If you would have told me in April that I’d be writing this post in November, sitting here reflecting on a full season of Walk the Nine gatherings, I would have politely nodded and then quietly Googled “signs of delusion.”
And yet. Here we are.
Let me take you back to the beginning. It’s May. I’m standing on the 9-hole side of Highland National Golf Course in Saint Paul with a stomach full of nerves and a prayer that at least one person would show up. I got there early. Too early. The kind of early where the staff looks at you like, “Sir, we’re not open yet.” I hit range balls. I rolled putts. I checked my email eleven times. I rearranged the flyers on the counter that nobody asked me to put there.
People showed up. More than I expected. More than signed up. One guy walked up without clubs, balls, tees, or anything. Just himself. The pro shop handed him a rental set for free. I had told people the only thing you need to bring is yourself. He took that literally. Legend.
The group decided on their own to play a scramble. Nobody asked them to. They just started building community without me having to do a thing. And by the second hole, something I can’t quite explain was already happening. Strangers were talking. Not small talk. Real talk. The kind of conversation that only happens when you’re walking side by side, nobody is making eye contact because you’re both staring at a fairway, and the silence between shots gives someone just enough room to say the thing they’ve been carrying.
That’s Walk the Nine. That’s the whole thing. Right there on the second hole of our very first gathering.
From there, it just kept going.
We gathered at River Oaks in Cottage Grove. We played Phalen Park on the east side of Saint Paul. We went to Lost Spur in Eagan. Twice. The second time they literally cheered when I called to book the tee times. I’m not making that up. I’ve never made a phone call that was received with applause before. It was a first for me, and I’m not going to pretend I didn’t enjoy it.
We went to Door County, Wisconsin for two gatherings. I walked into the 115 Club for their Sunday morning AA meeting and the guys said, “It’s Erik in the flesh!” I’d been attending virtually, and being in the room with those men was exactly what I needed. We planned the next gathering right there over coffee and handshakes.
Every single gathering, a new face showed up. Someone we’d never met who just needed a place to belong. We had to add extra tee times. We went from “will anyone show up” to “we need more tee times” in a matter of months. People came from different AA groups, Hazelden alumni networks, online recovery communities, and a few who just heard about it from a friend of a friend.
But here’s what I need to say clearly. This is not about me.
I know my name is on the emails. I know I’m the one booking tee times and making flyers and writing these Yardage Book posts at hours my wife would not approve of. But Walk the Nine is not my story. It’s the story of every single person who said yes.
Yes to showing up at a golf course where they didn’t know anyone. Yes to walking nine holes with strangers. Yes to the terrifying, vulnerable, beautiful act of telling your story out loud to someone you just met on the first tee and realizing by the time you reach the second hole that the nerves are gone. Because the person walking next to you is listening. Not waiting to talk. Not checking their phone. Not giving you advice. Just listening. Like actually listening.
Do you know how rare that is? In a world that moves as fast as ours, to have someone walk beside you for two and a half hours and just be present for your story? That’s not golf. That’s a gift.
It’s the guy who showed up in slide-on sandals and tube socks on the second hole in Door County with jokes, wisdom, and zero concern about footwear. It’s the guy who said “I’ve just been looking for people to connect with because I’m all alone in this sober life thing.” He’s not alone anymore. It’s the group of men who looked me in the eyes after a gathering and said, “We needed this, Erik. Keep going. Keep staying sober. We’ll see you again.” I thought I was going to be the one doing the encouraging. I was on the receiving end.
It’s every person who replied to an email and said “I’m in.” Every person who passed the flyer to a friend. Every person who walked up to the putting green not knowing a single soul and left with people who know their name.
That’s who Walk the Nine is. Not me. Them.
And now, as the courses close and Minnesota does what Minnesota does, we’re not stopping. We’re heading indoors. Monthly winter gatherings at a golf simulator so the community stays connected when the snow flies. Because Walk the Nine was never about the course. It was about the walk. And you can walk together anywhere.
So to everyone who said yes this season. Thank you. Thank you for trusting a stranger with a dream, a website, and way too many flyers. Thank you for showing up. Thank you for sharing your stories. Thank you for listening to mine.
The best is yet to come. And I cannot wait to see who says yes next.
I stood on that putting green in May, not knowing if anyone would show up. Someone did. And then someone else. And then someone else. If you’re reading this and you know someone who could use something like this, pass it on. If you’re reading this and you could use something like this yourself, all you have to do is what they did. Say yes.
Not perfect, but good.
