Motor City Burning by Bill Morris

Besides, Willie had no interest in kibitzing on gin rummy games or watching golf on television. The only black people on the TV screen were the ones carrying the golf bags and raking the sand traps.
    All afternoon Willie kept one eye on the door where the men came in off the golf course. Finally, a little after four o’clock, Chick Murphy walked in with a transistor radio pressed to his right ear. He sat down and kicked off his golf spikes and ordered a Michelob from Hudson. He was looking at the television set but Willie could tell he was paying closer attention to what was on the radio. When he saw Willie, he waved him over.
    â€œYes, Mr. Murphy?”
    â€œJust picked up the Tigers’ game. Bottom of the twelfth, tied 5-5. McAuliffe’s on third and Gates is coming in to pinch hit.” The other men at the table, pink with sunburn and dressed in sherbet-colored clothes, ignored him.
    â€œGates Brown?” Willie whispered, moving closer.
    â€œYup. Ball one.”
    â€œHow many outs?”
    Chick Murphy held up two of the three fingers on his left hand. Willie could hear the fuzzy roar of the Tiger Stadium crowd, and he wondered if Louis and Clyde were in the bleachers. One of the men said to Chick Murphy, “Turn that shit down, would you please? Goalby’s getting ready to putt on eighteen.”
    â€œHe can’t hear this, numbnuts,” Chick Murphy said. “Ball two.”
    No sound came out of the television set, and the room was as quiet as a tomb. Willie tried to imagine a game where all the spectators had to be utterly silent and still. He thought of those gyms in Alabama where he’d played basketball, raucous cauldrons of sweat and noise, cheering and chanting, the fans dancing to saxophones, bongo drums, tambourines, syncopated clapping. On the TV screen now a lantern-jawed guy leaned over a putt for a long time, then drilled it into the hole. There were sighs of relief, palms slapping tables, a few soft whistles.
    â€œSwing and a miss,” Chick Murphy said. “Two balls and a strike.” Willie was the only person listening to him. “Here’s the pitch . . . he hit it up the middle . . . it’s going . . . it’s a single! McAuliffe scores from third! Ballgame!”
    Chick Murphy sprang from his chair and wrapped an arm around Willie’s shoulder, gave him a crusher squeeze. One of the men cocked an eyebrow and said, “You don’t knock it off, Murphy, I’m gonna tell the wife.”
    Willie went back to work. Later a cry went up from the crowd when the announcer reported that the Masters had not ended in a tie, as everyone believed. A guy named Roberto De Vicenzo had signed his scorecard with a 66 instead of the 65 he shot, and the rules required him to accept the higher score. It cost him a tie. There were hoots of disbelief throughout the room, and Willie watched as Bob Goalby slipped into a green sport coat, grinning like a hyena. Win a major golf tournament and you get an ugly jacket.
    â€œSay, Billy . . .” Chick Murphy, in plaid pants and stocking feet, was on his way to the locker room. There were bright-green grass shavings stuck to his lemon-yellow socks.
    â€œIt’s Willie , sir. Willie Bledsoe.”
    â€œRight. Sorry. Your Uncle Bob tells me you might be in the market for a new car. Here.” He handed Willie a business card. “Give me a call—or just drop by the lot. I’m always there.”
    â€œThanks, Mr. Murphy.”
    As the men filed into the locker room, Willie studied Chick Murphy’s business card. Stay on the right track to 9 Mile and Mack!—for the best Buick buys in Michigan! He knew, he just knew he was holding his one-way ticket out of purgatory.

    After the dinner shift that night Bob Brewer gave Willie a ride home in his Deuce and a Quarter. The deeper they went into the city the more Willie noticed people pausing on the sidewalks to watch the big bronze boat float past.