Global Golf Diplomacy: Inside the Geopolitical Carry-On of Tommy Fleetwood’s Caddie
The Bagman Who Carries the Weight of the West
By our correspondent in Dubai, where the sand traps are air-conditioned and optimism is tax-free
Tommy Fleetwood’s caddie—currently Ian Finnis, affectionately nicknamed “Fino”—has spent the last fortnight schlepping a 40-pound leather suitcase across four continents, three time zones, and two climate crises. From the manicured lawns of Augusta to the desert mirage of Saudi-backed LIV events, Fino has become the most underpaid diplomat in golf, a human GPS whose job description now includes geopolitical navigation.
Let us be clear: the modern caddie is no longer the bib-wearing comic relief of yesteryear, barking “You’re the man!” between swigs of Gatorade. He is a walking think-tank, a therapist with a rangefinder, an influencer without a blue checkmark. And in Fleetwood’s case, he is also the last Englishman still permitted to enter the United States without a cavity search.
While Fleetwood swings for birdies, Fino carries the burden of Brexit fallout on his shoulder strap. Every yardage book is annotated not just with wind vectors but with currency conversions: “160 yards, 5-iron, 1.23 GBP to USD, pray the pound holds.” When Tommy asks for a read on the green, Fino silently factors in inflation, supply-chain disruptions, and whether the ball might be confiscated at Customs on the way home.
The international stakes are absurdly high. When Fleetwood tees it up in Dubai, the European Tour—sorry, the DP World Tour—presents itself as the last bastion of post-colonial soft power. Meanwhile, the Saudis dangle signing bonuses large enough to buy a small Baltic republic. Somewhere between the falafel stand and the putting green, Fino becomes the Switzerland of sports: neutral, multilingual, and politely declining bribes that could fund a low-yield missile program.
Back home in Southport, England, pensioners grumble that caddies earn more in a weekend than they do in a year. They are, of course, wrong: Fino’s official income wouldn’t cover a single NHS hip replacement. The real money is off-book—appearance fees, Instagram endorsements for artisanal yardage books, and the occasional “consultancy” for a sheikh who wants to know which Rolex pairs best with a lob wedge.
The caddie’s bag is itself a microcosm of global inequality. Inside: a dozen Pro V1s stamped with logos of tech companies that have never turned a profit; a rain jacket stitched in Bangladesh for the price of a London latte; a yardage book printed on paper that may soon be worth more than the ink. Beneath the rain hood lurks a single banana, flown in from Ecuador, whose carbon footprint could power a small Welsh village.
Yet Fino soldiers on, whistling Rule Britannia between shots, reminding Tommy that the 13th at Royal Liverpool plays three yards shorter when the tide is out and the empire is in retreat. His back aches, his knees creak, but his sense of irony remains surgically intact. When Fleetwood three-putts for bogey, Fino mutters something about the futility of central banking. When Tommy sinks a 30-footer for eagle, Fino allows himself one grim smile: “That’ll cover the import duty on the new hybrid.”
And so the caravan moves on: private jet to Singapore, commercial cattle class to Scotland, cargo hold full of dreams and graphite shafts. Somewhere over the Atlantic, between reruns of “Ted Lasso” and the latest IPCC report, Fino updates the manifest: one golfer, one caddie, zero clue how it will all end.
Because in the end, the caddie’s job is not to predict the break of the putt, but to carry the existential weight of a sport—and a world—teetering on the edge of the next water hazard. And when Tommy finally lifts a major trophy, when the cameras flash and the national anthem plays, Fino will still be standing just off-camera, holding the bag, wondering if the after-party serves anything stronger than lukewarm prosecco.
Cheers, Fino. The rest of us are just grateful someone still knows which way the wind blows.
