Steve Wheatcroft calls himself a journeyman, and there are a few ways to look at that, of course. The moniker implies ‘meat and potatoes.’ Average. That he was ‘just a guy.’

But you also can’t journeyman unless you journey.

He’d been a pro.

And that, at one point in his 46-year-old life, was as surreal as — actually, he describes it best, so here that is.

“Professional golf was for mythical humans,” he said. “The PGA Tour was a pipe dream that sounded good when you told people what you wanted to do for a living. I might as well have said that I wanted to be an astronaut that opened a Chick-fil-A on the moon. The reality of both was about the same in my mind.”

Wheatcroft’s thoughts came via a note he shared Sunday on social media, where he also detailed his pro run. He qualified for the Tour in 2006. Played seven years there, seven years on the Korn Ferry Tour. Won twice there. Hung it up in 2019. He believed that he was mentally strong enough to handle anything.

It’s on that last point where we’ll again turn it over to his words.

In the note he shared, he went on to describe his post-career life. He detailed the drink where he believed he gave up on life. He wrote about how golfers are taught to be mentally strong, and the trouble with thinking that way.

The complete text is below, and it’s worth every second of your time. (Wheatcroft’s original post can be found here, and his Twitter account can be found here.)

***

Five minutes … 300 seconds … That’s it.

Maybe these next five minutes help you sleep. Maybe it helps you to number one in the world. Maybe it saves your marriage. Maybe it does nothing for you. Netflix ain’t going anywhere, so just keep reading.

My name is Steve Wheatcroft, and I’m a PGA Tour has-been. I’m a 46-year-old sarcastic, self-deprecating, fun-loving old dude who can’t sit here in the silence anymore. Silence is what got me here.

I can’t tell the present without touching on the past. I’d love to tell you I was haunted with trauma, alcohol and drugs growing up, but it was the exact opposite. I have two INCREDIBLE parents who allowed me to live a perfect childhood. I didn’t drink until I was 18 and didn’t do drugs.

I grew up in a small, blue-collar town in Pittsburgh before heading to Indiana University as a walk-on golfer to snag a business degree and prepare for the real world.

Professional golf was for mythical humans. The PGA Tour was a pipe dream that sounded good when you told people what you wanted to do for a living. I might as well have said that I wanted to be an astronaut that opened a Chick-fil-A on the moon. The reality of both was about the same in my mind.

I hit the mini-tour circuit for a few years, but still almost quit about 300 times. The greatest day, hands down, of my golfing life came in 2006 when I qualified for the PGA Tour. Yet my only thought was, “I’m about to get my shit kicked in next year.” And I did.

I would play from 2006-2019 on the Korn Ferry or PGA Tours (seven on each). I played in 345 events. If you look up ‘journeyman’ with Google, my mug may show up. I busted my ass to be very average, but I appreciated every single moment and absolutely loved the grind. I never won on the PGA and have two KF Tour wins (my first by 12 shots, which is still the only sign of my name in any record book).

My only other stat that must be a record is playing seven years on the PGA Tour but keeping my card only once. My stubborn ass just wouldn’t stop playing or working. I could barely make contact with a 4-iron, but I truly felt I was mentally stronger than you were. Professional golf is funny. You’re either so mentally tough that you can get over situations, or you’re dumb enough not to understand the moment. Both work, ha. I was mentally strong enough that I could handle anything …

Until I couldn’t.

I walked away from the game after 2019 with full status still on the Korn Ferry Tour. I can truly say that I didn’t miss playing when I left the game. I was at peace with the decision to be home with my family. I was burned out.

I started working as a financial adviser and threw myself into the job the same way I played golf. Head down, time to grind. The first year was great, winning awards and making some money. Second year went down, and third year down further. I had a case that was supposed to go through in 2022 that was going to pay us a large, much-needed commission. My family needed that money. It started out as a normal day. I got the text at 7:15 a.m. that the client wanted to hold off a year or two.

My face got hot, my hands started shaking, breathing out of control. Anxiety filled my body. I was alone in the house. Without hesitating, I walked over and poured a vodka with a splash of OJ, sat down and turned on “SportsCenter.” 7:15 a.m.!! Screw the world, I needed to relax. And it did relax me. Almost as much as the next one did.

That drink is where part of me died. That drink is where I gave up on life. That drink introduced me to a new best friend.

I lived drunk. Never sloppy, and you’d never have known. But I knew. I basically had a buzz for two years.

That drink is where part of me died. That drink is where I gave up on life. That drink introduced me to a new best friend. Steve Weathercroft
I HATED myself, and I didn’t even know who I was. How do you hate someone you don’t even know?

I didn’t drink because I loved alcohol. I just loved that it would absolutely numb my soul and make me not feel anything. I lived in an absolute fog — and wanted to. Drinks were like a warm blanket. Steve the golfer was an extrovert who loved being around others. The new Steve didn’t want ANYONE around. “Steve the golfer” was dead and gone.

You live 25 years of your life under one persona, and you know exactly who you are. And just that quickly, you have no idea who you are, or why you’re here. Your subconscious tells you daily what a worthless piece of shit you are. What little celebrity status I carried by being a great golfer seemed like a lifetime ago.

Friends who used to call and text weekly all of the sudden disappear because your golf career no longer brings them that connection to the Tour that they wanted. Friends, right? One more reason to drink.

After several trips to the hospital for various things (usually liver related), I couldn’t keep going the way I was. Thanks to the support of my wife and family, I checked myself into a treatment center and was in there for almost 40 days.

It saved my life. Without it, I would’ve been dead in a few years.

It took me three days to understand that I was never going to drink again. I just needed to understand the reasons and the whys. That part was simple. I spent the rest of the time trying to figure out who Steve is, and why he drank. The miracle is that I get to create MY version of the next Steve.

I resurrected Steve the golfer from the grave because I respected that guy. I left the box open to bury Steve the alcoholic, and I buried that box next to my Chick-fil-A on the moon.

Golfers are taught to be mentally strong from day one. “No weakness, don’t show emotion. Get over the bad times. You can’t bring your issues to the golf course with you.”

Yeah, that’s a great idea — let’s let shit build up so we feel the stress in our bodies daily and the only way to let it out is to have some sort of a breakdown.

I assume at this point you’re looking for what worked for me. What was the magic prescription? What was the intense therapy I did?

TALK.

Steve Weathercroft

Talk to a friend, talk to a therapist, talk to another golfer, talk to your caddy, just fucking talk. I still go to AA meetings a few times a week. Not because I am even close to drinking, it’s because of the therapy that comes with it. And I feel better walking out EVERY SINGLE TIME.

It’s a wild feeling the first time someone tells part of their story and your antenna goes off. “Wait, that’s what I’m going through. That’s how I feel. That same thing happened to me.” You’re not alone, and the only way you’ll know that is to talk.

I’m not a licensed therapist, and am not pretending to be one. But I walked in your shoes, I know what Tour life can do to you and just want to be a resource.

When I hit rock bottom, I scrolled through the PGA’s mental health resources and tried to figure out whom to call. I shut my laptop, picked up my phone and sent two players from the Tour a DM on Instagram because they’ve been open with their struggles. They’d get what I’m going through. They’d understand. I needed help.

It’s not that the resources were bad. On the contrary, they’re really good, but I wasn’t comfortable calling someone who hadn’t walked in my shoes. They wouldn’t get it.

You can keep your labels. I was never diagnosed with depression. I’m sure I had it, but I didn’t need the label to know how I felt. Life is tough, and you’ll always have some sort of stress. I just want you to have resources to work through them other than “suck it up”. Don’t bury them hoping they’ll go away. I can attest, they don’t.

Everyone knows certain demons. It’s the demons you don’t know of yet that you always need to be ready for.

My putting sucks, I practice. My swing is off, call the swing coach. Gaining weight, call the trainer. Need dinner, call my nutritionist. Shoulders are sore, let’s head to the fitness trailers. So why is working on your brain considered a sign of weakness?

I encourage you to reach out if my story resonates with you in any way. Any contact is confidential. I get it. Please call, text or message me whenever.

OK, so maybe I went past my 5 minutes. At least I’m talking …

Wheatie

Editor’s note: Wheatcroft’s original post can be found here, and his Twitter account can be found here.