Not the game itself. THAT moment: standing on the first tee, my buddies waiting behind me, knowing my ball was about to banana-slice into the trees on the right. Again. I apologized on every hole. At the range, I'd grab the spot furthest from everyone — felt like every eye was on me, watching me spray it.

The worst part? I knew I was better than that. That's what ate at me.

So I did what you've probably done too. Lessons. Expensive ones. The pro would fix my grip, it'd hold for 20 balls… and by Sunday my body had forgotten the whole thing. Hours of YouTube — ten coaches, ten contradictions — I walked away more lost than when I started. I changed my grip on my own: felt funny and a little uncomfortable, and on the first tee under pressure, my hands snapped right back to the old way. Every single time.

Then one day it hit me. My problem was never knowing what to do. It was making it stick. Nothing held my hands in the right spot long enough for it to turn into muscle memory.

So since it didn't exist, I built it.