Calico Joe

  Sara and the girls are waiting with a late dinner when I finally get home. The girls have no idea where I have been or what I’ve been doing, so we talk about the weekend we are about to spend camping in the mountains. Sara, though, is curious. After we’re finished and the girls are gone, I replay the trip as we clear the table.

  “What’s next?” she asks.

  “I have no idea. I might wait a couple of weeks and call Warren, ask about his chemo, maybe bring up Joe again.”

  “What’s your favorite saying, dear? Didn’t get halfway—”

  “Didn’t get halfway to first base. Yep, that pretty well sums up my little visit with Warren. He’s still the tough guy, and he could take it to his grave. Probably will.”

  “Are you glad you went?”

  “Yes, very much so. I got a glimpse of Joe Castle, and he’s doing as well as possible, I guess. I got to see Warren, which doesn’t mean much now but it could seem important one day. And, most important, I had a glass of Ozark peach brandy.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Moonshine.”

  “They serve it with dinner?”

  “No, it’s strictly an after-dinner drink, at least in the Rook household. Clarence called it a ‘digestif.’ ”

  “What does it taste like?”

  “Liquid fire.”

  “Sounds delicious. Any other excitement?”

  “Not really.”

  “Are you going to call Jill?”

  “Not tonight, maybe later. I doubt if she wants to hear about Warren.”

  * * *

  A week later, I leave the office for lunch and drive to a city-owned, multi-field complex where most of my friends have coached their sons in the various youth leagues. But for a few groundskeepers, the place is empty. The season is over. I climb the bleachers of the “big field,” as it is known, a regulation-size diamond with a center field wall four hundred feet away. I sit in the shade below the press box and eat a chicken wrap.

  It is August 24, 2003. Thirty years ago tonight, I was sitting with my mother in Shea Stadium, watching my hero Joe Castle walk to the plate to face my father. I slowly recall those images and again hear the sound of Joe being struck. The horror, the chaos, the fear, the ambulance, then the fighting and the aftermath. His skull was cracked in three places. His cheekbone was broken. He was bleeding from his ears, and the doctors at first thought he was dead.

  That time and place seem so far away now. The beanball ended two careers, and I’m not sure what it did to me. It broke the hearts of millions of people, so I wasn’t the only one wounded. But I was the only one, aside from my parents, who knew Joe was about to get drilled in the head.

  I wonder if Joe is marking the anniversary. Is he doing what I am doing—sitting alone in a ballpark, remembering the tragedy, and longing for what could have been? Somewhere in his altered state, does he look back with bitterness at what happened? I certainly would. Thirty years later, and I still get choked up thinking about the needless injury and the ending of a beautiful career.

  I suspect this date means nothing to Warren Tracey. He is probably on the golf course. He dismissed the beanball decades ago. “It’s sports. Bad things happen.”

  After lunch is finished, I sit and try to think of some way to put the story of Joe Castle behind me. I finally admit that I’m not sure that will ever happen.

  * * *

  Two weeks pass. The girls return to school, and I get lost in my work. Our normal, happy life resumes, and I slowly forget about the idea of a reunion in Calico Rock. The phone rings one night, and Rebecca, our ten-year-old, answers it. She runs into the den and says, “Dad, it’s some man named Warren. Wants to talk to you.”

  Sara and I look at each other. Neither can remember the last time Warren called our home.

  “Who’s Warren?” Rebecca asks.

  “Your grandfather,” Sara says as I head to the kitchen.

  The call has no purpose, as far as I can tell. His voice is scratchy and weak, and he informs me that chemotherapy is not pleasant. He has no appetite, so he’s losing weight, along with his hair. Agnes drives him to the hospital twice a week for the infusions, which take two hours each in a depressing room with a dozen other cancer patients hooked up to their drips.

  He stuns me by asking, “How’s the family?” And when Sara walks through the kitchen and hears me talking about our children, she is shocked. He informs me that he called Jill a few hours earlier, but no one answered the phone.

  Warren Tracey is calling his children. He must be dying.

  20

  I check in with Clarence Rook once a week, but these conversations get shorter and shorter. There is not much news in Calico Rock, and I am not sure how he fills up a newspaper every Wednesday. I call Warren occasionally, not really out of a deep concern over his health, but more to remind him that I am still around and I want something. We never discuss Joe Castle.

  In the second week of October, I am in the middle of a meeting with my boss and colleagues when my cell phone vibrates. At my company, it is not a crime for a cell phone call to disrupt something important. I step into the hall and say hello to Agnes. Warren is in the hospital, internal bleeding, low blood pressure, fainting spells. The doctors just completed another scan, and the cancer has spread rapidly, tumors are everywhere—liver, kidneys, stomach, and, worst of all, the brain. He has lost forty pounds. She believes Warren is finally accepting the fact that cancer will kill him.

  What am I supposed to say? I don’t know this woman, and I hardly know her husband. I offer a few half-baked sympathies and promise to call tomorrow. I do, but go straight to voice mail. Three days later, I am driving home from work when Warren calls my cell. He says he is back home, feels much better, has changed doctors because the old ones were idiots, and has a fighting chance of beating his cancer. At the beginning of the brief conversation, he sounds alert, chipper, full of energy, but he cannot maintain the ruse. By the end, his voice is fading, and his diction is not as sharp. I go through my short list of things to say, and I am ready to finish the call when he says, “Say, Paul, I’ve been thinking about that trip to Arkansas.”

  “Oh really,” I say, avoiding any trace of excitement.

  “Yes. I like the idea. Not sure my doctors will approve of me traveling, but let’s give it a try.”

  “Sure, Warren. I’ll make some calls.”

  * * *

  The worst part will be the long drive, just me and Warren in the car, with so much history to cover and no desire to go there.

  Our flights take us to Little Rock, and I arrive two hours before him. I eat lunch, kill time, work on my laptop, and find a spot to observe the arriving passengers. It’s a small airport with lots of open spaces, natural light, and not too much traffic.

  According to our last phone call, his doctors said no to the trip, and this only heightened his determination. He finally admitted the cancer is now in control of things, and he has stopped chemo. “I doubt if I’ll make it to Christmas, Paul,” he said, as if the holidays meant something to him.

  Christmas. When I was eight, he was playing winter ball in Venezuela and was a no-show at Christmas. Jill and I opened gifts near the tree, and my mother could not stop crying. I wonder if Warren remembers all the things I remember.

  * * *

  He appears in a crowd with other passengers from Atlanta. He’s wearing a cap because he has no hair, and he walks with a slow but determined step. He has shriveled into a small man with a girlish waistline and sunken chest. He’s rolling a small carry-on behind him, and he’s looking around for me.

  I almost rented a hybrid for environmental reasons but realized we would be shoulder to shoulder for hours. Instead, we’re in a large SUV with as much room as possible between the two front seats. Not much is said until Little Rock is behind us.

  He has aged ten years in two months, and I understand why his doctors said no to the trip. He nods off repeatedly and for a long time says nothing, then really opens t
he door with “God, it’s nice being away from Agnes.”

  I laugh and think of all the wild directions this conversation could now go. “What number is she—five or six?” I ask.

  A pause as he calculates, then, “Agnes is number five. Karen was four. Florence was three. Daisy was two. Your mother was the first.”

  “Impressive that you can still remember the lineup.”

  “Oh, some things you never forget.”

  “Got a favorite?”

  He thought about this for a while. We were on a two-lane road with farmland on both sides. “I never loved anyone like I loved your mother, at first anyway. But we were too young to get married. For love, it’s your mother. For money, that would be Florence. For sex, Daisy gets the gold star.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  “She was a stripper, Daisy. What a body.”

  “You left us for a stripper?”

  “You wouldn’t blame me if you saw her onstage.”

  “How long did it last?”

  “Not long. I really can’t remember. And I did not leave you for a stripper. The marriage was over when I happened to meet Daisy.”

  “In a strip club?”

  “Of course. Where else does one meet a stripper?”

  “Don’t know. I have no experience in that area.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Were you ever faithful to Mom?”

  Without hesitation, he says, “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know,” he says in frustration. “Why do men do anything? Why do they gamble away fortunes, or kill themselves with booze, or marry crazy women? I don’t know. You drag me out here in the middle of Podunk, Arkansas, to ask why I chased women?”

  “No, I did not. I don’t really care now.”

  “How is your mother?”

  “She’s doing fine. I see her several times a year. She’s beautiful, as always.” I almost add that she’s far better looking than Agnes but let it pass.

  “Does she know I’m sick?”

  “Yes, I told her back in August, as soon as I heard about it.”

  “I doubt if she cares.”

  “Should she care, Warren?”

  He takes a deep breath, then begins to nod off. I silently urge him to fall asleep, to take a long, two-hour nap. His cancer is extremely painful, and when he is awake, he seems uncomfortable. He keeps painkillers in his shirt pocket.

  We’ve touched briefly on his marriages, one subject I had planned to avoid. After he takes a nap, I hit pay dirt with a simple question: “Did you ever play baseball in Arkansas?”

  “Oh yes, in the Texas League we played the Arkansas Travelers several times a year. A wonderful old stadium in downtown Little Rock. Nice crowds.”

  The door swings wide open, and Warren springs to life. Forgotten games, old teammates, strange happenings, locker room humor, curfew violations, life in the bus leagues—we stay on the subject of minor-league baseball for a lot of miles. But he tires easily, and his long narratives stop suddenly when he needs water or a few moments with his eyes closed. He nods off again, things are quiet, then he’s awake and remembering another story.

  During his long, difficult career, he was stationed in dozens of small towns, some of which he has not thought about in years. They come back to him now, in a flood of memories. I am surprised to learn that Warren is a fine raconteur with a flair for the punch line. The more stories he tells, the more he remembers.

  Why have I never heard these?

  We do not talk about Joe Castle and the reason for this trip. I have no idea what Warren will say, but I have a hunch he does.

  He coughs, grimaces, takes a pill, then nods off again. We are in the hills now, and it’s getting dark.

  On the edge of Mountain View, about an hour south of Calico Rock, I spot a nice, clean motel and pull in. I pay cash for two single rooms. Warren says he’s not hungry and needs to lie down. I get a burger from a fast-food place and take it back to my room.

  21

  Clarence is waiting inside the front door of the Calico Rock Record. The morning is bright, the air light and cool, a far different feel from my last visit in August. Main Street is coming to life. We arrive at 9:00 a.m., as scheduled. Warren slept for ten hours and says he feels good.

  “I’m very sorry about your illness, Mr. Tracey,” Clarence says sincerely, after they shake hands.

  “Thank you. And it’s Warren, okay?”

  “Sure. Would you like some coffee?”

  We would, and we gather in Clarence’s wonderfully cluttered office for the morning ritual of coffee. Clarence brings us up to speed on the latest conversations with the Castle clan. They have yet to agree to a meeting, but they haven’t ruled one out either. Clarence thinks things will go well if we simply show up. I knew before I left Santa Fe, and Warren knew before he left Florida, that such a meeting might not take place, but we agreed to try anyway. On the phone, Warren said he would feel better having tried to speak with Joe, if indeed Joe has no desire to meet.

  We ride with Clarence across town to the high school. Again, Joe is on his red Toro mower, slowly and meticulously riding back and forth across the outfield, cutting grass that is no longer growing. It is October and the grass is turning brown. Near the third base dugout, we climb the bleachers and take a seat. Two middle-aged men are sitting in the first base dugout. “Red and Charlie,” Clarence says as we settle into our places with nothing to do but watch Joe cut grass. There is no one else around. It’s almost 10:00 a.m., and the high school is busy in the distance.

  “And he does this every day?” Warren asks. He’s to my left, Clarence to my right.

  “Five days a week if the weather is nice,” Clarence says. “March through November.”

  “It’s a beautiful field,” Warren says.

  “They give an award each year for the best high school baseball field in the state. We’ve won it so many times I can’t keep up. I guess it helps when you have a full-time grounds-keeper.”

  After a few more surgical cuts, Joe lifts his blades and heads for the first base dugout. He kills the engine, gets off the mower, and says something to his brothers. One of them steps out of the dugout with two folding chairs that he carries to a spot just in front of home plate. “That’s Red,” Clarence says quietly.

  Red unfolds the chairs, arranges them so that they are facing the pitcher’s mound, and when their placement suits him, he takes a few steps in our direction, stops, and says, “Mr. Tracey.”

  “I think that’s you,” I say to Warren, who gets to his feet and slowly makes his way down the bleachers to the field. He is met by Red, who extends a hand and says, “I’m Red Castle. Nice to meet you.”

  They shake hands and Warren says, “Thanks for doing this.”

  Joe is shuffling toward the chairs, his cane poking the ground in front of him, his feet doing their sad little stutter steps. His left arm and hand hang by his side, and he works the cane with his right hand. When he is close enough, he stops and offers it. Warren takes it with both of his hands, grasps it, and says, “It’s good to see you, Joe.”

  When Joe speaks, it is in a high-pitched, halting staccato, as if he knows precisely what the next word will be but getting it out requires some effort. “Thanks … for … coming.” They sit in the chairs at home plate, and Red goes back to the first base dugout.

  With their shoulders almost touching, they sit for a moment and stare out beyond the mound, their thoughts known only to themselves.

  “You have a beautiful field here, Joe.”

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  From where we sit, we cannot hear them. Red and Charlie are seated on the bench in the dugout, likewise too far away to hear.

  “A long way from Shea Stadium,” Clarence says softly.

  “A thousand miles and a thousand years. Thanks for doing this.”

  “You did it, Paul, not me. I’m happy to be in the middle of it—a reporter’s dream. How many die-hard
baseball fans in this country would kill to have our seats right now?”

  I shake my head. “A couple of million in Chicago alone.”

  * * *

  Joe says, “Sorry … about … the … cancer.”

  “Thanks, Joe. Just a bad break, you know. Bad luck. Sometimes you get lucky; sometimes you don’t.”

  Joe nods. He is acquainted with bad luck. A minute passes as they sit and stare and ponder what to say next.

  “I think we’re supposed to talk about baseball, Joe. That’s the reason I’m here.”

  Joe is still nodding. “Okay.”

  “How often do you think about that night at Shea Stadium, Joe, the last time we saw each other?”

  “Not … much … Don’t … remember … much.”

  “Well, I’m envious, because I remember too well. It was a beanball, Joe, one I threw at your head as hard as I could possibly throw a baseball. I wanted to hit you, to knock you down, to put you in your place, and all that crap. It was intentional, Joe, and I’ve regretted it ever since. I’m sorry. I apologize. It was a nasty, mean-spirited, really stupid thing to do, and it ruined what was destined to be a great career. There—I said it. I’m sorry, Joe.”

  Joe nods and nods and finally says, “It’s … okay … it’s … okay.”

  Warren is on a roll and wants to unload everything. “I meant to hit you, Joe, but I had no idea all the bad stuff would happen. I know that sounds crazy. You throw a fastball at a guy’s head with the clear intention of hitting him, yet you say you didn’t really mean to hurt him. It’s foolish, I know. So I guess I was a fool as well as an idiot.”

  “It’s … okay … it’s … okay.”

  “When I let it go, I knew it was on-target. I knew it would land somewhere above the neck. But it was too perfect, and for a split second you didn’t move. When it hit, I could hear bones break. A lot of people heard bones break that night. It was pretty scary. I knew you were hurt. When they put you on the stretcher, I thought you were dead. God, I’m sorry, Joe.”

  “It’s … okay … Warren.”

  There was a long gap in the conversation as both men continued to gaze into the distance. Warren says, “Do you remember your first at bat that night, the home run?”

  “I … remember … every … home … run.”

  Warren smiles. Typical hitter. “At one point, you fouled off eight straight pitches. I had never seen a bat that quick. I threw fastballs, sliders, curves, changeups, even a cutter, and you just waited and waited until the last possible split second, then flicked the bat and fouled them off. The home run you hit was four inches off the plate. I fooled you all right, but you recovered and hit it almost four hundred feet. That’s when I decided to hit you. I was thinking, well, if I can’t get him out, I’ll just knock him down. Intimidate him. He’s just a rookie.”

  “Just … part … of … the … game.”