Justin George: Every day, a white Grand Marquis with a black vinyl hardtop and 140,000 miles on the odometer pulls up to a triangle of empty city land below the highway. A man gets out, opens the trunk and pulls out a white bag of golf clubs fit for a thrift store discount barrel. He drops a few balls to the ground and knocks them one at a time down this scraggly fairway. Thwack, thwack, thwack.
A frontage road is 200 yards away, so he leaves the driver in the bag. He doesn't want to lose balls to traffic.
Motorists drive by, honk and stare. Police wave. Generous gawkers give him used golf balls. Some yell out, "Hey Tiger Woods!" as they fly by.
The Golf Guy of I-275 just keeps his…
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