in convalescence, the man has a huge motor. Els was Kerr’s last regular bag. When the two got together in early 2016, the South African was a four-time major winner and a Hall of Famer, but at 46, hadn’t won anywhere since 2013. He and longtime caddie Ricci Roberts had taken one of their periodic breaks from each other, and the fill-in, Colin Byrne, had dropped Els’ bag mid-round at Bay Hill, tired of verbal abuse. “I would find out later that Ernie could be a teddy or a grizzly, but you never knew which bear would come out,” says Kerr. “If it was the grizzly, you needed a double Kevlar jacket of thick skin. To the fans he was always the Big Easy but not to the caddies.” Kerr says he was also unaware that Els had devel- oped an intermittent case of the yips. After Kerr separated from Mark O’Meara, he and Els had a decent T-38 start at Houston as a warmup to the Masters, where practice rounds went well. However, everything changed after Thursday’s first hole. After Els putted out, he told Kerr, “I just feel like walking in.” For a long moment he stood still, fixed on the not-so-distant clubhouse, literally at a crossroads. “He looked like the Washington Mon- ument,” says Kerr. “Fortunately, he didn’t move. I knew that his first step had to be in the right direction.” “My thought was to get him going to the second tee. I came up with a complete bullshit lie, but I delivered it gently. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘there’s an official down on the second green. He’ll have a cart. Let’s play that hole, and if you want to go in, you can get a ride.’” Then I kind of herded him that way, and he came along.” With his second shot to the par 5, Els hit a majestic 3-wood to 10 feet be- hind the hole, but even with Kerr urg- ing a lag, Els left himself a four-footer that did not touch the cup. “Even the last one-footer for par did a 360 before barely dropping in,” Kerr says. But at least Els didn’t look for the fictitious official in a cart. Instead, he began to settle in and even birdied the fifth with an accidental 20-footer, al- though he soon resumed his abysmal results from short range.
Hubert Green, with whom he stayed four years. Extended stints with Fuzzy Zoeller, Fred Couples and Vijay Singh followed, but it was the several dozens of other players he picked up, either on off weeks or between regular bags, in years when he might work more than 40 tournaments worldwide, that earned his reputation as an ironman among his peers. All told, Kerr has looped in some 1 000 tournaments including well over 100 majors. The 2016 Masters marked his 30th consecutive trip to Augusta National as a caddie. While he prides himself on a solid and emotionally level style on the course, Kerr is known as a colourful and loquacious raconteur off it – the caddie entrepreneur extraordinaire. When golf rangefinders first came out, Kerr bought 350 of them for $1 000 apiece in “It seemed like Ernie’s career was ending right before my eyes,” Kerr says. Catching himself, he then felt a strong call to action. a deal with the manufacturer and with- in a year sold all of them at $3 300 each throughout the pro golf world. Other profitable ventures have been flavoured ice coffee, memorabilia sales and a side hustle transporting players’ clubs to the next tour stop in his eponymous 2005 Chevy van, which logged 1.2 million kilometres before being retired to his driveway in San Antonio. “I always wanted to be a millionaire, and I made it,” Kerr says. “In my opin- ion, no one can outwork me.” Kerr has had to slow down. In 2022 he was diagnosed with stage-four rec- tal cancer, requiring surgery to remove a tumour and extensive chemotherapy. He’s currently in remission, with the hope of caddying again, but has stayed busy as a businessman and writing a memoir entitled Walking With Great- ness with journalist Andrew Both. Even
snake,” says Kerr, reminiscing at a breakfast nook in Augusta during the 2025 Masters. Caught off guard, Kerr could only think of suggest- ing the same impro-
CADDIE CAPITALIST Kerr has had many successful side-hustles outside the ropes.
vised, on-the-spot-instructions he had once given to David Frost in a similar crisis: Close your eyes and while swing- ing the putter, do 10 toe raises and take 10 deep breaths. Frost holed the ensu- ing putt, but after Els performed the ritual, all he could report was feeling worse. In the excruciating sequence that followed, Kerr had the same chilling thought that those who watched in per- son and on television doubtless shared. “It seemed like Ernie’s career was end- ing right before my eyes,” Kerr says. Catching himself, he then felt a strong call to action. “I knew he needed all the help I could give him, and that I had a lot to give. That round turned out to be the best I ever caddied in my life.” Both men sensed that this was an emergency. “You know what makes a great caddie?” says Kerr. “A great player. When they are playing well, it’s fun and exciting, and they don’t need a lot of as- sistance. But when everything is awful and he’s lost and desperate and you dig deep to help minimise the psychologi- cal damage, that’s when you really earn your money.” Kerr, now 64, whose given first name is David, came to golf late. In the 1970s he was a formidable amateur boxer in the same Washington, DC, system that produced Sugar Ray Leonard but decid- ed not to turn pro and left the sport at 18. After several years of gritty jobs that included chimney sweeping, concrete construction and managing a liquor store, he learned that he could make $1 000 a week caddying at the Congres- sional Country Club. His work ethic and thoroughness led to him being called “Pro,” which in the caddie tradition of oblique nicknames morphed into “Cayce,” after the club’s actual head pro at the time Kent Cayce. Kerr ventured out on the PGA Tour in 1987, and in his fourth event talked his way into a job with Hall of Famer
GOLF DIGEST SOUTH AFRICA 23
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