The Day Everything Changed and Birthed Lone Buffalo Golf
It was 100 degrees.
Not the "Florida warm" kind of hot — the kind of heat where the sun feels personal.
I was mid-lesson with a junior golfer who thought rolling his wrists solved everything. His divots were deeper than his focus, and I was already sweating through my second glove.
But it wasn't the student that broke me.
It was the shirt.
Some synthetic, clingy, shiny "performance" polo that felt like a trash bag with sleeves. Every swing stuck. Every movement squeaked.
We broke for lunch. The clubhouse A/C hit me like a blessing from the golf gods. For 10 minutes, I felt human again.
Then I walked back out.
And that heat? It slapped me harder than "just one more beer" when you already said you were done.
Cold sweat, plastic fabric, now glued to my body. I tried pulling the sleeves up like a tank top. I looked like a middle-aged toddler at a backyard birthday party.
I snapped. Maybe an F-bomb or two slipped out at the kid (gently). And in that moment, I muttered:
"I'm gonna make the most comfortable and driest polo for guys."
And Lone Buffalo was born.