Hello. My name is Dustin, and much like many of you, I, um, have a problem. I am addicted to golf. I guess it all started, or rather, the first time I realized it could be an issue was in my Junior year of high school. I grew up in rural Illinois and the winters could be brutal. Sure, there was cold and wind and snow and all that jazz, but the real problem for me was the prolonged period in which I couldn’t play golf. On one sunny, crisp January morning, however, all that changed. I woke up and just knew I had to get out on the golf course, so that’s exactly what I was going to do. I wiped the dust from my clubs and snuck them into my trunk. I left at my normal time so as not to arouse any suspicion, but instead of turning into the school parking lot I drove right by. I. Drove. Right. By.

The feeling that consumed me was indescribable. I felt the shackles of society breaking away. I felt like a bird flying for the first time. I felt like nothing could stop me as I was the master of my own fate, even the entire universe for that matter, but in all of my excitement, I wasn’t watching my speed…I got pulled over about a half of a mile from my local course. So with the added weight of a speeding ticket in hand, I was escorted back to school and sentenced to the brutality of watching the rare semi-warm day fade away. Since that moment in time, my life has basically been a Groundhog’s Day version of the same day over and over again. Sometimes I am successful in my endeavor to sneak away and play eighteen and sometimes I am forced into the shackles that keep me indoors. One thing never changes though, the first thing I do when I wake up in the morning is check the weather.

Back to the present day. No s***, there I was, standing on the precipice of glory, taking it all in. I was about to step foot in the Orange County Convention Center in Orlando for the 2020 PGA Merchandise Show. I would love to be able to tell you how it felt, walking into The Promised Land for the first time, but I’ll be honest, I blacked-out for a bit. The only thing I can really compare it to is that one time I rattled off an eagle and two birdies in a row before falling off the wagon and shooting a forty-nine on the back. I am sure it was a moment of greatness, but I just can’t recall. When I finally came to I was standing in front of the Holy Grail.

I lost all composure at this point and time. I started to kneel. I didn’t know what else to do in the presence of such greatness. Luckily, there was a Mizuno Rep. nearby. He graciously helped me to my feet, handed me a bottle of water, and assured me this wasn’t the first time this had happened today. I didn’t get his name, but wherever you are, sir, thank you. You may have saved my life because if not for your swift intervention I may still be kneeling there today.

I started to feel self-conscious that I was ill-prepared, that my thirty-five years on this planet training for this very moment weren’t enough, and perhaps I should’ve waited until I was seventy to attend “The Show”. A pattern appeared that caused me more anxiety than a twenty-yard pitch over a bunker with water deep. I approached a booth, got more twitchy than Kevin Na in 2012, then backed-off to the relative safety of the center aisle. This happened again and again. I was wandering aimlessly, too scared to enter a booth, too ashamed to make eye contact with my fellow patrons, and too stubborn to call it quits. And that’s when the Golf Gods intervened.

After years of being cursed by those vile creatures, trust me, I was as floored as anyone when the skies opened up and the spotlight shown on the most comforting sign at the PGA Show. It was at this moment, that I knew I was right where I belonged. It was at this moment that I knew I was amongst my people. It was at this moment that I finally achieved acceptance, and therefore the true zen of that most heinous four-letter word, G O L F.

With my new-found calmness, I resumed something of a normal temperament, albeit, with much more elevated awe and shock, I continued perusing the booths. One by one, going around and around the show again. Every time I revisited a booth, I saw something new, a new Scotty Cameron headcover, a new version of the Callaway Mavrik, a new hybrid that promised I could land it softly from two hundred and thirty yards. I went from paralysis to eagerness, greed even. I was hungry for every shiny thing that caught my eye.

At some point, my step counter started smoking and quit, but it didn’t even phase me. I simply undid the strap and let it fall to the floor, next to some schmuck kneeling in front of a blue and white staff bag. I muttered “rookie” under my breath, and continued on. After all, this was thirty-five years in the making.