So, That’s the PGA Show

The Orange County Convention Center is a seven million square foot monument to 20th century American capitalism. I arrived and saw it on Tuesday morning, since it was playing host to this year’s PGA Show. I stepped out of the Uber into heavy air that was a potpourri of humidity, chain restaurant exhaust draft, and the smell of cleaning supplies. The attendees arrived via foot, rickshaw, car, and motorized carts the variety of which I did not know existed: the typical segway, three-wheeled segways, go-kart type things, the motorized carts you see at the grocery store. Like ants marching, middle aged men in every shade of khaki with credentials draped around their polos and quarter zips scurried toward the expanse. I am not a regular convention (of any kind, but this was also my first PGA Show) goer, and my first thought as I scanned the scene on the flat Central Florida landscape was that none of this should exist. This was before I’d actually gone inside to what awaited on the floor.

What awaited inside was a full-on assault of the senses. All five of them. I thought I was prepared. I was not. I unwittingly walked into the “new products” corner to begin our journey. This part of the show houses the dreamers that have likely spent much of their fortunes to display some new invention that probably has almost no chance of becoming profitable. I was moving fast enough to avoid solicitations but did see one company that with the most (of many contenders) intentionally crass name on the floor: Putt Buddies. (The HJ Glove continues to win the award for most unintentionally—I think—inappropriate name.)

It’s unclear if anyone asked for much of what litters the convention floor, or if it had anything to do with golf. There was a pickleball section. There was a stand for a company that made lighters. There was an entire booth just for towels. There was a big massage chair section. There was a training aid that shocks you like an electric dog collar when you get out of position. One guy had solved golf’s urgent problem of having to bend over to put your tee in the ground. There are so, so, so many golf cart makers and golf cart accesorizers.

Andy's new golf cart

Having observed from afar for many years, I expected something like this, but not quite this. The guy hired to play guitar to serenade the assembled media with Fleetwood Mac covers and other hits before 9AM breakfast seemed odd and excessive.

But I did find it possible to laugh at some of the absurdity. And some of the will, irrational determination, and in some cases, and innovative passion on display was genuinely impressive. There are a lot of ridiculous things and ridiculous people that end up at the PGA Show, but they are putting time and, in many cases, a good portion of their budget into selling their products. We heard less than 2000 square feet on the floor cost six figures. It was a hefty four figures to get a big ol’ sign hanging from the ceiling so people might be able to spot your location beyond what was in front of their nose. A simple, basic folding chair was $150. Sure, this is manageable for the big boys, like the OEMS spending millions in floor space and staffing (and in the case of Titleist, conspicuous white lab coats for their army on hand) for a few days. Many others, however, are shelling a massive amount of their budget for what they hope is a chance to make it big, or at least bigger.

There are hucksters and many attention-seekers. Most people there care about making a buck. But the entrepreneurial chutzpah and passion about the game is impressive. The PGA Show is an absurdist experience. It will also show you just how massive golf has become. The purpose for its existence, in that way, became clear.

This piece originally appeared in the Fried Egg Golf newsletter. Subscribe for free and receive golf news and insight every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.