Billy Phelan's Greatest Game

“I see, and I’ve got nothing against you, Morris. You’re just a punk, you’ve always been a punk, and the fact is I never liked you and like you a hell of a lot less than that right now. Good night, Morris.”

Scotty lived with his bowling ball as if it were a third testicle,

He came to consider himself a mystical naturalist, insisting to himself and to others that he did not seriously believe in ghosts, miracles, resurrection, heaven, or hell. He seasoned any account of his beliefs and his bizarre intuition with a remark he credited to his mother: There’s no Santa Claus and there’s no devil. Your father’s both.

At age fifty he viewed himself, after publication of two books of nonfiction, one on the war, the other a personal account of the Irish troubles, plus the short story collection and innumerable articles for national magazines, as a conundrum, a man unable to define his commitment or understand the secret of his own navel, a literary gnome. He serio