Field of Play by Michael Zagaris

Author:Michael Zagaris
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Abrams
Published: 2022-10-04T00:00:00+00:00

Michael Zagaris and Steve Cassady at the gates of Graceland in Memphis, Tennessee, June 1983

Carpe momentum. Mike said, “Hey, Pee-Wee, I’ll turn those in for you.”

We were set. We spun Pee-Wee’s Buick to the dome for team practices, from Southfield to the RenCen and back for nightly parties, to Greektown for random carousing, to cheap lunches at Coney Dog downtown, to the shady local sports hangout, the Lindell AC, where 49er broadcaster and former Lions linebacker Wayne Walker one night ushered us to the front of a long line to the bouncer, Clarence, a big, scary-looking dude in a dark blazer who gestured us through on Wayne’s say-so. Wayne whispered, “Careful around Clarence—he kills people in his spare time.” Wayne may have been kidding. Maybe not.

Fighting biting cold and blizzard snow, we took in Motor City. We saw rolling whitecaps and ice chunks on the frigid green water of the Detroit River. The diverse commerce along Michigan Avenue: Izzy’s Sells for Less. Cairo’s Bar. The New Warsaw Deli. Zorba’s, Louie’s—Loans. Guns. (Louie offered both on the same sign.) Far East China Café. We saw the Cobo Arena, where Bob Seger recorded Live Bullet and the Pistons played basketball. We drove past Briggs Stadium at Michigan and Trumbull and harbored images of Ty Cobb, Hank Greenberg, Al Kaline, Bobby Layne, Alex Karras, and Dick “Night Train” Lane. Past the statues of civil rights heroine Rosa Parks—“one person can change the world”—and General Tadeusz Kościuszko, Polish patriot and hero of the American Revolution.

The 49ers won on Sunday, 26–21, with an unforgettable goal line stand. We committed that night to revelry in Southfield. The team was flying out the next day. I dragged to the RenCen late and rose early to script a radio show. I would be heading for New York on Amtrak with Madden—he was booked for rehearsals at 30 Rock as guest host on Saturday Night Live. My last duty: return the Buick key to the ballroom check-in desk. Problem: no check-in desk. Not any kind of desk. Maids with vacuums were buzzing the carpet. Busboys cleared water pitchers and drinking glasses and piled table linens into rolling baskets. The front office circus from 410 Park had decamped. I dropped the keys on the nearest tabletop.

That car story had a life—make it death—of its own. Some dishonest hotel worker had apparently palmed the keys and backtracked to the parking lot. The way we heard it, the Buick was found in the spring thaw on the shoulder of the John C. Lodge Freeway, the M-10, badly damaged. Dwaine Board, for years after, said that the league insisted on billing him for the loss. His only defense: “Man, I gave that car to Z-Man.” Mike’s legend was deeply etched by then. League potentates read futility in seeking restitution from him.

So many stories.

Spring 1983. We called Wiebusch with a story he greenlighted: a motor trip across America to root out NFL heroes from our youth, mythic figures from the era of low-cut Riddells and single-bar face masks.

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