Few things in life are constant, but over the past three-plus decades it was virtually guaranteed that my uncle would be on the first tee every Saturday and Sunday morning throughout the season at our local muni, Derryfield Country Club.
Uncle Billy grew up in our hometown of Manchester, New Hampshire, and settled here after going away to college. Though his father and older brother (my dad) were avid golfers, Billy was a team sports guy, quarterbacking his high school football team and pitching alongside future Cy Young Award winner Mike Flanagan on a baseball squad that made the 1970 American Legion World Series in Oregon.
After college, Billy gravitated to golf. He was raised around the game, having caddied at the Donald Ross-designed Manchester Country Club and worked on the grounds crew at Derryfield. After marrying his high-school sweetheart and starting a career in banking, he took up membership at MCC, where his father and two brothers played.
Starting in my late teens, Billy would occasionally invite me to join his foursome at Derryfield, affectionately dubbed “the Moon” for its less-than-manicured terrain.
When his two daughters were young, however, Billy traded his private-club locker for a season pass to Derryfield, an 18-hole Wayne Stiles layout that opened in 1932. Bisected by a major thoroughfare on the city’s east side, Derryfield is a place where white-collar and blue-collar folks mix easily around a shared love of the game. For Billy, the gregarious son of a plumber, it became a second home.
Starting in my late teens, Billy would occasionally invite me to join his foursome at Derryfield, affectionately dubbed “the Moon” for its less-than-manicured terrain. His regular partners included characters like Billy Marvin (aka “Marv Dog”), an early retiree with a herky-jerky swing and a shaky putting stroke; Tommy Brisson (aka “Briss”), an elementary-school teacher with a curly coif worthy of Sesame Street; Mark Burns (aka “Burnsie”), Billy’s high-school partner in crime; and my uncle Brian (aka “Kong”), a tee-ball bomber who had also left MCC for Derryfield.
My memories of our outings stand out less for the golf than for the camaraderie, the needling and the stories swapped over beverages at the 19th hole. There were golf highlights to be sure – most notably the time my father, Jack, still an MCC member, joined Billy, Briss and me at the Moon and shot his career round of 66 – but it’s the fellowship and laughter that endure.
As I began my own career and family, my cameos in Billy’s foursome dwindled. But whenever I’d drive by the Moon at mid-morning on a weekend, it would be a safe bet to spot Billy, in his bucket hat, finishing the ninth hole with his cronies. And after their round, he’d no doubt regale his pals for the umpteenth time with the story of his lone hole-in-one, scored in 2001 shortly after the green renovation on the par-3 eighth hole (“History was made!” he would invariably exclaim, echoing the headline that ran in the local paper following the blessed stroke).
Starting in 2011, Billy and another frequent partner, Tommy Thirsk (aka “Thirsky”), led a campaign to improve Derryfield’s woefully outdated irrigation and drainage system, which sometimes left entire fairways waterlogged after a storm. His steadfast efforts over four years helped ensure the city’s investment in new infrastructure, substantially improving course conditions. A bridge on the 14th hole was labeled “Cull’s Crossing” in recognition of his work.
It’s a fitting monument to Billy, my uncle and godfather, mayor of the Moon, who passed away unexpectedly two weeks ago at age 71. As I come to grips with losing him, I’m grateful for the solace of memories we forged together along Derryfield’s fairways.
Mike Cullity
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