This is the tale of Mugsy, a golf course crew member who was studying to become a stockbroker.

It was October, 1987, and Norm, Mike and I were doing our Lazarus thing, resurrecting a golf course.  The majority of the crew came from the halfway house of the Atlanta Federal Prison, supplemented by a few teenagers, Pat Stewart, Matt Jones and two fellows from Upstate New York.  (Mugsy and Bertram.)

Mugsy made it a point to stress the difference between NYC and Upstate, mostly because we tended to pronounce "New York City" in disparaging tones.  To us, anyplace north of Virginia was NYC and probably much like a Jimmy Cagney gangster movie.

The clubhouse was staffed with escapees from NY and when the golf pro asked us to hire Mugsy and Bertram, we did it because we were easy going Southern Boys.  We enjoyed hearing Mugsy say things like, "Listen, see, I'm gonna be a stockbroker, see, and get free from this hillbilly golf course chain gang!  I'll be rich, see, and I'll never have to take orders from golf farmers again!"

Bertram was more aggressive.  I thought maybe he had an inferiority complex, having been born and raised up north, but it turned out that Bertram didn't have a complex, he was just inferior.  When he demanded to be promoted to spray tech, Mike explained that things didn't work like that down here in the South.  Bertram reacted poorly, yelling, "I'm sick and tired of hearing how you do things down south!"

At this point, the story picks up speed when Bertram attempted to sucker punch Mike.  This was poor judgment, as Mike had served four years in an Army Ranger Battalion.  By the time I arrived to save Bertram, the poor fellow was pinned against the wall by the throat with his feet dangling off the floor.  He didn't give up easily as he was still attempting to flail-punch Mike.

. . don't kill Bertram.  He can't help it if he's from New York City.

I had to act fast.  "Mike," I said in a calm tone, "don't kill Bertram.  He can't help it if he's from New York City."  This innocent statement triggered Bertram to fly deeper into a rage and that caused Mike to start laughing.  That's how Bertram made his escape.

The next day was Friday, the 16th of October.  Mugsy showed up, angrily cleaned out his locker, told us that he had successfully passed his stockbroker exam and would be leaving immediately for his new career with a brokerage.  Then, he swore he would never, ever again work on a golf course, flipped us off with the rare double bird and left in a storm of anti-Southernisms.

Monday morning, the 19th of October, the Dow fell 508 points, from 2246 to 1738, the largest percentage one day drop in Dow Jones history.

Tuesday morning, Mugsy was back.

Mike rehired Mugsy, not so much out of kindness, but simply to enjoy more interaction with our prodigal bunker raker.  It was a good call.  It gave us several opportunities to ride by Mugsy while yelling--in our best Scarlett O'Hara--"I'll never work on a golf course again!"

The market recovered quickly--due to somebody in the Fed understanding how to fix a liquidity crisis--and soon, Mugsy left golf again.

A few days later, Mike left to take the Superintendent job at a nearby golf course.  It seems Bertram had gone there after the altercation, told them a blatant lie about being our spray tech, and subsequently killed every bentgrass green they had with simazine and who knows what else.

The moral of our story?  Try not to get entangled in crew drama.  You might not see a big crash looming.