Why Empty Rooms Feel Different

One of my favorite parts of an event happens before anyone arrives. Most people would probably expect me to choose the moment when the course is full of people laughing, cheering each other on, and arguing over whether the last putt really counted as a bank shot. I love those moments too. But somewhere along the way, I began to appreciate the hour before the doors open just as much.

If you're a guest at an event, you probably don't think much about what the room was like an hour earlier. By the time you arrive, the music is playing, people are talking, the food is out, and everything feels as though it's simply waiting for you. But a lot has already happened.

Long before I back my trailer into the parking lot, someone has been planning, scheduling, cleaning, coordinating vendors, confirming contracts, printing name tags, arranging tables, and worrying about a hundred little details that guests will never notice. By the time I arrive, I'm joining a team that's already been working for hours.

An hour or two before the doors open, though, the atmosphere is completely different.

Instead of laughter, you hear sound checks from the stage. Workers call to each other as they straighten tables, unfold chairs, and hang decorations. Caterers move with practiced efficiency, surrounded by the clatter of pots, plates, and serving utensils. The room smells like fresh coffee, barbecue, fajitas, or whatever is about to be served.

As I'm arranging the greens, I notice other smells too. The artificial turf has its own scent, familiar after all these years. There's a faint smell of stained wood from the putter rack and the cool metallic smell that seems to cling to a hundred aluminum putters.

And then there's something harder to describe.

Maybe it's just my imagination, but every event space seems to have one more smell before the guests arrive. It's a little like driving past an electrical substation after a summer rain—that faint smell of ozone hanging in the air.

Not because of electricity. Because of possibility. The room feels charged.

Nothing has happened yet. The conversations haven't started. The dancing may still be hours away. The laughter hasn't echoed through the room. Nobody has made a putt or celebrated a lucky bounce. But somehow it already feels as though all of those things are quietly waiting their turn.

I've come to love that feeling. It's the feeling that something good is about to happen.

When I first started this business, all I saw was an empty room. Somewhere along the way that changed. Now, before anyone arrives, I find myself looking around the room and wondering which of my old friends I'm about to see.

Will there be a kid that discovers the course before anyone else?

Will there be a guy who spends three minutes calculating the perfect bank shot, only to hit the obstacle squarely in the middle?

Will there be a grandmother who insists she is “not very good at this” before quietly posting one of the best scores of the night?

I never know what faces they'll be wearing. I just know they'll be there. For now, none of those things have happened yet. The room is still quiet. But somehow, they already feel possible.

That's one of the unexpected gifts this business has given me. It has changed the way I look at empty places. An empty ballroom isn't just a ballroom anymore, it's a room full of conversations that haven't happened yet.

An empty church gym isn't just waiting for people, it's waiting for laughter and fellowship.

An empty school cafeteria isn't just another cafeteria, it's waiting for children to discover that miniature golf is apparently the greatest game ever invented.

I suppose that is true of more than event venues: A new neighborhood, a new job, a first day of school, a meeting where nobody knows each other yet.

From the outside, they all look unfinished. But maybe they are simply waiting for people to fill them with stories.

I used to think I spent my weekends turning empty rooms into miniature golf courses.

Now I think I simply have a front-row seat to possibility.

An ordinary ballroom... A church gymnasium... A school parking lot.

They all look empty, but I've just seen enough good things happen in places like that to know better.

Some rooms aren't empty. They're simply waiting.