One Night in Gear Heaven

An Everyman gets locked inside a golf galaxy store.

- Tom Chairella

It's 9:04 P.M on a black, black December night in a northeast suburb of Indianapolis. The conditions? Six degrees and windy on the naked expanse of a snow-blown parking lot. Me? Schlepping my golf bag through this arctic mess with a thermos of coffee and a pillow under my other arm.

Ahead, the doors of Golf Galaxy, the 32,000-square-foot superstore, shed a tent of light. The manager, Ryan Foxen, a burly lunk of a guy, was on the lookout for me. I could see him standing silhouetted against the halogen cast. I crunched toward him, wearing a huge pair of untied farm boots that helped me negotiate the ice. The warm light of the store, the murmurations of color among the racks of microfiber and fleece, felt so inviting that I can only describe the whole place as a giant cup of hot chocolate.

I set down my clubs and shook hands with Foxen. He stuck his key in the lock, looked me up and down, and said: “You ready?” I nodded. He turned the key. Locked in. “Hope you didn’t forget anything at home,” he said.

I looked myself up and down. Damn it. “I forgot my golf shoes,” I said. He thought I meant that I’d left them at home. But they were in my truck. But the doors were bolted and the night had commenced. We both knew I wasn’t going back out.

Ten hours by myself in a golf superstore. Ten hours with complete access to every club, ball, simulator, recording device, swing-speed analyzer and accessory in the joint. The full menagerie was mine. Foxen and the store PGA professional, Fred Mattingly, would be on hand, but they vowed to give me plenty of room. And right now, the store was toasty. I rubbed my hands together. This world, that moment, smelled like possibility.