In my early teenage years, way before I was sports translator, let alone a translator (let alone someone who could even speak English!), I moved from Rosario, to Santiago del Estero, a god forsaken city in the NOA (Spanish acronym for Northwest of Argentina).
I hated it. But unbeknownst to young angsty me, that whimsy relocation ended up being my first step towards becoming a bilingual professional. It turns out, private language schools were cheaper there and so my parents conceded to my request of attending English lessons.
I also learned some random skills in Santiago del Estero, like being a golf caddy.
See, my mom's then boyfriend was a retired rugby player turned golf aficionado. And the minute we set foot in the scorching grounds of Santiago he started pestering my siblings and I to come along for "at least 9 holes". Chubby kids coming from the big city as we were, the idea didn't sound that enticing.
Berni hit the nail on the head —maybe I should say he made it to the green— when he mentioned there was always 'lunch' after playing.
Not to bash on not-so-sportsy 13-year old Nicolás but, I think the first thing that came to my mind when I heard the word "caddy" was the closest word I knew, which was "candy". And the picture in my mind was not a bag full of Skittles (or our local version Sugus confitados) but rather soft served vanilla ice-cream. Because candy is what we call soft-serve ice cream in Argentina.
But I digress.
A 'caddy' (or caddie) is the person who carries the golfer's club bag and walks along (forget about golf carts in most developing countries) you throughout the course.
Originally, the caddy would only help carrying the bag and handing over the clubs silently. But over the years, the role of the caddy evolved into something more of a knowledgeable assistant or counselor to the golfer. An extra set of eyes and brain to help decide the best club for the stroke. An expert more sensitive to particular changes in the wind. Maybe someone who could hand you an ice cold beer if you needed some cheering up after a triple bogey.
So there I was, walking under the sun with the heavy golf bag on my shoulder, wondering what an iron 5 was and why the heck did wood clubs were called woods if there was no wood whatsoever in them.
Strong-rooted English
During the 5 years I lived in the North of Argentina I caddied for Berni many times - occasionally, I dabbled as a wannabe golfer myself. Truthfully, I wasn't very good at striking the ball from a tee with the driver, nor did I excel at avoiding sand traps. I really enjoyed putting. Those were the good times.
In the retrospect eyes of a now sports translator, I'm amazed at how Golf has resisted the translation of so many in-terms.
Even in the less fancy courses of the world —like the one I trod time and time again in Santiago— golfers stick to the original English for 'birdie', 'eagle', 'handicap', 'iron', etc. Heck, they even call 'lunch' a picada de salamín y mortadela. It's a funny phenomenon consistent globally: Golf terms generally remain in English regardless of what's your native language.
Were there no knowledgeable translators back when golf was introduced to the world? It would make me so happy if people referred to a one stroke under par as a "pajarito" in Spanish-speaking countries. And making an "águila" sounds so much better!
I know it's unlikely we'll get the chance to change these well established terms. We don't aim that high at Language Athletics, lest we completely go over the green that no approach can help you get closer to the hole.
I may not have become a professional golf player, nor a sought after caddy among up and coming young promises needing advice in posture and swing. I took a different route in life and now I deal in words and commas, not balls and tees.
Now I just want to be your translation caddy and help with what I know best:
High-quality Sports Translations for the international market.
Take us for a 9-hole round will you?