If Jeff Mulberry has any aspirations beyond the odd hole in one, it is to lead as uncomplicated a life as possible. His needs are modest and his interests narrowing down as he focuses on pro golf. Not that he has his eye set on being a winning player, but rather on being the best caddie that friendship, respect -- and of course, some money -- can buy. "I don't want to be Tiger Woods. I want to find a Tiger Woods and help us to the top."

Last Sunday he was to be found hanging out on his best friend's deck in Akiya, on the Miura Peninsula. "We met at school in Vancouver when we were 9. Between tournaments here, Gra and Cath are good enough to take me in." Portable phone in hand, he was busy making notes in the tiny book he carries from game to game, course to course, country to country. "I'm caddying for Australian pro Richard Backwell on this tour, who's third in the money list for 2000. We start Tuesday in Chiba, hoping to make the cut."

For the uninitiated, "making the cut" means two days playing practice rounds ahead of the tournament Thursday and Friday, when the cut will be made for the final 60 to play the last two rounds. "Everyone who makes the cut gets some money, but the percentage the caddie receives depends on the player they're working with -- how well the guy does, and the basis of agreement."

It has taken Mulberry (the name comes through his Irish grandfather) just three years to reach the point where he might be on his way to making a living. At school he failed to shine. "The only thing I was good at was getting kicked out of things." Even his sporting prowess -- he plays just about everything, but is especially strong on the rugby field -- only blossomed after leaving school.

"What did I do? I went to work for the city (of Vancouver) in sanitation," he laughed. "He was a garbage man," explained his friend in passing; apparently Jeff used to bring him and university friends boxes of chewing gum from the dump -- and once, a huge crate of chocolate bars for Halloween. "They'd be thrown away as past expiry date, but really they were OK. Weren't they, Gra?" "Sure, brilliant," came the answer.

After eight years of shifting rubbish for local government, and rising to the dizzy heights of bulldozer operator, Mulberry decided to do it for himself. "Tired of being screwed around, one day I said adios." He bought his own business, which he ran with a partner. "We were moving heavy stuff. You know, Dumpsters, used by the construction industry."

After a while his partner sold out to Mrs. Mulberry (Jeff's mom). Then he too began to tire of the business. "Fifteen years ago, it was fun. But it began to change. . . . There was no enjoyment anymore." By this time he had bought his own house (just a few blocks from where his parents still live) and was spending a good part of every day on the golf course. "I always have a backup plan, just in case what I'm doing doesn't work out."

He describes rugby, his first love, as a "game of frustration"; he was always getting injured. The punctured lung was worrying but broken ribs hurt the most; laughing was pure agony. Golf, however, was a far gentler form of exercise. Since his knees had escaped impairment, he could walk courses with ease. "A junior player at Marine Drive, I worked hard in my late 20s, playing all the time. Some guys at the club took me off to play a few rounds in Mexico. Amateur stuff, but I really loved it."

Golf is addictive, he reckons. The driving force is simple: trying to play better than the day before. "Wanting to shoot better keeps me going back." It's also, he admitted with a grin, a great way to kill an afternoon. "It's real nice walking the greens. It's social -- and there are beers lined up at the end."

Reaching his early 30s, and deciding golf was as neat an occupation as any, he wondered if he could make a living out of doing what he most enjoyed. "I knew I wasn't good enough to make it as a pro player, but caddying looked fun. At a tournament in Vancouver I met a guy who was caddying at the British Columbia Open. He reckoned he could get me a bag, and when he did, we won. That was the start."

Amateur caddying in Japan conjures up the image of ageless, faceless women wearing visored bonnets and slinging bags over tough shoulders and strong backs. They know the regulars and the courses but, since they mainly cater to male players, are restricted to the role of workhorse. (The golf equivalent to making green tea in the office.)

The pro caddie is a very different animal. "Above all, you need a good knowledge of the game. When I meet a player, I have to like him. Or her -- I live in hope. We have to get along real well to make the partnership work. There has to be respect and trust. I'm part valet, part psychologist, part consultant and adviser. And I have to strike a balance between being seen as knowing my job and coming across as too bossy."

He has to pack the bag properly, making sure he includes rain gear, first aid stuff and high energy snacks. (This is the valet bit.) He has to help the player retain confidence in the face of bad luck. And be prepared to offer advice when it is asked for.

"In the end, it's up to the player to decide how to approach a hole and play a ball," he explained. "But if the wind is coming at us, he may say, 'This is like yesterday, right? Same direction, same speed?' And I will check in my notebook and say yes, or not quite, and tell him how I think it's slightly different. I voice opinion, that's all, which he can leave or take. More often than not, they know but need convincing they're right. Basically I'm there to help provide a clear and confident mind."

That first job, caddying for South African pro Ian Hutchins at the B.C. Open on the Canadian Tour, was in May 1998. "When we won, I came close to covering my costs. The way it works is that the player pays a flat rate plus a percentage of winnings. You work it out between you."

He and Hutchins got on so well that he was asked to complete the tour. But then the caddie Hutchins had originally booked turned out to be coming after all. So instead Mulberry went with a mate to Edmonton, Alberta, which -- providentially -- is how he got into golf here. "I caddied for Canadian pro Brent Franklin, who had played in Japan. He introduced me to Blair Phillips, also with Japan experience, who gave me a week caddying the Kirin Open in April last year."

Unfortunately, the duo missed the cut, but it was good experience. Mulberry tried to get back into the game, jumping around. A Korean pro asked him to caddie, but they too missed the cut: "He was good, just not good enough." Jeff came back again last autumn, but that didn't go too great either. As he says, golf's a funny game. "It's unpredictable. The good players are always up there, but even they have bad days. Not many people know me yet. I'm concentrating on getting better rather than worrying too much about what or may not happen."

This time he is more optimistic. "When I first worked with Richard (Backwell) last year, he was ranked 40-something. But after he broke a course record and jumped to seventh, he must have reckoned we were doing something right. After we saw one another in Oz and talked last winter, he called me to come here. He's a good guy, real easy to work for. We missed the cut on the Kirin because he was tired. But we'll be into our stride for the PGG tournament in Chiba, then head down to Okayama and the Munsingwear Open."

The game here is the same as anywhere. But the courses are hillier and less manicured that most in North America. He described them as "different, challenging." His list of tournament dates covers the whole country, which is one of the things he likes about the job. "You get to see the world while having a great time. But when the schedule gets goofy, and not worth sticking around, I'll head home, then return for the big tournaments, where the real money is, in the autumn."

He plans to spend the summer playing golf. "I go home for my vacation. Funny, right?" He likes the golfing fraternity, finding them a friendly, helpful lot. Insistent that he doesn't caddie for the loot ("though PGA tours have gone crazy for money") his ambition is to find a player with the right combination of talent and personality. "If a guy's not cool, the game not enjoyable, then I don't want to do it, however much money he's making. It's just not worth it."

Having now sold the garbage business, Jeff Mulberry feels as free as air. "I'm happy to be in Japan. I like the guy I'm working with. When home I can scoot around to Mom's for a free meal, and play a round a day if I like. When away, lodgers keep my house safe, and if I don't make the cut, well, I know there's money coming in. It's a nice fit. I avoid complications. I believe in keeping life uncluttered."

He doesn't have much, but it works well and he can leave it or take it as he likes. One man's recipe for happiness.