Bill Morris - Motor City Burning

That Saturday broke crisp and sunny, football weather, and the big barn at Michigan and Trumbull was packed for the city’s first World Series game in twenty-three years. When Willie showed up an hour before the first pitch, Louis and Clyde were sitting in the sunshine in the upper deck, passing a silver flask back and forth over the empty seat between them. They both stood up when he came down the row. “Have a taste a this anti-freeze,” Clyde said, handing Willie the flask. He took a nip. It was expensive scotch, nice and smooth.

“Got Earl Wilson warmin up,” Louis said. “Just like Openin Day!”

Wilson didn’t fare any better than he had on Opening Day, failing to make it through the fifth inning. The Cardinals proved to be rude guests, stealing bases at will, blasting home runs and winning with ease, 7–3. The loss did nothing to dampen Louis and Clyde’s merriment.

“We done witnessed history,” Clyde said, watching the disappointed fans shuffle down the aisles.

“What we done witnessed is a historical ass -whippin,” Louis said. The three friends whooped and slapped hands and went off to meet Octavia at the Seven Seas.

She was in a funk about the Tigers’ loss but she lit up when Willie told her about the call from Dreyfus Trotter, the possible book deal. She smothered him with a hug and a kiss. When their lip-lock finally ended, she whispered in his ear, “Oh Willie, I’m so proud of — I’m so happy for you. . ”

They watched the next game together on the portable TV at the foot of her bed. They were so busy with each other that they missed most of the game. They didn’t miss much. It rained frogs on and off all day, big plump juicy frogs, and Jose Feliciano, the blind folk singer, stood by home plate with his seeing-eye dog Trudy and gave a disjointed rendering of the National Anthem that infuriated the national television audience and embarrassed the citizens of Detroit. To make matters worse, after several rain delays Bob Gibson and the Cardinals splashed out a 10-1 victory and a three-to-one lead in games in the best-of-seven Series. Everyone said it was over. They said the same thing about Jose Feliciano’s singing career.

At the packed and raucous Chit Chat the next day, Erkie again sat between Willie and Octavia. Overnight she had become a rabid and highly superstitious fan. She wore a new Tigers cap, and she pulled the brim down low so she could concentrate on the TV screen. She was in a tunnel. She didn’t say a word or seem aware of the pandemonium around her. But Erkie was his usual self, spraying colorful abuse at the Tigers, chasing shots with beers, smoking like the stacks at the Rouge. This time it worked. Mickey Lolich came through again, and the Tigers stayed alive with a gritty 5–3 victory. Octavia was convinced her new Tigers’ cap was the reason the team’s luck had so mysteriously changed, and she vowed to wear the cap and sit on the same barstool for the rest of the Series.

Two days later, her voodoo worked again. Denny McLain got a chance to redeem himself back in St. Louis, and this one was no contest. The Tigers breezed, 13-1, setting up a decisive seventh game.

Willie spent that night at Octavia’s and woke up in the middle of the night to find her pacing in the living room, chain-smoking, gnawing her fingernails. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt and her Tigers’ cap. He wasn’t sure if she was pacing because of their looming separation or because of the enormity of the next day’s game. He believed it was the Tigers keeping her up. He hoped it was.

Mickey Lolich, pitching on just two days’ rest, faced Bob Gibson in the deciding seventh game. This time Willie would root without a qualm for the white man to beat the black man. Remembering that raucous seventh game of the ’64 Series, Willie was amazed how completely his loyalty had shifted in four short years. Back then Bob Gibson’s race had meant everything; now it meant nothing. Was this a sign, after all he’d been through, that some small thing had actually changed for the better?

Again Octavia was speechless through the first six innings, which were scoreless. Even Erkie was silenced by the pitchers’ superb performances and the mounting tension. With every pitch, the screws got tighter. Willie didn’t know it was possible for the Chit Chat to be so quiet.

Then it happened. With two outs in the seventh, Norm Cash and Willie Horton singled. Jim Northrup sent Gibson’s next pitch to deep center field. Curt Flood took one step in, seeming to misjudge the ball in the bright sunshine, then he turned and sprinted for the wall. He couldn’t catch up with the ball. Two runs scored and the Tigers were on their way to an improbable 4–1 victory that completed their impossible comeback.

The Detroit Tigers were World Champions.

Octavia turned her Tigers cap around backward and gave Willie a ten-minute kiss in the jostling bedlam of the Chit Chat. Then she started dancing with Erkie. Outside, Willie could hear horns honking, firecrackers popping. It was a vast improvement over last summer’s soundtrack of sirens and gunfire. The whole city was lifting off.

Izzy Gould declared that drinks were on the house for the rest of the night, but Willie needed to hit the road for New York. When the post-game interviews ended, Willie and Octavia left the Chit Chat and headed for Tuxedo Street in his Deuce and a Quarter. Everything he owned was in the car’s trunk.

People were pouring out of barrooms and houses and apartment buildings, yelling, drinking, dancing in the streets. The blare of car horns was like the cry of a delirious animal. The Deuce and a Quarter passed through the spray of fire hydrants and several showers of confetti. Octavia held her hands above the windshield, let the breeze dance through her fingers the way she’d done on the day they drove back from Algonac. Watching her, Willie glimpsed the enormity of what he was about to walk away from.

When the Temptations’ new hit, “Cloud Nine,” came on, Willie turned up the volume. Finally Motown had gone beyond boy-meets-girl, had released a record that dealt with something from the real world, the urge to get high and check out of those dark times: “CLOUD NINE. . you can be what you wanna be. . CLOUD NINE. . you ain’t got no responsibility. . CLOUD NINE. . and every, every, every man is free. . you’re a million miles from reality. . reality. . reality. .”

“You like that song?” Octavia asked when it was over.

“Love it. Bout time somebody at Motown woke up.”

“Said that right.”

He pulled up in front of her building and cut the engine. Music was blasting from every window — rock ’n’ roll, soul, blues, R&B, Motown, country — a strangely melodious din. He realized he’d parked in this very spot the first time he and Octavia kissed. He leaned over and took off her Tigers’ cap and kissed her.

“You wanna come in?” she said. “One last time, old times sake, all that good stuff?” He could see she was trying to smile at least as hard as she was trying not to cry.

“I better get going, baby. Got a long drive ahead of me. Gonna try to make Niagara Falls tonight. Gotta be in New York by four tomorrow afternoon.”

She made no move to get out of the car. “I was just rememberin that night you got back from the po-lice station. You remember? The way you ate me up?”

“Course I remember. You liked it?”

“No, I loved it. I remember thinkin I finally met a brother knows how to love a woman right. Guess I was wrong. Again.”

“Octavia. . ”

“I’m sorry, Willie. We both know you doin the right thing. This been fun and all, but you and me got too many differences. You need your wings and I need my nest. I promised myself, that night at my crib when you broke the news, I promised I wasn’t even gonna try to convince you to stay in D-troit.”