By by Gene Wojciechowski

Tuesday, July 9, 2002

Our worst fears come true when we finally find him: John Daly at home in a makeshift trailer park, empty pizza boxes peeking out from an open plastic garbage bag outside his front door. The chain-smoking, ex-PGA and British Open champion is sitting alone in his socks as a sad honky-tonk song swells to the chorus: I'm drunk, damn broke, ain't got a penny to my name. Most days I sit here talkin' to myself, but I don't remember my name. Coulda been the whiskey, or the gamblin', that put me here t ...

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