Ode To A Golf Nazi
 
     He acted like he owned the place and he did.  He had various names.  Some called him the infamous "Golf Nazi" for his sometimes Gestapo-like approach to customer service.  Others called him unmentionable names, specifically those ejected from the golf course for failure to promptly replace a divot or repair a ball mark.  Those of us who know him best called him Mark.  Mark Lageman was the Crafton Golf Club and the Crafton Golf Club was Mark.  They were a reflection of each other which made the course the entertaining golf venue it was for so many wonderful years.

            The Lageman name was synonymous with golf in Crafton for more years than most of us have been alive. That saga ended several years ago when the CGC was sold and soon, the final chapter of this golfing tradition will conclude when Mark and his wife Pat pack their bags one last time and move to their new home in sunny North Carolina.  And yet, it seems like yesterday when I first discovered the course.

            I had just moved to the Crafton area and had spotted the course while driving along Backbone Road, a street that runs along a cliff high atop the course situated in the valley below.  What I saw from that lofty perch was a flat, nondescript course that was virtually wide-open.  Oakmont it was not, but it was convenient.  In two minutes flat I could leave my house and be on the first tee.  I ventured down the following day for a look-see.

            It was a weekday afternoon in spring, and when I arrived, the cinder parking lot had only a half dozen or so cars and the first tee was open.  Nice, I thought.  Just pay my fees and hit away.  I walked to the window in the bunker-type clubhouse to pay my fee and an elderly lady smiled asking if I was wearing golf shoes.  Golf shoes?  Of course I was wearing golf shoes I replied.  An older gentleman who was chipping nearby saw me looking perplexed and walked over to explain that some people who came to play wore footwear that damaged the greens and they were careful to make sure only golfers wearing spikes or sneakers were allowed on the course.  He looked in my bag, and seeing I was carrying a compliment of Wilson Staff blades and Haig Ultra woods, nodded his head as if in approval and asked where I usually played.  Here and there, I answered, which was the truth since I was at time between leagues.  I took out a 1-iron and knocked my tee shot about 15 feet from the hole, pin high.  Nice shot, the older gent replied and he wished me good luck as I strolled down the first fairway.

            When I got to the green I was pleasantly surprised.  It was not your typical public course green.    It was nicely cut, almost country club short, and devoid of the usual crater type ball marks you'd expect to find at a public fee track.  I missed my eagle putt but tapped in an easy birdie for a good start to this first round.  I finished the round in about an hour and a half, with no one in front or behind me the entire time.  It was so nice.  When I putted out on number nine, the guy I spoke to on the first tee was still hanging around, and walked over inquiring how I scored.  One over, I truthfully replied.  Not bad, he said, and then he asked if I was interested in playing in a skins game.  Those were the magic words.  Skins game.  I had been playing in skins games since I was ten years old, and with the demise of my badly managed golf league, I was anxiously looking for another group to partake in some friendly wagering. Sure, I like playing skins I said, trying not to seem too excited at the prospect.  Well, you should come down on the weekend here and get in their game.  They play every Saturday and Sunday 10 am sharp.  Show up and they might invite you to join.

            I was there the following Saturday at 9:30, and the older gentleman I had met the few days prior spied me and pointed me out to a fellow who had been walking around barking orders to everyone in sight.  He walked over to me, extending his hand in greeting and said if I was interested in playing skins, I was welcome to join up, the wager being $10 per nine, two tie all tie, and dollar greenies.  Side bets were up to me.  The rest is history.  That day I joined the Crafton Golf Club skins game and for over a decade, I was a member of the best golf league I had ever encountered.  Thank you Mark Lageman.  Thank you for that friendly invite.

            Although I was the neophyte in the skins game, I cashed in quickly and was welcomed as a regular on the Crafton tour.  I played with guys of all skill levels, ranging from hard core hacks to those who had real game.  The competition was spirited, the course deceptively challenging, and the pot of money at stake was sweet.  The game was no easy pickings.  I saw guys who could get up and down with the best of them.  What I especially noticed was the cast of characters.  Golf is a game of character played by characters, and this group was awash in these colorful types, perhaps none more so than Mark Lageman. 

            I soon learned when I joined the skins game I was part of a very elitist group.  We had special privileges.  What made it really interesting was the fact that we were the only ones who enjoyed these perks.  The Crafton Golf Club didn't have reserved tee times, but if you were a member of the skins gang, you could arrive at 9:55, put on your shoes, walk to the first tee and whack away, much to the chagrin of dozens of other golfers who had been waiting half the morning for their turn.  No one really complained.  It was a given that if you played at the CGC, you had to make way for the chosen ones.  There was even a pecking order in the member elite, which was referred to as "King's Row."  Mark was usually in the first group off, a perogative he exercised as the course owner.  Those who joined him in that first group were hand picked by him for reasons that were sometimes obvious to everyone, and other times for reasons known only to Mark.  If you had gotten into his pocket recently, chances are you were going out first where he could keep an eye on you in his attempt to recoup his losses.  If he had gotten in your pocket with regularity, you were in the first group insofar as he saw a good thing and didn't want it to get away (a special nod to Artie wherever you are).  The King's Row was the hierarchy of the skins gang and at one time or another, we all enjoyed membership in this high echelon group. 

            The CGC was a special place for special people.  Where else could you see a 15-some tee off in a shoot-out on a Saturday afternoon?  Where else could you play a course sideways and backwards when no one was looking?  At what other course would you see guys tee off in a snowstorm?  I saw things there that defied the imagination, from Leroy blowing an 8 shot lead with one hole to go in the Crafton Open and losing by one stroke all the way to Mike Nau bringing a stripper to the course to caddy for him in the tournament.  I saw clubs broken by accident and on purpose.  I saw holes-in-one, fairways shots drained, and moments of golfing brilliance and tragedy that will be etched in my memory forever.  None of us will ever forget the demonic pin placements Mark orchestrated for the tournaments, and some of us are still cussing at the one that got away because of his evil positioning. 

            Say what you want about how easy the CGC looked. No one ever destroyed it.  The course record of 29 scored by Mark's father held up to the end.  Some came close, but no one tied or beat it.  And that's how it should have been - in the family.  Where it began, and where it ended.  The course changed almost year-to-year.  We will remember the moguls, the encroachments of rough into fairway (never where Mark's tee ball would land, of course) and lastly, the tunnel of love in the woods on number nine tee (Leroy's Alley).  Number 8 green was always a treat, especially when Mark shaved the green to glass length and put the pin up top where only God could two putt from on a good day. 

     The course is gone, but the memories live on.  If not for Mark Lageman, the PAC Tour would not exist today.  He was the catalyst for it, the conduit for bringing us all together in the first place.  Mark was a character amongst characters.  He made the game fun.  We laughed at him. We laughed with him.  No matter how you look at it, it sure beat playing with a bunch of beer-guzzling hacks from North Park who thought gambling was evil and that 7 hour rounds were the norm.  In many ways, Mark was a trailblazer ahead of his times.  For lack of a better term, he was anal retentive in his statistical bookkeeping.  He registered handicap indexes before it was common practice.  He was the first to maintain records on skins, including rounds played, average skins won per round, money paid, and money won.  He was also the club bookmaker who set odds for wagers on the winner of the four PGA majors.  All in all, it made the game so much more interesting. 

     We were all eccentric and Mark was the head eccentric.  We blended well together.  We came from all walks of life, and shared good times and bad.  Thanks to his vision many years ago, we still do.  Sometime in the future the PAC Tour may take a road trip down to North Carolina.  When we do, I'm sure Mark will have a golf course on standby when we arrive.  The rough will be high, the fairways tight, the greens slick and the landing areas will be wide about where his tee ball stops.  And of course, at least one green will have a pin position that will defy description and invite self-flagellation. 

            Good luck, Mark and Pat,  In your new home, your new business, and your new adventures.  We trust it won't be long before we meet again and we look forward to that time.  Until then, fore
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