What I Actually Do At Events

When people hear I own a portable mini golf business, they usually picture me setting up obstacles, handing out putters, and packing everything back into a trailer at the end of the day.

And they're right, that's part of the job. But it's not all of it by far.

A typical event starts weeks — or sometimes months — before anyone ever picks up a golf club. It begins with emails and phone calls, answering questions, putting together quotes and invoices, checking calendars, and figuring out whether a nine-hole course will fit in a hotel ballroom, a school cafeteria, or someone's backyard.

Sometimes I'll visit a venue ahead of time. Sometimes I'm studying floor plans, measuring doorways, or trying to answer important questions like, "Can I get a trailer anywhere near this freight elevator?"

Sometimes I worry about the logistics so much that I lose sleep before an event. Will there be enough parking for a truck and trailer? Do I have enough supplies? Did I remember to charge the batteries for Moonlight Golf? Did I miss something on the site visit? Will the only path to the ballroom involve a passenger elevator no one mentioned?

And then there's the one that keeps every small business owner awake.

What if I do something stupid?

Not catastrophic. Just... embarrassing enough that someone remembers Hill Country Mobile Mini Golf for the wrong reason.

I have an active imagination.

Sometimes it's an asset.

Sometimes it's exhausting.

On event day, I'm still worried but at least I have something physical to do to distract me. I load the trailer and drive to the venue. The first things off the trailer are the essentials: putters, golf balls, scorecards, tables, obstacles, and all the little things that somehow add up to a surprisingly heavy day's work. If the event includes Moonlight Golf, there are lights, glowing golf balls, and boxes of batteries. After all of that I finally back the giant cart that holds the greens out, and haul it to the site. I verify where the most traffic will be coming from so I can set up the table in the right place and make the final plan for the course layout. Then the course gets built one hole at a time, and I make sure every green is level, every obstacle is in place, every scorecard is ready to go. Finally I make sure everything else we don't need to operate the course gets put back into the trailer. And then the trailer itself gets moved out of the way.

The Course before the event started, just add players

Then something wonderful happens. All of those worries disappear.

The trailer is parked. The course is built. The scorecards are stacked. There isn't anything left to plan.

For the next few hours, I get to do my favorite part of the job.

Of course I'm answering questions, helping people get the right sized putter, replacing the occasional golf ball that disappears into a decorative fountain, chatting with people as they start their round or are waiting in line, and in general making sure everything is running smoothly.

But mostly... I watch.

Not in a creepy way.

In a curious way.

After more than 100 events, I've realized I've accidentally been given one of the best seats in the house. I get to watch people when they're doing something they didn't have to do. I'm also doing something most of the other vendors don't get to do. The DJ is blasting music. The caterers are prepping, serving, or cleaning up. The poor event coordinator is getting pulled in twelve directions. The photographer probably comes the closest. They're watching people too, but they have to keep moving. They're always looking for the next smile, the next group, the next moment they don't want to miss.

I get to stay in one place. I have the luxury of time. The photographer goes home with pictures. I go home wondering.

The longer you watch people, the more fascinating they become.

At first, I thought I was simply watching people play miniature golf.

After enough events, I started recognizing the same personalities over and over again.

There's the child who discovers one hole they absolutely have to conquer before the day is over.

The teenager who insists they're only there because their parents made them come... right up until someone suggests keeping score.

The golfer who approaches every putt like they're reading the eighteenth green at Augusta, only to be humbled by a smiling six-year-old with a kid-sized putter.

The grandparent whose favorite shots always seem to belong to somebody else.

The person who quietly becomes the emotional center of the group simply because they celebrate everyone around them.

And every now and then, there's a child who decides the game isn't over when the last putt drops. They wander over while I'm packing the trailer and ask, "Can I help?"

I thought I was building a portable mini golf business. Instead, I keep recognizing the same characters. They just keep showing up in different stories.

Eventually the last scorecard is turned in. The final golf ball rolls into the collection bucket. I take the course apart, load the trailer, and head home. Curiously, I never have worries about the tear-down before an event. I guess it's because it's the same as the setup just in reverse and without the time deadline.

From the outside, it probably looks like I spent my time setting up and tearing down a mini golf course.

What I actually did was watch another story unfold. Somehow, I already knew the characters.

Every event sends me home with more observations.

More things to wonder about.

Another reminder that people are endlessly interesting.

It turns out the trailer isn't the only thing I pack up at the end of the day.