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Raised by a single mother and older brother in the suburban wasteland of Escondido, California, Young Mark Rogowski drifted toward skateboarding at an early age when a skate park opened near his home. In the early 80s, skateboarding was not all that popular. Introduced as a novelty along with the hula-hoop in the late 50s, skateboarding had caught the attention of the mainstream as a sport and lifestyle for a period in the mid 70s, but quickly slipped into the realm of backyard ramps, pools, and run-down skateparks littered with disaffected suburban kids.
Mark's talent grabbed the attention of the older local rippers at the Del Mar skatepark in San Diego. They nicknamed him "Gator," which is a combination of references to 70s skate Pro Wally Inoui, the cartoon character Wally Gator, and a Puerto Rican Rum shirt with a booze-swilling alligator on it that he frequently wore. In pursuit of free boards and gear Gator sought out sponsorship opportunities, and by the age of fourteen he was riding as an amateur for Vans shoes and G&S boards.
As Pro skater, model, and actor Steve Olson says in STOKED, "Mark just had the confidence that it took to be good."
In late 1983, San Diego businessman Frank Hawk started the National Skateboarding Association, which was formed to bring popularity back to the sport of skateboarding by way of a circuit of local park contests. Gator's career got a jolt when he beat top skater (and Frank Hawk's son) Tony Hawk in the Del Mar Spring Nationals in 1984. At the contest he met Brad Dorfman, a manufacturer who got his start selling skateboards out of his car on the beach. They took a walk and shook hands on a deal, and soon Mark became the top pro for Brad's new company, Vision Skateboards. It was a partnership that would endure through the decade.
As skateboarding blew up across America in the mid-80's, Gator and an elite group of young pros, most hailing from Southern California, were thrust into the spotlight. These kids, outcasts in High School, were suddenly reaping rewards they'd never dreamed of. By the age of 18 Gator had the top-selling board and loosely-scripted video titled Skatevisions, showcasing the Vision skateboarding team's ramp skating skills and the lifestyle of skaters, and an income of over $100,000 per year. He starred in magazine spreads, and modeled his own line of clothing on the "Vision Street Wear" label. He bought cars, paid off his Mother's house, and toured the world competing for cash. In a word, he was "stoked."
Skate contests at the time, were social scenes heavy on partying, and Gator loved to get wild, act out, and attract the most attention he could. He'd frequently disrobe in public for shock value, and once appeared skating naked in a pool for a Vision ad, with the tag line "Wear Vision or Nothing At All." When drinking, Gator would often be the first to throw a punch, but his trigger-fast temper sometimes went past mere rowdiness.
In the summer of 1986 at a major contest at the Mt Trashmore ramp in Virginia Beach, Virginia, Gator punched a cop and was hauled off to jail. The scene sparked a near-riot, and Vision owner Brad Dorfman, along with two other industry heavyweights bailed him out of jail for a few hundred bucks. Gator came back to skate in the contest, placed sixth, and in the following month's skate magazines received more coverage than at any other time in his career. His "Bad-boy" reputation was secure, but his controversial antics divided the skate community.
In one of STOKED's most revealing early moments, Gator relaxes in the sun on a lounge chair and Wayfarers for a 1987 interview, and half-jokingly boasts:
"Well I think I need to be interviewed, not only because I'm one of the most ... elite, and dynamic, talented, big-headed, and versatile skaters on the circuit, but also because I'm one of the most blatant and outspoken jerks in the industry. It's really easy to say what you want, what's on your mind ... and get away with it, when you work for a company like Vision. There's no problems, you can always have a bad write-up in the local gossip column of Thrasher or Transworld, and receive some kind of promotion or exposure from it. It's great. I love getting arrested. I think I'm one of the most illegal skaters in the circuit, too. (laughs)"
By 1987 skate contests drew crowds of 5,000 spectators or more. Dorfman staged two Vision events in California indoor arenas, the traditional venue for rock stars.
Vision Team Manager John Hogan introduced his best friend Gator to local rock promoter Bill Silva, and they came up with the idea for a national tour which would take ramp skating, BMX, and roller-skating across the country like a music tour. Silva started Impact Management and with the corporate sponsorship of Swatch, they launched the biggest "aerial attack" of vertical ramp skating that America had ever seen, and called it the "Impact Tour"
Gator signed on with Silva as his agent and dropped the surname Rogowski in favor of the smoother-sounding Anthony, his middle name. The move was interpreted by many in the skateboarding community as an attempt to further his media identity, but friends say it was at least partially motivated by a desire to distance himself from the Father who'd abandoned the family long before Gator's skateboarding success.
As his notoriety grew, Gator broke up with his longtime high school sweetheart Brittany, and soon started dating a beautiful 15-year old named Brandi McClain. They met at a contest in Arizona, introduced through uber-star pro skater Christian Hosoi, who was casually dating Brandi's best friend Jessica Bergsten.
As Brandi McClain recalls in STOKED:
"It was 'love at first sight' ... it was puppy love. I was in high school. He would make me little cards, and send me something in the mail every single day, call me on the phone. It was sort of this long-distance, whirlwind courtship."
Gator and Brandi quickly became a hot couple on the skate circuit, although both still lived at home with their mothers. Gator would send Brandi plane tickets and on Friday after school she would fly out to stay with him in Escondido on weekends.
At the same time, a big ramp scene was happening in rural Fallbrook, an agricultural suburb of San Diego where the main crop is avocados, and where zoning laws allowed the building of backyard ramps. Tony Hawk and a few other pros had moved to the area, so at the age of 22, Gator purchased an extravagant, barrel-shaped house in the hills, and invited Brandi to move in.
Silva launched the Impact tour in 1988 with Gator as it's star, and Gator hustled his skating appearances from skate magazines to national publications, television shows, MTV, feature films, and promotional videos. His already larger-than-life image and ego were pumped "to the Maxx." He continued to crave attention, telling a reporter from Interview Magazine, "getting noticed is something I can't live without."
Old friends fell by the wayside as Gator pursued celebrity, and potential new fans were put off by his arrogance. Identity in flux, he switched easily from Mark to Gator, from clean-cut corporate athlete to rowdy troublemaker, from attentive boyfriend to jealous, angry controller. Gator spoiled Brandi with gifts of clothes and travel, but frequently broke up with her at a moment's notice, only to call weeks later to invite her back into his life.
As the tour wound down at the end of the decade, Gator found himself at parties with Cindy Crawford, Eddie Murphy, and INXS's Michael Hutchence. Meanwhile, skateboarding was undergoing a massive transformation. The popularity of skating had sent liability insurance skyward and local parks and backyard ramps were closing as a result. A number of top manufacturers (Vision not included) started promoting "street skating" with the rationale that a kid could skate on a street anywhere, not just in parks, pools or ramps.
As Stacy Peralta puts it:
"Skateboarding was reinventing itself from the 80s, to the 90s. We started seeing kids doing these street tricks, and we started promoting what we called 'street style'."
The 80s boom had spawned hoards of accomplished and hungry young skaters who latched onto the new, hip-hop influenced, urban style of skating in the early 90s. In comparison, Gator and the larger-than-life vert ramp superstars began to look like leftovers of the Day-Glo fad. With the popularity of vert in rapid decline, the sense of abandonment felt by the group of kids who'd ascended from outcasts to international superstars was palpable.
Pro skater Jason Jessee remembers:
"People put you on a pedestal, and he (Gator) was an idol ... and then: you're not that big a deal anymore. Disposable hero. Just ... 'see ya later!' And it's fucked, it's so lonely. You don't know ... (laugh) OK, 'really, I'm 21, and they're just done with me? And I don't even know how to get a job? I moved out when I was 17?' It's pretty fucked, alienated. It's rad."
Like most of America in early 1990, Gator downsized. He sold his house in the hills and moved to a condo on the beach where he could be closer to the skate scene on the streets. Unfortunately, he couldn't finesse curbs with the skill he'd mastered in vert.
At the same time, a number of pro skaters in their early 20s funneled their paychecks into startups of their own, styling boards and tee shirts with handmade graphics. Vision's top street skater Mark Gonzales started his own company with Jason Lee (who went on to become an actor in such films as Almost Famous), which they pointedly christened "Blind." It was Revolution Ð the fashion, politics, styles, and attitudes of the 80s were being thrown out forever as early 90s skaters remade the culture in their own grungy image.
After more than a half a decade of international fame, Gator virtually disappeared from the magazines within the course of a year, and his board sales dropped. His career revealed a turning point in West Germany in 1990. After a night of drinking Jaegermeister, Gator punched out a bar bouncer and then a cab driver, then tried to climb in a second-story window of his hotel, from which he fell. He landed on a construction site, impaled his neck on a fence and almost died.
Former Vision Team Manager John Hogan remembers:
"He's in so much pain, and he's so drunk and he turned into a madman. Almost like he's on some super-human drug like PCP or something. ... The next morning, he got up and said, 'fuck, what happened?' It was just unbelievable, that he had no concept of where he was, how he got there."
80s pro skater and friend Dave Duncan recalls:
"I think that was kind of a turning point for Gator, that he kind of turned around and straightened his life out, realizing that he was kind of blowing it."
Gator returned home shaken, and became involved with some surfers preaching "Born-Again" Christianity on the beach. Gator forged yet another new identity and within months went from hard living bad-boy to straightedge, carrying a Bible and preaching to kids at contests and parks. When his faith ruled out partying and sex, Brandi and his former friends quickly disappeared.
Gator mentored young skaters to live by the word of Jesus as he tried to market himself to a new audience, immersed in his "new life" but still clinging to the old. Obsessing over Brandi's desertion and her new boyfriend, He called and left obscene, threatening messages mixed with biblical quotations on her answering machine. He stalked her, and broke into her home and took back everything he'd ever given her. Later the Police found her car and all the stolen belongings, burned to a shell in the desert.
As Gator seethed, Brandi packed her bags and prepared to pursue her dream of modeling in NYC. Around the same time, Brandi's estranged friend Jessica Bergston arrived in San Diego, and phoned Gator to show her around.
It was the worst timing of Jessica's 21-year life. After a day of flirting, partying, and drinking late into the night at his condo, Gator beat Bergston over the head with a steering wheel lock (The Club), handcuffed and raped her, and in the morning zipped her body into a surfboard bag and suffocated her. The next night he cleaned up the blood and drove out to the California desert to get rid of her corpse and all the evidence of his crime. In the coming months her disappearance became a mystery, and a missing person case was mounted by the police but was eventually dropped.
Gator had gotten away with murder, until one day he confessed. The news sent millions of skateboarding fans around the globe into shock and disbelief, but among the elite skaters who traveled with Gator on the pro circuit in his prime, few were surprised. A court-appointed psychiatrist diagnosed him as a severe manic-depressive bipolar disorder. In a plea bargain submitted on the eve of his trial, Gator received 31years to life in prison. A film by Helen Stickler.
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