Detroit, 1946. The city is wild, the car plants are running around the clock, and Bill M. is a fourteen-year-old scofflaw with a rap sheet and a taste for the whiskey bottle in his father's closet. For decades, he exists in a cycle of wrecking cars, losing jobs, and "leading the league in doubles." He describes a life of neurotic desperation, from selling bootleg half-pints in Army basic training to the terror of incipient convulsions in a Hayward apartment.
The turning point arrives not through a soft touch, but via David, a professional fighter and alcoholic who threatens to break Bill's arm if he doesn't attend a meeting. Bill recounts the grit of early sobriety—shaking like a tambourine in a meeting while watching a woman describe hiding booze under groceries. He credits his survival to the discipline of sublimating his judgment to a sponsor, replacing the obsession of the bottle with the rigid footwork of a Higher Power.
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