Work on the course was interrupted by the great New England Hurricane of 1938.Years later my dad related his tale of carrying me on his shoulders as the hurricane winds blew the trees over like matchsticks all around us. My mom (now 93 and living in a nursing home in Needham, Ma.) recalls the dynamiting and famous storm with a new baby in the apartment says, ”It was frightening!’’
My friends informed me recently that the George Wright Golf Course is still there, having survived some tough times and neglect. In these times of fast development and land depletion, it is refreshing to know that the lush real estate located on the borderline of Roslindale/Hyde Park called the George Wright Municipal Golf Course is still operating. In a golf course magazine last year, the George Wright was picked as one of the 25 best municipal courses in the country.
As a kid of ten, every season—winter, spring, summer, fall—was spent, in part, on this golf course. In the summers, we played golf, looked for golf balls, caddied, and also played baseball. That’s right, baseball on a golf course. In fact, one of my first official games (by “official” I mean we had an umpire) was played on what is called “the Nursery of the Golf Course.”
“The nursery” was located behind the first green inside the fence, on Poplar street. As I remember, many years ago, in that first umpired game, Eddie was there as a pitcher. There also was Mussie, John, Don, Rocky, Dave, Bill, Chico, and many other names that now manage to escape me.
Eddie’s father was a policeman in one of the local precincts and he umpired the game, much to the chagrin of Eddie. What the score was I can’t recall. All I know is we had and we played many, many more games on “the nursery.”
Golf took up most of my summer time. My first set of clubs, was given to me, by my Uncle Frank.
It was a crude old set: odd irons; some with wooden shafts; one without grip; irons with names like Mashie and Niblick; woods with names like Brassie, Spoon, and Cleek; and a limp kind of canvas bag.
The golf course was patrolled, by a motorcycle policeman by the name of Bill Hackett, a spit and polish cop, who patrolled the golf course on his steel gray Harley Davidson with its matching side car. So, most of our golfing activity took place when Bill parked his motorcycle in the club, usually after 5:00 p.m. If we were playing on the third hole and heard the noise from his motorcycle, we would run into the woods thru a hole in the fence to avoid his patrolling efforts. My buddy, Chuck and I paid the dollar greens fee once in a while. We played a lot and always ended up putting in the dark on the par four 2nd hole as mosquitoes bit us and bats flew overhead. Then, we crawled under the fence and scurried home.
In addition to playing golf and baseball, I did a little bit of caddying, which was OK because caddies could play for free on Mondays. But, most of my financial rewards from the golf course were made selling golf balls. Of course, finding them was the best part. I usually found lost golf balls in the pouring rain, accompanied by my black and brown wire-haired terrier Skippy. My mom showed me how to clean (soap and warm water-no bleach) and organize the balls in old fashion 4x3 egg crates.
“Not all new ones, some with cuts” she would say as she rotated the balls with the best side up.
“Don’t give them to buyers until you get money! ”she told me.
“And, show the balls thru the golf course fence” she would say.
Some golfers would take the balls from kids saying ”you stole them anyway!”
This is where I learned my first experience in the business/marketing administrative world.
In the fall, we played football on the golf course. We played on the fairways, mostly on the second and third. An added benefit in those days was the fall – the falling leaves all over the course, which we used for markers and also used for jumping around in during and at the end of the game.
The winter season, on the course, was spent skiing and tobogganing. The skiing was mostly cross-country as there were not too many steep hills to ski on. Now, cross-country skiing is again reaching a new height in the United States. After climbing the fence, we skied down the third fairway over to the seventh, down the ninth, and over to the tenth where Bill and I would ski down the steep hills on the tenth and eleventh fairways. This is where the best skiing was, next to the toboggan chute, a long (at least a quarter of a mile in length) and straight wooden structure that dropped at least 200 feet from top to bottom.
Many times, I can remember skiing in the toboggan chute with Dave, my reckless buddy. I think we were slightly crazy in those days, because the toboggan chute was made out of wood and any fall down that chute at the speeds we traveled, would have been disastrous.
Many years later, when I was attending college in the Boston area, four of us once again returned to the George Wright where we tobogganed down the chute. We rented a toboggan from the professional golfer there by the name of Bill Taylor, who also sold me my first set of Macgregor Tourney irons.
I still have part of that first set I bought way back in 1950. My favorite is the pitching wedge I used so many times in the sand traps and around the greens of the George Wright, especially at the second hole where I used to practice on Sunday evenings. The golf course was not crowded and the motorcycle policeman always left a little bit early, so we were free as a bird on those evenings. Those were fascinating times because the kids had so much room to play.
Another story that I would like to relate about the George Wright is my first idol worship in the game of golf. Of course, the older people of today still idolize Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, Tom Watson and Gary Player. The younger ones love “’Tiger” Woods, David Duval and Phil Michelson. They’ve seen these people on television and in magazines.
As a youth in the Roslindale area, we had a super golfer, in fact, as I look back now and think of him – he still has to be one of if not the greatest golfers of all times. Frank “Spike” Clifford was his name. I have seen Jack Nicklaus play, and I have seen Arnold Palmer play on TV, and in person. Spike was just an ordinary construction worker in the local Hyde Park area, but he had loads of charisma. Spike would come up to the George Wright, on late afternoons in his brown construction boots and tan Chino pants, where upon he would go to the trunk of his car and pull out a cheap dirty white felt bag with a minimum amount of clubs. The good local golfers, including the professional, Johnny, Ed, Bill, Jim, and about six other golfers would be waiting. They would proceed down the first fairway, en masse, playing for a dollar a hole or five dollars nassau, or whatever the heck was the going rate in those days.
Dave or Chuck and I, who were young kids at the time, would always sneak along at vantage points and watch these greats play. Spike had a crude grip – as I recall, a baseball kind of hold. It was something like the grip Art Wall Jr., used on the professional circuit. But, Spike just had it. He had the gleam, the walk, all the moves. He could hit the ball tremendously off the tee, and he drew it a little bit, like Gary Player. Spike could putt magnificently, and he rose to the occasion on every hole. I followed him for many years. Spike won some of the local municipal golf championships, as well as senior CYO tourneys at Ponkapog GC (another Donald Ross layout). Of course, Spike couldn’t enter many tournaments because he was a working-man. No one had sponsors in those days.
When I was a freshman in college, the New England Public Links championships was held at the George Wright. I went over on the weekend to watch Spike win by 16 strokes over some of the best golfers in New England. When I was going to Grad school while in USAF many years later, and driving down Hyde Park Avenue, I saw Spike’s familiar face. He was thumbing a ride towards Hyde Park. I pulled over and opened the door saying, ”Spike, get in. Where you going?” I said. He looked at me in my Air Force uniform quizzically. I then said “you don’t know me, but I know you–the greatest golfer that ever lived.” I took him home. He looked at me and smiled with that gleam in his eyes like Arnie. But, something sad had taken a toll on him.
Of course, everybody knows Arnold Palmer. But, who knows Spike? I’m sure a few readers reading this article will remember him. We didn’t have the TV and the magazines then- the Madison Avenue hype of the athletes. I will always remember him, as he fills my mind with many memories as he trudges up the 2nd, over to the par 5 third and then to the short fourth. He was always up for birdies on every hole.
At the par five third, even though Johnny would out-drive him by 20 yards, Spike would manage to slip that second shot in close to the pin and have that possible Eagle putt. Spike was a marvelous golfer and had a tremendous personality.
I am now retired from USAF living in Florida. I have been in a wheelchair since ’76. I have had MS since ‘64. My last round of golf at the Wright in ‘65 was memorable. Ironically, it was my best. Dennis, a good friend of mine at MIT was married to the sister of famous Canadian golfer, George Knudsen. George’s cousin was visiting Boston and wanted to play a round. I brought him to the Wright. We started at the 10th and we both were under par for 9 holes as we started the 1st .He faltered (after all, it was his first time playing the course) and as we teed off on the long 9th I was 2 under hoping for a 68. My drive was down the left near the water fountain and my second was over the green next to the large stonewall. I double bogeyed for 70-a good round. Actually, it was a great round considering that I had the early symptoms of Multiple Sclerosis--numbness, spasms and strange sensations-- in my body.
A few years ago, I called the pro shop at the George Wright and talked to an elderly man close to 80.I told him my George Wright golf course connection and asked him what changes have been made to course in the last 30 years. He told me they were minor. I also talked to him about his golf game game, which was quite impressive. Then, I asked him who was the best golfer he ever saw. I expected “Jack, Arnie, Gary”. Without hesitating, he said, ”Spike” Clifford! “Wow!” I said. ”Me too.”
He then said that a tournament in Spike’s honor was now held every year at the George Wright. He also told me Spike still holds the course record 65 set over 40 years ago.
THE END
