is mixed.
Pace of play is the quiet product
Five minutes of searching, four times a round, is almost a hole. Marshals get grumpy. Friendships get thin. A forecaddie is cheaper than losing a tee time next month because your group is “that group.” I wave you up when it is safe. I tell you when it is not. I do not let you hit into people because you are bored.
The best compliment is a round that felt shorter than the scorecard.
When you do not need a forecaddie
Wide open links with no rough worth fearing. Two players who find everything. A walking caddie already on the bag who can still see the landing. Save your money. Hire me to carry and talk clubs instead.
When you do
Thick Kikuyu, visitor days, scramble events where twelve balls are in the air, twilight when the light goes sideways. Corporate groups who will not look up after they swing. That is forecaddying weather.
Book forecaddying and tell me if the group is wild. I would rather know than sprint.