My Dad and Harding Golf Course

It felt odd and a bit sad that my dad wasn’t at Harding Park Golf Course to watch the President’s Cup tournament last October. Now 83, my dad’s been hanging out at Harding for more than 70 years. He and Ken Venturi golfed there as teenagers, forging a life long friendship. While Ken went on to fame and fortune, my dad joined the South San Francisco Fire Department, fathered eight children, and played at Harding two to three times a week. Sometimes he’d take me with him to walk the course. We never rode a golf cart—why waste the money?

We’d scavenge for golf balls inadvertently hit outside of Harding. My dad knew all the spots around Lake Merced where overshot balls landed. I scrambled down slopes, grabbing under trees and bushes. In less time than it takes to play nine holes, I’d fill a bucket.

For years after he retired, Dad worked as a starter at Harding. He loved the early morning drive through the foggy streets and the razzing with the golfers lucky enough to get one of the early start times. He was anxious when computerized cash registers replaced the old-fashioned ones, but he got the hang of the new-fangled equipment pretty quickly. He was able to change with the times.

Throughout the years, Dad’s friendship with Kenny Venturi endured. They’d have months or even years of silence, and then hit the links together. He caddied for Ken several times at the AT&T Pro-Am. Ken flew my dad and mom to Las Vegas to help celebrate his US Open win in 1964. This was heady stuff for a firefighter’s family. I still remember watching my mother try on cocktail dresses for that trip. Dad caddied when Ken won the Lucky International Tournament at Harding in 1966. And the Saturday before the 2008 President’s Cup, my dad and Ken lunched together at Scomas on Fisherman’s Wharf.

Dad was too frail to stand on the sidelines in the cold of Harding to watch the President’s Cup. But he loved every moment on TV and had a grand week. His only complaint was that the closing ceremony was not televised. He hated missing it.

My dad, Jim “Bud” Allio, shares a history with Harding Park. I celebrate it.