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PrintThe golf course at Goldie’s
Columnist John Hamill shares his green memories.
Next time you savor a burger at Goldie’s at 51st and Lewis, contemplate that a driving range and par three golf course once shared that site.
Matter of fact, Goldie’s was the “grill” portion of the building — to the left as you entered was the pro shop and Sandy Francisco.
Sandy Francisco. There’s a classic name for a golf pro. With silver hair and a deep golf course tan, he looked like a 1950s golf pro sent to Tulsa from Tinseltown’s Central Casting.
I met Sandy Francisco because of Woody Nanny. (And, no, I’m not making up either of these names.)
Woody Nanny was our next-door neighbor to the south. He drew the dubious distinction of “watching me” one early 1958 summer evening. At that time, I was between the sixth and seventh grades — hardly at an age when it was necessary to be babysat.
Unfortunately, a little incident with a grease fire I inadvertently started on the stove had my mom and dad doubting my ability to watch myself.
Mr. Nanny was as enthusiastic about this assignment as I was. After a chat that revealed his interest in Stan Kenton versus mine in Jerry Lee Lewis, he decided to take me to the driving range at 51st and Lewis. No doubt figuring the strenuous act of flailing at a golf ball would be a partial cure for a hyperactive pre-teen.
These were the days when you could “rent” a bucket of seriously used and mixed pedigree golf balls and a driver with which to pummel them. I was a fairly good second baseman at the time, and hitting a ball that wasn’t moving was easy by comparison. I enjoyed it. I was hooked.
The next day I began a campaign for golf clubs that caused future conversations between my father and Mr. Nanny to often begin with, “Do you realize what you started?”
Playing left-handed, however, was an impediment. Fortunately, my father’s best friend, O.L. Curd, had a left-handed daughter who started, then dropped the sport. I had my clubs.
Soon I was again on the driving range, this time with Sandy Francisco patiently changing my baseball grip to a proper golf grip and trying to teach me alignment, backswing and the other rudiments of golf. After the lesson was over, he pointed me to the first tee and said to try out my newfound prowess.
The first tee was probably 10 to 15 yards from the southwest corner of today’s Goldie’s. I whacked a golf ball numerous times, putted it into the hole and wandered off to the second tee box. Unfortunately, I had no map of the course. Placing my ball on a tee, I pivoted to the right, right, right and finally back to my starting point. I could see no green and had no idea which direction to hit. In frustration, I slipped off the course, not willing to admit to Mr. Francisco (or anyone) that I could not find the second hole.
Fortunately, later visits came with a map. This was an 18-hole, par three course. The longest hole was about 180 yards — and it paralleled 51st Street. The first tee sent you west from Lewis, then back up a hill toward Lewis for No. 2. The third tee had you going back west again along the south property line. The front nine was south of the pro shop and grill, back nine north.
I played nearly every day that summer, resulting in a lifelong addiction, and today, on every trip to Goldie’s, the comment, “There used to be a golf course here.”
