No bigger than a Big Gulp and surprisingly devoid of excessive ornamentation, the famed Ryder Cup stood quietly on a modest pedestal in a room full of writers, reporters and other assorted media types buzzing off free beer offered by the country of Wales. Admiring my warped reflection in the tiny gold cup, it occurred to me that I was experiencing a sensation that, after a couple of days of hucksters, hawkers and excess, had become a novelty.

I was underwhelmed.

I had rolled into Orlando, Fla., two days earlier to immerse myself in the annual PGA Merchandise Show, the once-a-year celebration of golf gadgetry that proves that though golf was built on a foundation of tradition, sportsmanship and individual achievement, it's also about stuff.

Enclosed in Orlando's Orange County Convention Center, the show featured 10 square miles of aisles and more than 1,200 companies desperately trying to be seen and heard over the event's chaotic din.

My experience opened not with a wander through the cavernous hall, but with a crowded bus ride.

The day before the show opened, some of the vendors -- club manufacturers in particular -- congregated for a demonstration day at the Orange County National golf course. There, they offered would-be buyers the opportunity to swing clubs, hit balls and, perhaps most important, establish a sense of pace and scale for days to come.

I'm not sure whether the PGA Show ever had humble beginnings, where contacts were made and attention garnered with a hearty handshake, but if it did, it probably looked a lot like Demo Day.

My plan the next morning was to take on the show proper, to attack the crowded floor. Silly boy. I'm pretty sure that standing on one end of the hall, it's impossible to see the other. It isn't because it's crowded. It's because the curvature of the Earth gets in the way.

I spent the first day browsing products at one end of the building. The show was separated into ad hoc neighborhoods, with hard goods taking up one end and clothing the other. The bigger manufacturers seemed to take up residence near the wide central aisle, while the smaller, more modest booths were relegated to the side streets that radiate off it.

Among the standout displays at the hard product end were Augusta-based golf car manufacturer E-Z-GO, which included an indoor test track, and HotRod putters that attracted crowds with a classic Ford Shelby Mustang parked next to its putting green. The putter wasn't bad, but the car was awesome.

The next day, I hit the clothing end of the show. In the interest of full disclosure, it should be noted that I'm not much of a fashion guy and have no eye for trends, tailoring or the other assorted ideas and ideals associated with the high-end clothiers that so earnestly touted their wares (or wears, as the case may be).

What struck me was not the clothing, but the extent, and expense, companies seemed willing to go to stand out. More than even the hard goods group, the clothing folk spared no expense in developing and executing a trade-show presence that felt like a high-end boutique had been plucked from a resort town and plopped in the middle of a convention center.

Be it Polo Golf's polished brass and hardwood traditionalism or the modern minimalist approach taken by Izod, each booth seemed intent on making a statement.

Oddly enough, the one clothing line that did leave an impression wasn't one of the well-financed mega-booths, but a smaller, more modest spot at the frontiers of clothing territory. Loud Mouth Golf specializes in brash, unconventional golf wear.

Taking cues from the screaming plaids and stripes of the 1970s, the Sonoma, Calif.-based clothier produces a line so confident and colorful that I couldn't help but admire the audacity. Would I rock the Technicolor polka dots? Would I ever.

Although promoted as a three-day affair, the PGA show really loses steam by the end of the second. By lunch on the third day, the crowds have thinned dramatically, people stand idly in their booths and the assembled golf professionals, their business all but done, search for ways to occupy their time.

At one tropically themed clothing booth, I watched a gaggle of men demonstrate and discuss the pros and cons of their camera phones while conspicuously clicking the bikini-clad, and clearly bored, models hired to lure buyers to the figurative islands.

By midafternoon, I was ready to throw in the golf towel. Trudging across the expansive lobby toward sunlight and freedom, I happened to catch a snippet of a conversation that left me as astonished as anything I had seen or experienced. A young woman was commenting on both her fatigue and the size of the show when her companion looked at her, smiled and shrugged.

"Yeah," he said. "But the thing is, it used to be much bigger."