Common Criminals

“Well this is a fine mess we’ve gotten into,” I said. It’s a quote from a Laurel and Hardy movie. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken the situation so lightly, but under the circumstances it was funny.  It was January of 1968. My friend Doug Clark and I were in the back seat of a Colorado Springs police car. We had just been caught playing golf at Patty Jewett Golf Course before it opened for the year.

“Come on, let’s go,” I said to Doug Clark, a 21 year old senior at Colorado College. I was a 19-year-old sophomore. At 11:30 on a Thursday morning, we would have to hustle to get around before Doug had to get back for hockey practice at 4:00. 

As can happen in Colorado Springs the weather for a week in January had been great, warm temps near 60, no wind, high blue sky. Conversely, when the weather should be perfect in May it would snow. As all golfers know, you have to take advantage of good weather when it arrives. 

Patty Jewett Golf Course is a public course a short distance from Colorado College. “There shouldn’t be much play at this time of the year,” Doug said.

Trees lined the drive up to the small stone clubhouse. It was probably built during the Depression. In need of attention, the screen door slammed shut startling us as we entered to pay the green fees. 

Even though light streamed through windows, the chocolate brown, wainscot made the room dark. Dim fluorescent lights hung from the exposed beam ceiling.  

A tall man stood behind a wood counter on the far side of the room. He was probably in his 50s and had not spent much time selecting his outfit to wear to work. Golf balls were displayed under the counter, but the glass top was scratched to the point of barely being able to read the brands.

By looking at him we could tell he was not there to be our friend. “Is it OK to play?” Doug asked.

“We’re not open until tomorrow,” he responded curtly. 

“But it’s a beautiful day and has been all week,” I said. “The course will not get hurt by us walking around.”

“Nope, can’t let you go,” he responded. “We’re not open.”

“This is stupid,” I said as we walked back to Doug’s 1965 white 409 Chevy. 

Patty Jewett is a flat, inner-city course with streets on all four sides. Trees line the fairways with creek meandering through the course, built in 1898. 

“What do ya think?” said Doug. 

“Let’s do it,” I responded.

“We’ll go out on the far side,” Doug said.

The plan was to play a circular rotation of four holes, staying far away from the clubhouse and the mean eyes of Mr. Scrooge. We would play the route as many times as time would allow. 

In no time we were parked and out on the course. One of the enjoyable times in golf is to steal a day to play. Late October days in Minnesota and early March days in the north. This was one of those days in Colorado.

Just the two of us, short sleeve shirts, the warm sun on our back. The greens were a bit slow, but hey, who cares when you’re playing in January?

We were walking down our third hole as I gazed out toward the street checking on our parked car. “What’s that guy doing?” I said. It was a vehicle that on the side read, “Colorado Springs Police”, creeping down the street. 

“Let’s just act like we belong out here,” Doug said. “Maybe he’ll move on.” 

It’s difficult to focus on your next shot when a policeman is watching and I hit a poor wedge into the short par four. Our hopes of being ignored were dashed as the car stopped and a single policeman emerged from the black and white vehicle. 

We continued to walk up the dormant, brown fairway trying not to pay attention to the man that was certainly going to interrupt our afternoon of enjoyment. 

His route allowed him to meet us near the green. “You boys supposed to be out here?” officer Douglas King said. He had a wry smile on his face as he reached in his back pocket and brought out a small, well-worn, notepad. Was the smile because he thought it was a joke that he had been diverted from catching bad guys to stopping us from enjoying a wonderful afternoon on the golf course? Maybe he would tell us to leave or just let us keep playing.

“It’s such a perfect day we decided to play a few holes,” I said. “We’re just going to play another hour or so.” 

“We got a call that someone was on the course without paying a greens fee.”

“We tried to take care of that but the guy in the clubhouse wouldn’t take our money,” said Doug.

“l’m sorry but I am going to have to write you up for trespassing. Let’s go sit in the car.”

“Do you care if we just finish this hole?” Doug said. 

“That’s not a good idea,”  Officer King responded.

We sat in the back seat of the patrol car listening to the chatter over the radio as he completed paperwork that seemed endless. Finally, he turned and looked over his shoulder.

“I’ve written you up for trespassing on the golf course. You’ll have a court date in about 10 days,” he said. “Anything you have to say you can tell it to the judge.” 

With that he released us.

We sat in Doug’s car assessing our situation. “We’ve got to go to court and we didn’t even get to finish the round? How fair is that?” I said.

“That guy in the clubhouse reported us, I’ll bet,” said Doug. “What an SOB. He’s taking his job way too seriously.” 

Ten days later on January 29th, we were in the El Paso County courthouse. “All rise,” said a court official sitting near the bench. And in walked the Honorable Warren Malkerson, his black robe flowing behind. He walked up two steps and sat behind the bench, the seal of El Paso County behind him.

“You may be seated,” said the round-faced, middle-aged judge. Our case was introduced as the judge looked down at his papers. Momentarily he looked over his reading glasses and down at us as we stood in front of him, and he spoke. “So this says you were trespassing on Patty Jewett Golf Course. What do you have to say for yourselves?”

As per our agreement Doug went through our day. I fidgeted from side to side as Doug spoke.

“So on a beautiful day the two of you decided to play a round of golf, tried to pay your greens fee, then jumped the course when they said the course wasn’t open,” said Judge Malkerson. “Do I have that right?” 

“Yes your honor,” said Doug. 

I could see things were going to be just fine as Judge Malkerson could hardly contain himself from laughing. 

“Tell me this, did you replace your divots and repair the ball marks on the greens?”

“Certainly your honor!” I responded. 

“In that case I fine you $5, the green fee for 9 holes, since you were unable to play 18. Pay the clerk of court.”

“Just like I said, it’s never a bad idea to play golf,” Doug said, as we walked back to the car. It’s become my motto in A Life In Golf.