Golf clubs built from a fishing rod. An automobile radiator hose. And a tee that stands 3 feet above the grass.
A 3-iron — aptly named as the club has three heads — used for hitting three golf balls simultaneously.
That’s just a sample of the equipment in the bag of trick-shot artist Dennis Walters, who hits “death-defying” shots through fire and while balls are rolling down a ramp.
What’s most unique about Dennis isn’t his arsenal of trickery, but the story he tells while he performs.
Walters suffered through depression, disappointment and despair
Fifty-one years ago, Dennis was one of the top amateur golfers in the country, readying to attend PGA Tour Q-School when he was paralyzed from the waist down in a golf cart accident.
“If he hadn’t been hurt, he would’ve made the Hall of Fame as a player. He was that good,” says longtime friend and PGA pro Wayne Warms.
Imagine having your life turned upside down at age 24. Depression, disappointment and despair were now regular members of his daily foursome. But through determination, desire and perseverance, the same traits that had made him successful as a player, he created his own tour of sorts. His golf show isn’t just about golf lessons; it’s about life lessons. He’s performed over 3,500 shows and traveled more than 3 million miles. Ben Hogan watched him hit golf balls. Sam Snead told him dirty jokes. Byron Nelson stood so close to him one time he had to ask him to take a step back because he was afraid he’d hit him. He’s done clinics with Tiger Woods, Arnold Palmer and Gary Player. It’s a different dream than the one he had envisioned but he was able to make something of himself. He’s golf’s version of Mick Jagger and Bruce Springsteen, still rocking out at age 76 and performing shows nationwide. But as he deals with some health concerns, the question is for how much longer will the show go on? There’s no other exhibition in golf quite like the Dennis Walters Show, which will kick off its 49th year in 2026.
On Wednesday evening in Frisco, Texas, Walters was inducted into the PGA Hall of Fame, the latest in a litany of awards he’s collected in recognition of the Dennis Walters Show being the most inspiring hour in golf. “If my life was a movie, they wouldn’t believe it,” he says.
Grab some popcorn as we relive the unbelievable life of golf’s most inspirational figure.
Golf becomes part of Dennis’s DNA and ‘the sound of music’
Walters grew up in Neptune, New Jersey, a small town on the Jersey Shore, and his childhood home was about a mile from Jumping Brook Country Club, a public course that locals referred to simply as The Brook. One day, he got off his school bus at a different stop and walked through the woods, passing deer and squirrels, to get to the neighborhood course. He sat by the 18th tee and watched in amazement how far the golfers hit the ball compared to a baseball.
When he got home, he told his father about it, who said simply, “Do you want to go try?” They went the next day and the head pro gave him two clubs – a brown-shafted Wilson 6-iron and a Bobby Jones model driver – and golf became a part of Walters’ DNA from his first swings.
Before long, he began picking balls at the range. He forged his working papers so he could caddie before he turned 14. He looped for Johnny Pott at the 1967 U.S. Open at Baltusrol, who gave him six dozen Spalding Dot golf balls after missing the cut.
Several of those balls he used later that summer to win the triple crown of the New Jersey Junior Championship, Caddie Championship and Public Links Junior Championship, a feat never achieved in the same year before or since.
Dennis placed 11th in the 1971 U.S. Amateur when it was contested at medal play. He attended North Texas State University on a golf scholarship and reached the final stage of the PGA Tour’s Qualifying School, missing by eight shots, and was about to enter for a second time when the accident derailed him.
Ralph Terry, a former World Series MVP pitcher for the New York and head pro at Roxiticus Country Club, had known Walters since he was 14 and the way Dennis struck a golf ball reminded him of watching the great baseball hitters he’d pitched to – Hank Aaron, Stan Musial, Ted Williams, Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays. When bat met ball, it had a different ring.
“It had that real pure sound,” Terry recalled in the Walters autobiography, “In My Dreams I Walk with You.” “When you stood around the batting cage when those great hitters hit the ball it was just more pure than anybody else…Dennis was different. He always made it sound like music.”
The accident
On July 21, 1974, a golf cart he was driving rolled over on a hillside and severed his spine. He couldn’t feel his legs when he woke up in a hospital bed and knew his dream of playing on the PGA Tour was over. All these years later, Walters isn’t sure what happened on that fateful day when he was paralyzed from the waist down.
An assistant pro at Wykagyl Country Club in New Rochelle, N.Y., he had played in a pro-am in the morning and drove to Roxiticus Country Club in New Jersey to play with Terry. He went out to meet them in a three-wheel Cushman golf cart that is no longer made because it proved to be unstable.
Up ahead was a fork. If he angled to the left, he’d go to the 12th tee. If he angled to the right, he’d go down to the 16th tee. He turned right, where the path headed downhill steeply. He wasn’t going that fast, but as he turned the cart began to slide on little blue stones on the path.
He tried to get up, but he couldn’t move his legs. Someone rushed back to the clubhouse and found a doctor on a tennis court. When Dr. Kim reached Walters, he scratched his stomach in different places to see if he had any feeling and Walters said yes. Then he poked his legs with a sharp pin. Walters didn’t feel a thing. Dr. Kim turned to Terry and said, “He’s going to be a paraplegic.”
The impact of the accident had a shearing effect on his spinal cord. When the cart tipped and he fell out, Walters dislocated a vertebra at thoracic level 12 or “T-12,” as it is commonly called. It pinched a part of his spinal cord and paralyzed him.
“It was like there was this great volcano building up in my body, waiting to explode,” Walters wrote. “I was like that for a long time.”
‘I’m coming back to this dump and someday I’m going to hit right off your front lawn’
On the way to the operating room, Walters remembers telling a staff member, “Fix me up because I’m going to play on the PGA Tour.”
He spent four days in Morristown Memorial Hospital, lying in bed visualizing golf shots, and then was transferred to the Kessler Institute for Rehabilitation in West Orange, New Jersey. Learning to repair watches was considered one of the premier job possibilities for someone in Walters’s condition. The thinking was that his arms and hands worked just fine and he could still make a decent living.
Walters resisted efforts by the staff to get him interested in this type of job training. When he received a letter from a company that hired physically challenged people to repair watches, Walters ripped it to shreds. And if he failed to make his feelings clear, he received a package from his pal Warms, not long after, with a watch enclosed and a note that read: Fix me.
“That got him going,” Warms recounted. “It was the biggest insult possible at the time. To Dennis, that watch was a symbol of giving up.”
To make matters worse, Dennis’s room was perched on a hill overlooking Essex County Country Club, the same course where he had been medalist for the 1971 U.S. Amateur. He eventually finished T-11 and missed a berth in the Masters by two strokes back in the days when the top 8 qualified for Augusta National.
“I’m still mad about that,” he says.
Only a road separated the rehab center and the course and seeing the holes he once traversed with ease was a constant reminder of how much his life had changed in a flash. But no one ever bothered to address the elephant in the room with Walters – that he’d never walk again. One day, Dennis confronted his doctor at the rehab facility, who confirmed his worst suspicions. His reply penetrated Walters like a knife. He burst into tears. But that stark realization wasn’t the only verdict the doctor delivered.
“What about golf?” Walters asked. The doctor said, “Forget it. You’ll never play golf again.”
Walters stopped crying and broke into a fit of rage. He began with a two-word reply. “And they weren’t happy birthday,” he recalls. Giving up wasn’t in his makeup and Dennis made a promise that he’d be back to show him.
“You sorry son of a bitch!” he shouted. “I’m coming back to this dump and some day I’m going to hit right off your front lawn.”
Depressed with his lack of progress, Walters barely could roll his wheelchair back into his room. Sitting on his night table was a letter dated Aug. 14, 1974, from his golfing hero Ben Hogan, who had survived his own near-fatal car accident in 1949 to become one of the game’s all-time greats. He often sent letters of encouragement to others in similar situations. Addressed “Dear Denny,” it read in part: “We know the human body is a great machine and can absorb many shocks. Even though it may seem slow, recovery is possible provided one has faith, hope, will and determination. From what I heard about you I am sure you possess these qualities.”
“His letter was far better medicine for me than any pill or potion,” Walters says.
Still, he woke up to a pillow either soaked in cold sweat or tears. His dream was gone in a flash. Depression, disappointment and despair were now regular members of his daily foursome. One time, he took his fist and punched a hole through the wall of his parents’ brand-new condo. As Walters put it: “If I could’ve taken a pill to end my misery, I would have.”
All of a sudden, he had become dependent on others to do things for him. “It destroys your self-image. You lose all sense of human dignity. This was something that I did not overcome quickly. It literally took me years to feel decent again about myself.”
He questioned whether he would ever get out of a hospital bed. But he also was determined not to lose golf from his life, and he promised himself that if he could get out of his bed, he’d never quit trying to figure out a new way to play.
“A lot of things were taken away from me,” he says, “but there was no way golf was going to be taken away too.”
After four months at the rehab center, Walters was able to go home on weekends. He was lying on the couch with his head in his father’s lap, watching the 1975 Bing Crosby Clambake at Pebble Beach and Dennis was feeling particularly sorry for himself. He saw players such as Tom Kite, Ben Crenshaw and Andy North, all of whom he had played against in college, competing at one of the cathedrals of golf and knew he should’ve been there too. Walters started crying. He told his dad he missed hitting golf balls. His dad had had enough of his son’s wallowing.
“Damn it, Champ, if you can’t stand up and hit a golf ball, let’s see if you can hit one from the freakin’ wheelchair,” he said.
Pioneering a new way to hit golf balls
There was a clubhouse in their development, and inside one of the rooms, there was a net set up so that residents could hit balls during the winter. They went to give it the old college try. At first, Walters couldn’t swing the club without hitting his legs. His dad told him to sit tight and went home and returned with an oversized pillow. He lifted Dennis up and slid it underneath for him to sit on. That helped but he still couldn’t make a swing because he couldn’t hold himself up. Bucky trudged back to the house again. He came back with a strap for balance and tied it to the back of the wheelchair across his waist.
Dennis took a couple of swings and the wheelchair nearly toppled over. Bucky said, don’t move; this time he tied a rope to a pole to keep the wheelchair anchored. That worked. He made his first swings since the accident. Despite it being 38 degrees, Dennis couldn’t resist trying to hit one outdoors. Bucky shoveled snow down to the grass on their front lawn and pushed him into position. He hammered a spike into the frozen turf and tied it to a tree to hold the wheelchair in place and teed up a ball.
Dennis grabbed his trusty blonde Byron Nelson persimmon 3-wood by MacGregor and took a mighty swing and topped the ball on his first attempt. He knew he could do better and tried again. He thinned the next one off the sole plate. He could still do better. And he did, nailing it about 160 yards down the middle.
“And it didn’t hit a car,” remembers Dennis. “It was a perfect shot. At that very moment, I realized when I hit the ball in the center of the face it still felt good and that really spurred me on to try to figure out a way to do this.”
His father jumped up and down and high-fived Dennis “as if I’d just won the U.S. Open,” he recalls.
Not long after, Walters headed to Pompano Beach, Fla., where a friend, Jerry Volpe, owned Crystal Lago Country Club (now called Crystal Lake Country Club) and he began hitting balls daily for about a month. One day, he got bored of the range and wanted to go play, so a couple high school kids helped him get to the first tee and he nailed a drive about 180 yards. They pushed him down the fairway and he swatted a 5 wood at the par 4 that stopped pin high and a yard off the green. Before they could set up the chair for his third shot, Walters leaned out of it and putted one-handed to a foot. Playing his first hole in nine months, he had made what members at the course dubbed the greatest par ever.
They celebrated his achievement in the bar and the only thing that dimmed Dennis’s delight was the stark realization that it had taken 45 minutes to play one hole. A round would take him 12 hours. The pro at the club Alec Ternyei, told him not to fret. He thought he had a solution and told Dennis, “Tomorrow I will have something for you.” That night, he went home and removed the passenger side seat from a golf cart and replaced it with a frame with a platform on top. He cut the legs off a swiveling barstool and bolted the seat to the platform. A padded seatbelt kept him from toppling forward. Dennis immediately felt much higher. Dr. Gary Wiren, the PGA’s national education, connected him to Frank Reese, an employee at E-Z Go Golf Cart Co., who finetuned Ternyei’s invention and built two prototype seats based on the swivel seat and Walters has used them for the past 50 years.
In time, Dennis would come to terms with the fact that he’d never be able to play as well as he did before. But he realized he was looking at things all wrong. He decided not to dwell over what he had lost but instead look forward and strive to see how good he could get playing golf sitting down.
One day, he didn’t tell anyone where he was going. Unannounced, he drove himself to the Kessler Institute for Rehabilitation and unloaded his cart from the trailer, hitting the gas with his hand. He threw down a little green mat he used to hit balls and a rubber tee attached to a fishing line and used a 3-foot-long broom handle cut out in the middle that acted like tweezers – he calls them his chopsticks and was a gift from the golfing great Harry “Lighthorse” Cooper – to tee up a ball. Dennis began beating balls across the street onto the Essex County golf course just as he had promised he would.
“Before I knew it, patients were hanging out the windows and doorways, cheering loudly for me. They knew I had been one of them just a little while ago,” he recalls.
Even old man Kessler came outside and so did the doctor who had told Dennis he’d never be able to play golf again. He walked over, shook his hand and told him how happy he was to be proven wrong. He said he would never again crush another person’s dream.
That day became the impetus for Dennis to encourage others to reach for their dreams and became the foundation of his show and the hallmark of his life.
The Dennis Walters Golf Show is born
The idea of creating a different kind of dream as a trick-shot artist didn’t happen overnight. At first, hitting golf balls simply was an escape mechanism. But there were three New Jersey clubs that had held fundraisers for him and he returned a year later to show them that, despite being paralyzed from the waist down, he was hitting balls again. To spice up the act, he attempted a couple of trick shots and noticed that the crowd responded with more applause and enthusiasm to those shots. He thought he was on to something. Dennis credits PGA pro Dr. Gary Wiren as one of the first to buy into his vision for his exhibition. Wiren loaned Walters a film of Paul Hahn Sr., a noted trick-shot artist, performing his show at the 1960 PGA Championship. Walters recalled sitting in the front row at one of Hahn’s exhibitions at a Met Golf Association junior clinic as a kid and remembered his stunt hitting drives off a 3-foot-tall tee. Walters took home the film and projected it against his wall. He estimated he must have watched it 500 times, picking out the shots he thought he could do and started practicing them.
Wiren arranged for Walters to appear in his first show at the 1977 PGA Show in Orlando alongside legendary instructors Jim Flick and Bob Toski. In 1978, Walters got a call from a booker for the show “That’s Incredible.” He agreed to make an appearance. It was the big break he had been hoping for, with its viewing audience in the millions. He was bound to get a ton of bookings from it. But while he memorably hit a drive from a ball teed up in the mouth of host John Davidson, the phone failed to ring off the hook. It netted him all of two shows. “No one wanted to hire me,” Walters remembers of those early years.
Bucky decided to take matters into his own hands. He sent a heartfelt letter to Jack Nicklaus appealing to him one father to another, if he might be able to lend his assistance. Nicklaus, who was affiliated with MacGregor Golf at the time and later would become owner of the company, arranged a meeting at company headquarters and the equipment maker signed him to a contract for $25,000 a year, more money than he’d made to that point, and put him on the road. He’d eventually land as many as 17 sponsors – from True Temper to Titleist to Jersey Mike’s, which has been in his corner for 30 years – but he says of Nicklaus’s backing, “That was my big break.”
Life on the road
Bucky retired from his job after Dennis’s accident and devoted the rest of his life to him and making his show a success. Most of the time, he called his son Champ, his way of pumping him up.
His father always had brochures stuffed in his back pocket with complete information about the show that he’d whip out to anyone he bumped into at the supermarket. “That’s my son,” he’d say.
In 1941, Bucky joined the Army and went off to war. He dreamed of being a pilot. At boot camp, a Sergeant asked if anyone wanted to be a pilot. Bucky’s arm shot up. The officer waved him over, but on this occasion, it earned him the honor of scooping up the horse poop. “Pile it over there,” the officer said. Bucky never raised his hand to volunteer again. He served in the 34th Infantry Division and landed in North Africa. Then it was on to Italy and Switzerland and Germany. He rose to Sergeant and earned two Purple Hearts. His right knee was torn up badly by shrapnel from a hand grenade.
Almost all of the lessons Dennis has used to battle paralysis he learned from his father while traveling the country in a minivan. His homespun sayings included one that Dennis adopted as his own: “I cannot spell ‘can’t’,” and it is why his entire life has been a victory for those he has inspired and for himself, for he never gave up hope.
Bucky was the do-it-all dad, driving a minivan packed with enough supplies and clothing for the six-month odyssey, lugging his bag and setting up the show and handling everything down to dressing Dennis each morning. That seemed like overkill to Dennis but his dad explained, “If I help you, you’ll have more energy to practice.” Bucky must have teed up and watched his son hit more than a million golf balls – often past dusk.
“Never once did he say that’s enough,” Dennis says.
One time, they were sitting at a restaurant enjoying dinner and a man at the next table overheard them prepping for the next golf show. When the man finished his meal, he came over to Bucky and commended him for including his handicapped son in his performance. Bucky quickly corrected him, pointing to Dennis and saying, “You’ve got it all wrong. He’s the golfer and I’m the gopher.” Their ongoing joke had a kicker too: their dog was the loafer.
At the conclusion of every show, Bucky gave a number grade for the performance as if he were grading a science exam. When Golfweek magazine established its Father of the Year award in 1983, Bucky was the first recipient for good reason. Take, for instance, when Bucky passed away and Barbara went to his hospital to collect his personal items. In the nightstand of his room, she found a stack of brochures for Dennis’s show that he probably couldn’t wait to hand out to anybody he’d meet. “Up to the end, he was still his son’s biggest fan,” Barbara said.
Father and son traveled together for 17 years until Bucky tripped over a television cable at the St. Jude Classic in Memphis and broke his shoulder. Dennis dialed his sister Barbara at 10 o’clock that night and begged her to fly out and fill in as his assistant. She had never worked a show with Dennis, but before long, the schoolteacher agreed to spend her summers on the road with her brother. As they drove home after her fill-in duties, they passed snowbirds in motor homes heading south for the season. Barbara said, “That’s what we need.”
They arranged to buy one but it wasn’t cheap. One day, Dennis read Newmar’s company mailer and it profiled the vice president of marketing, Craig Alexander. “
When Craig isn’t at the factory, he’s out playing golf,” Dennis read. His eyes lit up. He penned an unsolicited letter to Alexander detailing why Newmar should consider sponsoring him and his show. Alexander got it and replied that he’d be in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, on business and agreed to meet for half an hour at his hotel. They ended up having dinner and talking for more than two hours. Alexander explained that countless rock stars and NASCAR drivers had inquired about a free motor home for their tour to no avail, but Dennis’s story had captured his imagination.
The company was owned by a conservative group of Amish in Indiana, and Dennis’s family business with a positive message resonated with them too. For more than two decades, he crisscrossed the country in a 43-foot Newmar Mountain Aire motor home (and later a wheelchair-friendly Canyon Star model that he helped design) as part of a handshake deal. He still remembers picking up the first motor home in Phoenix, where he received one of the National Golf Foundation’s Graffis Awards, recognizing outstanding contributions to the game and business of golf, and tested it out on the way to three shows. During the third round of the 1984 Masters, they parked in a rest area in Van Horn, Texas, the town where Hogan had his near-fatal car accident in 1949. Dennis turned on the broadcast and watched Ben Crenshaw make putts from everywhere.
“I’m laying down on the couch with a bologna and cheese sandwich, a jug of lemonade, a bowl of microwave popcorn and I said to my sister, ‘If this ain’t heaven, I don’t know what is.’ ”
Golf’s most inspiring hour
The show itself consists of three parts, beginning with a talking dog as his loyal sidekick – he’s trained five rescue dogs as his assistant, starting with Muffin and including the current co-star of the show, Augusta, affectionately known as “Gussie” – who greets the crowd and barks out answers to questions such as how many Green Jackets has Jack Nicklaus won? Gussie’s six barks often earn the loudest applause and a small town could be powered from the wattage of all those smiles generated.
Then Walters tells his story and how almost every person said it would be impossible for him to play golf because he couldn’t stand up and he tells them about the seat invented for him and about why golf is important to him and all the joy its brought to his life and why they too should try to play golf or get involved with the game in some way or as he is apt to say, “have a golf experience.”
And, of course, he hits an array of high draws with a radiator hose from a car, a baseball bat and a triple-hinge shot using a club with three universal joints that bends at crazy angles. “You can applaud,” he often says, “It won’t break my concentration.” In all, he hits about 25 trick shots or what he calls “shots from unusual lies.” Each shot has a story that he tells the audience while his assistant sets everything up. Along the way, he delivers his corny jokes.
While performing his death-defying trick shot through fire, he’ll say, “Don’t try this at home; Try it at a friend’s house.”
In 1997, Walters served as the opening act at 30 clinics conducted by Tiger Woods. He’s performed in every state, Canada, Mexico, and throughout the United Kingdom. He’s performed at St. Andrews and Augusta National for its members. Best of all, he’s made what seemed impossible become possible. Maybe he didn’t make the PGA Tour, but he made up his own tour, which for many years included more than 20 exhibitions at PGA Tour and PGA Tour Champions stops a year. He’s been a pioneer for adaptive golf and the reason there is a Solo Rider golf cart and inspired so many of the competitors in the U.S. Adaptive Open, which became a USGA championship in 2022. He won the seated division that inaugural year, competing in his first USGA championship in 51 years. He’s living proof that golf can be a game for everyone.
Through hard work and perseverance, he was able to reach for a new dream. At first, his show was a way to cope with what he deemed a hopeless situation. But it became something bigger and better, a chance to encourage others to strive for their dreams. As that message became a cornerstone of his show it earned a reputation as “golf’s most inspiring hour.”
“Right from the beginning, people were telling me I was giving them hope, encouragement and inspiration,” Walters says. “I didn’t realize it at the time but I’ve come to believe that these are three of the most precious gifts you can give anyone. You give somebody hope, then you’ve done a really great thing.”
One time, Walters and his swing coach Warms were hitting balls at PGA Village’s Legacy Course in Port St. Lucie when a woman stopped to see Dennis hit. She rushed home and returned with her husband, who had been the club champion before he suffered a stroke and had quit playing golf. Tears streamed down his face as he watched Dennis work up a sweat on the range. Afterwards, they talked for an hour. A year later, Warms bumped into his wife, who told him her husband had begun playing golf again after his chance encounter with Dennis.
“That happens all the time,” Walters says. “I realized I was making a difference. In the beginning, I did it all for myself, but in the end it came back to me as a gift. The best part of it was I am able to positively help others, even if just for a little bit.”
Find a new dream
For his contributions to the game, Walters has received an assortment of the industry’s highest honors. Walters knew he was among the 2019 finalists for the World Golf Hall of Fame, but he looked at the illustrious names he was going up against and said he had been preparing his “nice to be nominated” speech. Then one day, he read the phone number of the Hall on his caller ID and answered. Jack Peter, the Hall’s executive director at the time, told him to please hold; “there are a couple of people with me who would like to talk to you,” Peter said.
Over speakerphone, Nicklaus and Gary Player, his two biggest advocates, broke the news in unison that he would be inducted at Pebble Beach during the week of the 2019 U.S. Open. Walters cried. “You could hear his voice crack,” Peter recalls. “He was just overwhelmed with emotion. Pretty cool moment, for sure.”
He brought down the house during his induction speech when he said, “Can you believe I’m in the World Golf Hall of Fame before Tiger Woods?” [Tiger had to wait five more years to join him in the club.]
Can you believe he’s the only person to win the GWAA’s Ben Hogan Award, the PGA’s Lifetime Achievement Award, the USGA’s Bob Jones Award, and be enshrined in the World Golf Hall of Fame and now the PGA Hall of Fame? And he earned those honors while sitting down.
The Dennis Walters Show keeps rolling on. He’s scaled back from doing 100 or so shows a year, but he’s already prepping for the start of his 49th season. Walters has three criteria in determining how long he will continue to deliver his inspirational message on the road:
Does he still enjoy it?Is he physically able?Is his golf up to the standard that he expects?
“As long as I have those three things, I’d say I’m in,” he says.
Not long ago, his health was in question. In late August, Dennis was in the middle of a show at Sleepy Hollow Country Club in New York when he fainted and was rushed to the hospital. It marked the first time he ever failed to finish a show. He underwent an angiogram, and his doctor inserted a stent to open a clogged valve. Dennis’s first question was to ask if he could do his show in three days. That was a hard no, and his prescription for rest was like tying down a bull. Soon after, he experienced chest pains again and drove himself to the emergency room. Doctors are monitoring his heart condition but before long, he was back playing golf. His only complaint? Because they went in through his wrist instead of his groin, he had to wait three days to play golf again.
“What are you complaining about? You just got good news,” Warms said. “But that’s him in a nutshell, determination, desire and perseverance.”
He’s still determined to get a little better every day. It’s that love of the game and determination that allowed him to find a way to make his dream in golf come true.
“In my show, I talk about dreams. A real dream to me is not something you have at night. A real dream is having a positive thought in your head and having it in your heart and doing whatever you can to make it come true,” he says. “If you have a dream and it doesn’t work out, that’s OK. The solution is simple. Get a new dream. That’s exactly what I did.”
