“I’m crazy. I know I’m crazy,” Bob Zokoe says, pointing toward the proof of his insanity.

It’s a breezy afternoon in Brooksville, Fla., an hour north of Tampa, and Zokoe is standing on a gravel road that he has christened Cart Path Lane, though there isn’t a golf course anywhere in sight.

Behind him is a warehouse, several airplane hangars-worth of concrete-enclosed storage, every cranny of it crammed with the byproducts of one man’s (take your pick) hobby, would-be business, decades-long obsession.

Spry at 75, with a sun-ruddied face and a shock of white hair, Zokoe (rhymes with loco ) rolls open a metal security gate and steps through a doorway. Inside, the air is cool and dry and still, climate-controlled to preserve the building’s contents: a dizzying assortment of golf-themed mis

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