Getting Hooked
First saw Nick Dunlap’s name pop up when scrolling golf forums last weekend. Folks kept buzzing about some college kid beating PGA pros. Didn’t pay much attention then – thought it was just internet hype. Then ESPN highlights blasted his final putt at the American Express. Dude’s knees buckled like he’d won the Super Bowl. That’s when I thought: hell, gotta dive into this story.
Tracing His Roots
Started digging where real champs come from. Googled his junior career. Found crazy stats – won every major US junior event by age 18. Like wiping out Little League World Series, state basketball finals and Olympic trials all at once. Called my golf buddy Jerry who coaches college players. He coughed up two facts I’d never find online:
- Kid’s high school team practiced 6am winters in Alabama frost wearing ski gloves
- His swing coach made him putt with his eyes closed every Thursday
The Turning Point
Realized his secret wasn’t magic clubs or rich daddy. Watched his Monday qualifier videos for smaller tours last summer. Saw him carry two PB&J sandwiches in his bag during 36-hole days. That’s when it clicked – this ain’t about talent. This kid survived on pure grit and snack runs.
My Failed Experiment
Tried mimicking Nick’s routine Wednesday morning. Woke up at 4:30am, ate cold oatmeal, hit range balls in pitch darkness. Lasted 20 minutes before slicing three balls onto the highway. Couldn’t even see my clubface.
The Real Deal
Here’s what separates Nick from wannabes like me:
- When he three-putts? Does thirty pressure putts before leaving green
- Missed fairway? Walks back 100 yards to re-hit same damn shot immediately
- Tour pros trash talk him? Just nods and drains another 15-footer
Tracked down his former roommate’s podcast interview. Confirmed Nick studies cloud patterns for wind reads during flight delays. Who does that?
The Aftermath
Stayed up till 2am dissecting his final round. Saw how he fist-pumped after routine pars like they were eagles. Next morning, changed my putting routine. Made eight 3-footers in row before breakfast. Still haven’t broken 90, but finally understand why Nick’s phone blew up with Tiger’s number that Sunday night. Kid didn’t chase fame – chased every damn shot like it was his last.
