Like their sport, they've proven receptive to change. When Gavin and friends were starting out, skateboarders depended on guerrilla tactics, using bolt cutters to bust into fenced-off schoolyards, getting chased away by shopping-mall security guards. And many still do. But life is more luxurious for today's pros. Sponsors provide private practice centers: warehouses equipped with stairs and rails and other ornaments of the urban landscape -- country clubs of sorts for athletes with tattoo sleeves and tackle-box faces.

Given the sport's punk roots, there remains a fine line between succeeding and selling out. Skaters, like surfers, speak of upholding the purity of their sport: "not slutting it." They view corporate sponsors with suspicion, even as a growing number of pros embrace them. Skateboarding superstar Tony Hawk, whose talent and business savvy almost single-handedly brought the sport to the mass market, is often slammed by skaters for "not keeping it real."

"Skateboarding is rugged, and there's definitely the attitude that you shouldn't get too yuppie," Gavin says. "I can understand that. But look how much a guy like Tony Hawk has done for our sport. I can't say anything bad about him."

Neither can Koston, who at the 2002 Gravity Games in Cleveland wore a message on his hat that read, "Rent this space." But Koston is a rarity in skating, a man who's made millions without losing his street cred. He can have it both ways, other skaters say, because of his fearless skating style. Koston is known for never playing it safe -- busting out untested moves in competition. He is skating's Tin Cup.

"Somebody once told me," says Koston, "that I still skate like I'm broke."

He isn't, of course, nor are Lopez, Dupont and Gavin. Some have fat deals with equipment makers and clothing lines; some have their hands in other skate-related enterprises. One of Koston's sponsors is the bagmaker Ogio, which has been the company most successful at transferring youth culture into golf culture. Ogio also knows a thing or two about how star athletes like to be treated: "I woke up New Year's morning," Koston says with a shrug, "and a new set of Hogans were just sitting in this bag on my porch."

By the 12th hole at Oak Creek, those Hogan Apex irons are treating Koston well. His slice has morphed into a big but reliable fade, and he strings together three straight pars. His partner, Gavin, has also come around, though not in his adherence to the cart-path-only rule. On 16, a cart girl catches him en flagrante.

"Sir," she calls out, "you need to stay off the fairway with that."

"You're the marshal?" Gavin shoots back, pleased to play the wise-ass even as he returns the cart to the path.

By this time, the cart girl has forgotten him. She's recognized his partner.

"Oh my God, Eric Koston!" she says. "Can you sign an autograph?"

Koston obliges. He gets a lot of that from young golf course employees -- the girls in the snack shop, the guys collecting buckets at the range. It's the older generation that sometimes looks at him funny.

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