Personal heartbreak for “king” of local golf

Few people know that Monticello’s reputation for being that little town in southeast Utah with a great golf course began more than 70 years ago with a broken heart.
For three years in the early 1950s, Willard Leo Winey Jr., (Bill to his friends), was the head golf coach at Kansas State University. He was engaged to be married to the love of his life when his fiancé ran off with his best buddy without warning.
Devastated, he packed up and headed west. His random path brought him to Monticello. Bill never intended to stay but quickly fell in love with the town and its people. Monticello was his home until he passed away.
Little was known of Bill’s former life until his passing in 1980. After the funeral, his sister provided the missing details to a few of Bill’s close friends.
Aside from being the collegiate golf coach, Bill graduated from law school but was never known to have practiced.
Few people alive today know that golf’s origins in Monticello were not where The Hideout is now.
Bill started the sport by laying out a course on leased ground a mile east of town. There were six holes, no grass planted in the fairways, and sand greens.
The course, Meadowlark Hills, was where golf was first played in the county. There were regular tournaments. The only prizes winners received were pats on the back and the respect of friends.
In his frequent articles in the San Juan Record, Bill made it clear that Meadowlark Hills was a temporary place to enjoy the game until his dream of a real course became reality.
The first mention of a permanent golf course was an April 1959 report in the paper of a meeting about golf at the city office.
Bill’s local converts to the game were present—in all, more than 30 people showed up, all in favor of pursuing the development of a permanent place to golf in Monticello
Two months later, on June 26, 1959, the Record reported that the city had purchased land near the old sewer treatment plant from Clarence Black to store equipment and supplies related to the sewer facility and the town’s electrical system.
The city required only a tiny portion of the purchase, and that same group of golfers saw an opportunity and asked if the city would lease the unused portion for a course.
One week later, a “thank-you” note appeared in the paper expressing appreciation to Ralph Hunt, Shorty Pearson, Dale Fuller, and Sy Barton for getting a great start on clearing the land.
From then on, many hands provided volunteer labor whenever the call went out. Progress was steady and quicker than anyone thought possible.
Enough work was completed by Labor Day 1959 to host the First Annual Monticello Open, despite having nothing but dirt on the fairways and sand on the green surfaces.
The paper reported that Eddie Boyle invited President Eisenhower to play in the tournament but was politely declined, noting that the president had a few matters to settle in Europe. (Most in town felt the excuse was a cover for the fact that Eisenhower knew Eddie was a lifelong Arkansas Democrat.)
It wasn’t until the Spring of 1962 that the course began to look real. That was when Grant Leavitt and his family arrived to take the job as the Course Professional.
Grant had the knowledge, experience, and work ethic needed to make the course look and operate as it should.
In a few short years under Grant’s leadership, the grass in the fairways grew, carpet-like turf replaced sand on the greens, volunteers finished remodeling the clubhouse, and the golf course took its place as the important, continually evolving amenity it is today.
My first introduction to the golf course was in the mid-1960s, when I was 10 or 12. I heard big money could be earned as a caddy during the San Juan Amateur, held each year the first week in August. That was when I first met the cast of characters whose refuge was the golf course.
Ben Askew, owner of the local lumberyard, won most of the earliest tournaments with his bag of clubs, all with wooden heads, not an iron in the bunch.
Then there was John Sullivan, who had an assigned seat on the bench at the first tee. Whenever he heard that classic “snap” when a club squarely connected with a ball, he would holler in his deep voice, “It sounded good.” I never heard him comment on where the ball went.
Everything about that nine-hole course had a Norman Rockwell-esque feel, from the local characters to the smells of freshly cut grass as Dean Black passed by, pulling the mower attachment called “the gang-wars.”
Then, the fragrance wafted up from the old sewer plant about 20 yards off the second tee. Even today, I can’t drive by any municipal sewer facility anywhere without recalling fond memories of the golf course.
My favorite memory of the clubhouse is the sign in front of the urinal in the Men’s Room.
“Please do not throw cigarette butts in the urinal; it makes them soggy and hard to light.”
I’m unsure who composed that brilliant prose, but it was probably Erma Leavitt. It sent a clear message that most people observed while producing a laugh.
Seeing The Hideout today would surely bring Bill a big smile and hopefully provide some solace to his broken heart from long ago.