This article is part of a seven-chapter story following Jack on their journey to start a Golf Simulator Business.
Inspired by the guide 37 Tips for Starting a Golf Simulator Business, the series blends practical steps with storytelling to show what starting a business really feels like.
Model vs. Reality: Finding the Right Fit for a Golf Simulator Business
Where Do You Plant Your Flag?
The wrong location will kill a great business faster than bad service ever could—and I’m standing in what might be the wrong location, trying to convince myself otherwise.
The space is beautiful. Fourteen-foot ceilings, exposed brick, plenty of natural light. It’s in the trendy part of downtown where craft breweries and axe-throwing venues have sprouted like mushrooms after rain.
The landlord, eager to fill the space, offers three months free rent and promises to help with build-out costs. Everything about it screams “perfect”—except for the parking.
“Street parking is plentiful after 6 PM,” the real estate agent assures me, her heels clicking across the polished concrete floor. “And there’s a public garage just two blocks away.”
I watch a young couple circle the block three times looking for a spot before giving up and driving away. They might have been potential customers.
In hospitality, I learned that convenience beats ambiance every time. People will drive an extra ten minutes for easy parking before they’ll circle the block for the perfect atmosphere.
“I need to think about it,” I tell her, already knowing the answer.
What Kind of Operation Makes Sense?
That night, I spread my options across the dining room table like a poker hand. Mobile unit—take the simulators to corporate events and parties.
Home-based—convert my garage into a teaching studio. Commercial space—go all in with multiple bays and full service. Hybrid—start small with one location and a mobile unit for events.
My wife looks over my shoulder. “You’re overthinking this. What did you tell me last week? This is about creating an experience, not just providing a service?”
She’s right. A mobile unit can’t create a community. My garage can’t host corporate events or run leagues. The hybrid model splits focus when I need laser clarity. This has to be commercial, has to be destination-worthy, has to be big enough to matter but small enough to manage.
I cross out everything except “commercial brick-and-mortar” and feel the decision settle into place like a key finding its lock.
The Partnership Question Nobody Wants to Ask
Tom calls while I’m researching locations. “Been thinking about your golf thing,” he says. “What if we partnered up? I’ve got capital, you’ve got experience. Could be beautiful.”
The offer tempts me more than I expect. Tom’s got money—real money, not retirement-scraping money like mine. He’s connected, knows every business owner in three counties.
He’s also the guy who shows up to golf hungover half the time and once tried to write off his boat as a business expense for his consulting firm.
“Let me think about it,” I say, but I already know. I’ve spent twenty-eight years negotiating with partners, managing different visions, compromising on decisions I knew were wrong. This business needs to be mine—my vision, my mistakes, my success or failure.
Later, I draft an email declining his offer but suggesting he could be my first league commissioner instead. He responds immediately: “Smart move. I’m a terrible boss but a great customer.”
Building the Professional Network
The reality of going solo means I need backup. Not partners, but professionals who can fill the gaps in my knowledge. I start building my roster like a coach assembling a team.
First, the lawyer. My neighbor recommends his guy, who specializes in small business and hospitality. One consultation reveals dozens of things I haven’t considered. Liquor license applications take months.
Liability insurance for sports facilities requires special riders. The Americans with Disabilities Act has specific requirements for recreational facilities.
“Budget about fifteen thousand for legal fees in your first year,” he says, watching my face pale. “Or budget fifty thousand for lawsuits if you skip the legal work.”
Next, the accountant. I find Ellen through the local small business association. She’s helped three other entertainment venues launch, understands depreciation schedules for expensive equipment, knows every tax break available.
“LLC is your best bet,” she confirms after reviewing my plans. “Pass-through taxation, liability protection, flexibility to add investors later if needed.”
She sets up QuickBooks on my laptop, creates a chart of accounts, and warns me about the biggest mistake she sees: “People mix personal and business money. Don’t. Not even once. Not even for a pack of gum.”
The IT consultant comes recommended by Mike from Cleveland. “You’re not just running simulators,” he explains over video call. “You’re running a network. Booking systems, point-of-sale, customer management, simulator software, security cameras, guest WiFi. One system goes down, they all suffer.”
By the end of the week, I have a banker who understands SBA loans, a marketing consultant who specializes in experiential businesses, and a contractor who’s built two other simulator facilities. None are on retainer yet—that comes later—but they’re all one phone call away.
The Great Location Hunt
I develop a routine. Every morning, I drive a different route through town, noting vacant spaces, counting cars in parking lots, timing traffic patterns. My ideal location needs to sit in the overlap of three circles: where people work, where people live, and where people already go for entertainment.
The agent sends me listings daily. Too small. Too expensive. No parking. Bad neighborhood. Loading dock but no customer entrance. Each rejection sharpens my focus on what I actually need.
Then she forwards something different. “Just came back on market,” her email reads. “Previous tenant’s financing fell through.”
The address sits in Westfield Commons, a shopping complex that’s been revitalizing for two years. Not downtown trendy, but suburban successful.
Anchor tenants include a 24-hour fitness center, a popular breakfast place, and a wine bar that hosts paint nights. The space itself: 7,200 square feet, formerly a sporting goods store, with its own entrance and—here’s the gold—forty dedicated parking spaces.
I visit at different times over three days. Morning: gym crowd and breakfast rush create energy. Afternoon: steady lunch traffic and early happy hour at the wine bar.
Evening: families at dinner, couples on dates, plenty of movement until 10 PM. The parking lot never empties completely, even at midnight—the gym’s 24-hour access keeps a baseline presence.
Understanding the Real Customer
Location research forces me to clarify who I’m actually serving. Downtown would attract young professionals and date-night couples. Deep suburbs would bring families and retirees. But Westfield Commons offers something more interesting—diversity.
I sit in my car one evening, watching people flow between businesses. A group of men in golf polos leaves the gym, probably played their regular morning round before work.
Three moms with strollers navigate into the breakfast place, likely meeting after school drop-off. A Tesla and a ten-year-old Honda park side by side at the wine bar. This isn’t one demographic—it’s five or six, all with money to spend on experiences.
I think about Mike’s advice: “You’re not building for the customer you want. You’re building for the customers you’ll get.” Here, I’ll get everyone. The challenge isn’t attracting them—they’re already here. The challenge is serving them all without trying to be everything to everyone.
Zoning Reality Check
The space looks perfect until I dive into city regulations. Westfield Commons is zoned C-2, commercial general. Golf simulators? No problem. Bar and grill? Need a conditional use permit. Staying open past 11 PM? Requires a hearing.
I spend three hours in the city planning office, learning the language of setbacks and parking ratios. The planner, a patient woman named Denise, pulls up the property on her computer.
“Previous tenant had restaurant approval,” she says. “That helps. But you’ll need to show that a golf simulator doesn’t significantly change the use. Noise is usually the concern.”
“It’s quieter than a regular restaurant,” I argue. “No dishes clanging, no kitchen noise.”
“Put that in writing. Include sound dampening in your plans. The board meets monthly—next hearing is in three weeks.”
I add “sound engineer consultation” to my growing list of expenses.
The Lease Negotiation Dance
The landlord is Central Property Group, which sounds intimidating until I meet the leasing manager, Rick. He’s my age, talks about his golf handicap within five minutes, and seems genuinely excited about the concept.
“We need experiential tenants,” he admits. “Amazon can’t kill what Amazon can’t ship.”
The initial terms make me wince. Five-year lease, personal guarantee, base rent plus percentage of sales over a certain threshold. But Rick’s motivated—the space has been empty for seven months.
“What would it take to make this work?” he asks.
I channel every negotiation I’ve ever witnessed. “Three months free rent for build-out. Landlord contributes fifty thousand to improvements—they stay with the building anyway. Cap the percentage rent at a reasonable threshold. And I need options to renew.”
Rick counters. We volley offers back and forth over two weeks. Eventually, we land on two months free rent, thirty-five thousand in improvement allowance, and percentage rent only on sales exceeding one-point-five million annually.
The personal guarantee stays, but that was always going to happen.
“I’ll need board approval,” Rick says, “but I think we have a deal.”
Moment of Truth
I stand in the empty space with my contractor, Paul. He’s measuring, calculating, sketching possibilities on his tablet. The bones are good—proper HVAC, sufficient electrical, solid floors. The bathrooms need updating but function. The kitchen space from the sporting goods store’s attempt at a snack bar could work for simple food service.
“Four bays here,” Paul points to the main area. “Maybe five if we get creative. Bar along this wall. Seating areas between bays. Kitchen stays where it is—cheaper than moving plumbing.”
The numbers in his preliminary estimate make my stomach drop. Build-out alone will consume most of my budget before I buy a single simulator.
“That’s if everything goes perfectly,” Paul adds helpfully.
Nothing ever goes perfectly. Tammy’s warning echoes: “Whatever budget you have, add forty percent.”
Pulling the Trigger
The decision crystallizes during my last overnight shift at the hotel. It’s 3 AM, and I’m dealing with a complaint about noise from the room above—two drunk guys who won’t stop jumping on the bed.
As I stand in the hallway, listening to them through the door, I realize I’m done. Done with other people’s problems. Done with policies I didn’t create. Done with pretending this is enough.
The next morning, I call Rick. “Send me the lease. I’m in.”
Then Ellen, the accountant: “I need to set up the LLC today.”
Then Paul: “Start refining those build-out plans.”
Then my wife: “I just signed a lease on seven thousand square feet.”
She pauses so long I wonder if the call dropped.
“Well,” she finally says, “I guess we better make Hawaii happen soon.”
What We’re Really Building
That evening, I walk through the space alone. The setting sun streams through the west windows, painting golden rectangles on the concrete floor. I can see it now—not just the physical build-out, but the business itself.
Bay one hosts a corporate team-building event, marketing managers from the office park trying to outdrive each other.
Bay two has a father teaching his twelve-year-old daughter proper grip. Bay three runs league play, four guys who’ve been competing every Thursday for two years. Bay four has a couple on their third date—she’s winning.
The bar isn’t fancy, but the beer is cold and the wings are perfect. The booking system runs smoothly. The staff knows every regular by name. The sound of good shots and bad jokes fills the air.
This won’t be the fanciest simulator facility. Won’t have the most bays or the best food. But it will be the place where hospitality meets technology, where everyone from beginners to scratch golfers feels welcome, where the experience matters more than the equipment.
The Team Assembly
Going solo doesn’t mean going alone. I need staff who understand both golf and service. My first call goes to Jerry, a former hotel colleague who also happens to be a golf fanatic.
“I need someone to manage day-to-day operations once we’re running,” I tell him. “Someone who can handle drunk corporate groups and nervous beginners with equal grace.”
“When do I start?” he asks.
“We don’t open for six months.”
“Then I’ve got six months to lower my handicap.”
Next, I reach out to Jennifer, a golf instructor at the local public course. She’s young, ambitious, underutilized where she is.
“I can’t match your current salary initially,” I admit. “But you’ll help design the instruction program. Your name on the wall. Build something that’s yours.”
She’s interested but cautious. We agree on a commission-based arrangement per lesson/package and to finalize details once build-out begins.
She’s interested but cautious. We agree to meet again once build-out begins.
The final piece: someone who understands the technology. Through the simulator forums, I find David, a recent computer science grad who built his own simulator in his parents’ basement. He lacks business experience but bleeds passion for the technical side.
“I can start part-time while you build,” he offers. “Help spec the systems, make sure everything talks to everything else.”
Three Decisions Locked
Before signing the lease, I force myself to confirm three crucial decisions:
- Full commercial operation in suburban retail environment
- Four bays to start, with room to expand to five
- Solo ownership with professional support team
Each represents a different type of risk. The location locks me into suburban families and office workers rather than downtown young professionals. Four bays means higher initial investment but better event capacity. Solo ownership means every decision—good or bad—is mine.
I check all three boxes with the same pen I’ll use to sign the lease.
Tomorrow starts the hard part: permits, build-out, equipment selection, the thousand decisions that turn empty space into a business.
But tonight, I sit in that empty space with a folding chair and a beer, listening to the wine bar’s music drift through the walls, watching the gym parking lot stay busy even at 9 PM.
The location is right. The model is clear. The team is forming. Six months from now, this concrete box will be my business—not just another employer’s property I manage, but mine.
The weight of it feels different than I expected. Not heavier, but more balanced. Like a golf club with the perfect swing weight—substantial enough to matter, light enough to control.
I raise my beer to the empty space. “Here’s to the last big swing,” I say to no one.
From the wine bar next door, I hear laughter and conversation, the sound of people choosing to be somewhere instead of staying home. Soon, those sounds will come from here too.
The sun sets completely, leaving only the parking lot lights streaming through the windows. Time to go home, start the paperwork, begin the transformation. But I sit for one more minute in the darkening space, feeling the future take shape around me like walls waiting to be built.
See the guide Jack used: 37 Tips for Starting a Golf Simulator Business
You’ve just finished Chapter 2. Next, in Chapter 3, Jack faces the reality of Costs, Quotes, and Readiness.