IT’S 9:04 P.M. on a black, black December night in a northeast suburb of Indianapolis. The conditions? Six degrees and windy on the naked expanse of a snow-blown parking lot. Me? Schlepping my golf bag through this arctic mess with a thermos of coffee and a pillow under my other arm. ? Ahead, the doors of Golf Galaxy, the 32,000-square-foot superstore, shed a tent of light. The manager, Ryan Foxen, a burly lunk of a guy, was on the lookout for me. I could see him standing silhouetted against the halogen cast. I crunched toward him, wearing a huge pair of untied farm boots that helped me negotiate the ice. The warm light of the store, t0-square-foot superstore, shed a tent of light. The manager, Ryan Foxen, a burly lunk of…