Catskill Cup History, Part I

The History of the Catskill Cup, Part I – The Origins

Like many facets of the Catskill Cup, the origins are disputed. Golf outings in the Catskill Region of New York were common among several Catskill Cup alumni (known hereafter as “Cuppers”) in the late 1980s and early 1990s, but this author points to the fall of 1992 when four players – Paul Anderson, David Leeds, Casey Clark and Jim Brose – competed for a prize (a Golden Retriever golf ball retriever) and spent two nights in Liberty, N.Y., at the Liberty Holiday Inn Express.

Liberty is the birthplace of the event. It is here where the event crystallized from a weekend golf outing into a permanent, floating golf competition. A defining feature of the Catskill Cup is the utter absence of official prize money awarded to a winning team. Bragging rights are the prize. In later years, an actual Catskill Cup was purchased with contributions from competitors. The names of winning players are inscribed on the cup for future generations of Cuppers to wonder: “Who were these men? What made them tick?” This tradition of non-monetary reward can be traced directly to the Golden Retriever.

Over the years, the Golden Retriever has taken on a somewhat mythical status. Like a religious relic, it is said to have supernatural powers of healing. No man who carries the sacred, telescopic device in his bag, the legend goes, will suffer the stroke-and-distance penalty of a lost ball. Like the Golden Fleece of Greek legend, its whereabouts today are unkown. This author can neither confirm nor deny the accuracy of the legend. I simply report the widely held theory, and move on.

The original Cuppers lodged at the base of the splendid Grossinger golf course at the Liberty Holiday Inn Express (long since converted to a Days Inn). However, they never set foot at Grossies. Instead, the course rota featured Terry Brae and Lochmore (a package deal), Kutschers Country Club and the Nevele. All are fine courses, but none can compare to the grandeur of the Big G. The incongruence of four Cuppers lodging in Liberty and bypassing the Grossinger Country Club is one of the great ironies of Catskill Cup history.

It wasn’t until the following year that Cuppers experienced the joys of Grossinger: the amazing first green, the tragically simple short number 11, the nerve-wracking final sloping fairway at number 18, and of course, the island green at number 13 (pictured above). Today, the very word “Grossinger” has the kind of magical power over a Catskill Cupper as the word “Christmas” has to a five-year old Christian, or “prostitute” to a hardware convention delegate. A closer look at Grosinger will come in future chapters of this history.

Also worth mentioning from the original event was an exchange that took place on the first tee at the Nevele, when the starter advised the foursome to move up to the white tees. David Leeds (whose exploits at Grossinger would later be honored at number 11, where Leedsie’s Pond lurks in front of the green) endeared himself to future Cuppers and entered Catskill immortality with a remark that rival’s Cambronne’s words on Mount Saint Jean at the Battlefield of Waterloo before English fire made smooth the brow of the hill.

Leeds replied: “Length is not a problem for us.”

Current information about the status of the original foursome is sketchy. Leeds is rumored to be a Long Island insurance industry man. Jim Brose—the founder of the event by most accounts—continues to be a driving force behind the Catskill Cup. Clark is the historian whose humble efforts you are reading right now. Little is known, however, about Paul Anderson, who drove this author back to the city following the event. Anderson had the peculiar habit of turning off the car radio when the advertisements were broadcast, and then turning it back on when he anticipated the advertisements would be over.

One can only hope that Anderson looks back with pride on his role in launching the Catskill Cup.

Next installment: Eight Men Out: The History of the Catskill Cup, Part II.

City of Big Shoulders

I was in Chicago for the 2006 PGA Championship, but never made it to Medinah. Instead, I hung out between the Tribune Building and the Chicago River in front of a giant leaderboard erected by the Royal Bank of Scotland.

In moments of radical thought, I often criticize banks and major corporations for chasing profits at the expense of the greater community. But I have to hand it to RBS, which created in the heart of the City of Big Shoulders the finest off-course golf experience I’ve ever seen. And it was completely free, with no money down and zero percent interest.

In addition to the scoreboard, replete with attractive “ring-girl” working the numbers manually, RBS set up hitting bays, and provided clubs (Nicklaus woods and irons straight from Costco) and balls (Maxfli was the only brand I remember) for office workers heading home. A temporary putting green held court in the middle of the plaza, testing the skills of tourists and conventioneers.

Two massive televisions broadcasting CBS’s live coverage of the 88th PGA Championship flanked the scoreboard. The temperature outside was room, with a slight breeze. The air sweetly and nimbly recommended itself. The only slight blemish to the scene was the insufferable commentary of Lanny Watkins. But I can’t blame RBS for that. (Oh yeah, the rubber tee in my hitting bay was leaning to the right, throwing off my timing off ever-so slightly.)

My time at the RBS-sponsored golf event will be remembered as the highlight of my trip to Chicago, which is a lot more fun that Upton Sinclair made it seem in his classic “The Jungle.”

By the way, Eldrick "Tiger" Woods is leading the tournament as I write on Saturday night.

Golf at Francis Byrne

Located in Essex County, N.J., Francis Byrne suffers from a North Jersey mentality, I'm afraid. But once you get away from the cramped parking lot and the ramshackle club house and the loudspeaker barking orders ("You're on the tee!") the course takes a turn for the better -- morphing into a replica of a classic mountain course. Squint your eyes and you could be in the Catskills -- nay, the Adirondacks!

I joined Chris Ware and Hal Cohen for my round on a beautiful Sunday. Johnathon Youngblood was supposed to be our fourth. He was a no show. Then Chris casually mentioned that he had enough time for nine maybe 10 holes.

In retrospect, my game was ruined at that point. Although some would argue that the turning point came a half-hour later on the first tee when I a) witnessed Hal and Chris hit pop ups, b) announced that I would certainly not hit a pop up with my low-teed fairway wood and c) popped it up.

Let's face it, when you're not driving the ball well, golf is drudgery. I drudged up and down these hills while Hal, who up until this point had never beaten me, was somehow avoiding trouble. You can usually count on Hal to explode on at least three holes per side, and take a few holes from him with a bogie, or even a double. But not today. Not at Byrne. The normally eratic Hal was absolutely boring in his consistency. My scrambling was ineffective. Lost three ways.

In the above photo you see me, juggling a ball at left-- a picture of confidence. And Hal, depressed and hungover. Let this be a lesson: looks are deceiving. That man slumped against the bench is enjoying the greatest thrill of his golfing career -- he's beating me three ways on a $2 nassau.