About a decade ago a young caddie walked forward with his player's bag on the 16th hole at Kingston Heath Golf Club, Victoria, Australia. Terry Gale had snatched his driver out of his bag as it lay behind the 15th green, venting some anger after three-putting the par three.

This was the signal for his caddie that he was clear to walk forward on the next hole, a welcome respite after a long day. He was going to knock an extra 250 yards off his journey back to the clubhouse, as the 16th tee was a long way back and it was one of Melbourne's hotter days. The little break had come at an opportune moment for the struggling Gale/caddie partnership. Gale had time on his march back to the tee to cool down and prepare himself for the demanding finish to this wonderful course. His caddie had time to reflect on the error of having suggested a club more than his boss wanted to hit on the previous par three, leaving him in the three putt zone beyond the front pin. On walked Gale's caddie down the right side of the 16th fairway. Gale was last to hit and there was a short delay anyway, so the caddie thought it would be a good idea to take advantage of the thick trees which ran the length of the 16th fairway. They made ideal cover in which to relieve oneself, although perilous for any golfer with a tendency to fade the ball on the left to right wind. About 230 yards from the 16th tee, a few yards short of the thick trees, lay Gale's golf bag. From the shelter of the trees, the caddie could hear the crack of his master's driver off the tee above. He heard a forlorn cry from his boss in the distance, however, which indicated that he was not entirely satisfied with his effort. The caddie emerged from the thicket to the sight of Gale's ball clattering off his golf bag and back onto the fairway. His caddie was ecstatic. What a good decision, he thought, to go and take a pee just as his man was about to hit. This would really make up for the minor contretemps on the previous hole, he told himself, as Gale approached the ball. Gale expressed surprise at his ball being on the fairway. He thought it should have been in the middle of the bush, unless he had misjudged the line completely. The grinning caddie explained that the ball would have been dead if he hadn't left the bag where it was, but sensed that all was not well by the scowl on his boss's face. "That's two shots extra," Gale snarled as he slammed his driver against his bag. Lucky that his caddie had relieved himself earlier, as he felt a jolt run though his body on hearing that he had just caused his man two penalty shots on top of the miscalculation on the previous hole. Three shots in two holes, the chances were he would be seeking a new employer. Novice or not, this was too much to sustain a working relationship with the hard but fair Mr Gale. The tale of the two shots didn't take long to reach the caddie shack in Kingston Heath. The next day Gale's caddie had been greeted by most of his colleagues as "Two Shots". By the time he got over to Europe later that year the tale had preceded him. A soft target was always welcome in the European caddie shack, especially an Antipodean with little knowledge of the basic rules of golf. I arrived at Huntingdale Golf Club recently for the Australian Masters tournament. The usual cads congregated around the entrance to the locker room waiting for their players or a prospective employer. I recognised one of the characters. A happy-looking face with a cigarette in his hand, smiling in my direction.

"Two Shots!" I exclaimed more in surprise than with any desire to raise the ugly past for the caddie. The name had never left him despite his being away from caddying for over eight years. I had never known his real name, so I instinctively greeted him with the only name by which I had ever known him. On his rare outings for porter duty he doesn't walk forward anymore, but he will always be called Two Shots. The tour has a long memory when it comes to someone else's misfortune.