“Maybe. A lot of players have been hit in the head, but few got hurt. Ray Chapman was killed by a pitch in 1920. Mickey Cochrane never played again after taking one in the head. Tony Conigliaro was a certain Hall of Famer, then he got beaned in the eye. I hit him once, did you know that?”
“Tony C.?”
“Yep. In 1965, I was pitching for Cleveland. Tony crowded the plate, and he was fearless. I drilled him in the shoulder and never felt bad about it. Sometimes you gotta hit a guy, Joe, you know that. But you don’t try to hurt someone; it’s never part of the game to throw at a guy’s head. He’s got a family, a career. That was my mistake.”
“You … hit … a … lot … of … people.”
Warren takes a deep breath and readjusts his weight. He took a pain pill an hour earlier, and it’s wearing off. “True, and I have a lot of regrets, Joe. When I die, they won’t say anything about what a lousy husband and father I was. They won’t say much about my mediocre baseball career. No. What they’ll write about is that one pitch. I threw a million, but they’ll talk about the beanball that nailed Joe Castle. The one I’ll always regret.”
“Me … too.”
Both men find this funny and begin laughing softly.
“You have every right to hate me, Joe. I cost you so much. In the blink of an eye, your career was gone, and there was no one to blame but me. It would be nice, as I’m getting close to the end, to know that you don’t hate me. Is this asking too much?”
“I … hate … no … one.”
“Even me? Come on, Joe, surely you’ve had some really evil thoughts about me over the years.”
“I … did … but … not … now … You … said … it … was … an … accident … and … I … wanted … to … believe … you.”
“But I was lying, Joe. It wasn’t an accident. I lied about it for thirty years. Now I’m telling you the truth. Does this make you hate me?”
“No … You … apologized … I … accept.”
Warren puts his right hand on Joe’s left shoulder and says, “Thank you, Joe. You’re a much bigger man than me.”
“I’m … still … batting … a … thousand … off … you.”
Warren laughs loudly, and Joe follows.
* * *
We watch and are amused at their ability to laugh. I’ve known my entire life that Warren Tracey has no sense of humor, so it’s obvious Joe has said something funny.
“I think they’re getting along,” Clarence observes.
“I suppose they have to. If a fight breaks out, Warren has no one in his corner.”
“They’re in no mood for a fight. Charlie told me yesterday they admired your father for wanting to see Joe.”
“What was their hesitation?”
“Two reasons. They were afraid it might upset Joe and bring back a lot of bad memories. And they’re afraid this little meeting might somehow get leaked and end up in a story somewhere. I assured them that would not happen. Right?”
“Of course.”
“So how did you blackmail your father into coming?”
“The blackmail didn’t work. He’s here because he wants to be here. He’s a tough guy, and it’s taken the reality of death to soften him up. He’s looking back at a sloppy life with a lot of regrets.”
“What an awful way to die.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is.”
* * *
Joe looks at the first base dugout and says, “Charlie … Red.” His brothers get to their feet and leave the dugout.
Warren stands, looks at us, and waves us down.
We meet in front of home plate, and I shake hands with Joe Castle. He wears a cap, and thick, dark sunglasses to cover his bad eye. His hair is half gray, and he looks nothing like the smiling kid on the magazine covers of thirty years ago. In all fairness, though, who does look the same after thirty years?
Charlie and Red are nice enough but would rather observe than participate.
At my request, Clarence has a camera, and I explain to the Castles that I would like some photos to record the meeting. “Will they be published?” Red asks.
“Only with your approval,” I say. He and Charlie are suspicious, but they agree.
To my surprise, Clarence has brought something else. From a small plastic bag kept somewhere inside his coat, he pulls out two baseball caps—Cubs and Mets. He hands them to Joe and Warren and says, “I thought it would be a nice touch to photograph you guys in these.”
Joe looks at his with a frown, and Warren does the same. They are hesitant, as if the caps bring back too many memories. “Just a thought,” Clarence says, retreating, as if he might have screwed up the entire meeting. Then Joe creases the bill of his cap, removes the one advertising a feed store, and puts on his Cubs cap. Like all ballplayers, he adjusts here and there until it feels right. When Warren removes his golf cap, his head is as slick as an onion, not a single hair, and for a split second we recoil at the horrors of chemotherapy. It is a reminder that he doesn’t have long.
With the caps in place, we take a step back and Clarence snaps away. The two players are standing, smiling, with Joe leaning on his cane. Clarence has a better idea. He suggests we move to right center and use the scoreboard of Joe Castle Field as a backdrop. This we do, and after a few dozen shots of Joe and Warren, I wedge myself into the frame and stand between my father and my old hero, all smiling.
The eight-by-ten will be the final entry in my Joe Castle scrapbook.
Suddenly there is nothing left to do. The two have met, said what needed to be said, and posed for photos. We say our good-byes and leave the field.
* * *
Driving back to Main Street, Clarence says that Fay would like to have an early lunch on the porch, if that’s okay. I glance at Warren in the rear seat, and he is shaking his head no. I do not want to offend Fay, or Clarence, so I say, “That’s nice, but we need to hit the road. Warren has a 4:00 p.m. flight.” I don’t feel bad about this, because I’ve seen enough of Calico Rock. And, being so hospitable, the Rooks would love nothing more than to spend the entire afternoon on the porch swapping stories and taking more photos. Then the lemon gins.
“No problem,” Clarence says. He parks and we meet at his rear bumper. I thank him again, and he offers his best wishes to Warren. I promise to call with updates.
Not far out of Calico Rock, Warren, who has gone silent, asks me to pull over. He gets into the backseat and falls asleep. The trip and the meeting with Joe have exhausted him, and he’s finally hit the wall.
He is still wearing his Mets cap.
22
According to the radar map, the weather from Santa Fe all the way east through Little Rock and down to Florida is perfectly clear. Yet both of our flights are delayed. Warren is fading fast, and I want him on a plane back to Agnes before there is an emergency I don’t care to deal with. The delays have crowded the Little Rock airport, and we pass a few hours doing the mundane things passengers do while waiting.
Throughout the afternoon, when he was awake and felt like talking, our conversations were light. He never mentioned Joe. Though I have not been around him enough to gauge his moods or thoughts, it is obvious that his wheels are turning. I am sure the subject of death is paramount, as it would be for anyone in his condition. I am sure he has regrets, but neither of us wants to go there. Warren cannot begin to repair our troubled history with a few eleventh-hour apologies, and we both understand this. I am not sure he wants to try, but I am certain I do not want to hear it.
His appetite comes and goes, and when he says, “I’m hungry,” we find a small table in a crowded airport lounge. When the waitress asks if we want something to drink, Warren smiles and says, “Yes, I want a tall mug of draft beer.” I order the same, and when she’s gone, he says, “I’ve been sober for ten years. With two months to go, why not?”
“Why not?”
“Sobriety is overrated, Paul,” he says with a grin. “I was much happier when I was drinking.”
I
cannot smile along with this because I remember him hitting my mother when he was drunk. “I wouldn’t know,” I say.
The bar has three large televisions, all tuned in to the World Series, Yankees versus Marlins. The beer arrives, we tap glasses, say cheers, and take sips. He savors his as if he were dying of thirst. He smacks his lips and says, “Oh, how I’ve missed this.”
We order sandwiches and watch the game. It doesn’t take long for him to disapprove. “Look at these guys,” he snarls. “Look at how fat they are, especially the pitchers.” A minute later, “Look at that guy, in the World Series, making millions a year, and he can’t run out a pop fly.”
Once again, I am struck by the absurdity of what I’m doing. Having a beer and watching a baseball game with my father—for the first time in my life! And only because he is now dying.
The food arrives, and we turn our attention away from the game. He has made a few derogatory comments about “these modern ballplayers,” and I gather that Warren is not much of a fan.
“So, are you planning another story, one about this little trip of ours?” he asks as he bites into a turkey club.
“No, I have no plans.”
“I think you should. I think you should take the first story, add the second chapter, and get it printed. And do it now, before I die. I don’t care. You want the world to know the truth, so do I. Publish it.”
“That was not the deal, Warren.”
“Who cares about the deal? I kinda like the idea of people knowing I went to see Joe Castle and after all these years I said I was sorry. I haven’t done that too many times in my life.”
“I’m sure you haven’t.”
“Publish it. I don’t care.”
“I couldn’t do it without the approval of the Castles. You saw how protective they are.”
“Then get their approval. Write it, show it to them, and I’ll bet you can convince them.”
“We’ll talk about it.” The idea is intriguing. We order another round and finish eating. A guy walks by and says, “The Mets suck,” and keeps walking. We realize it’s the cap and laugh.
One delay leads to another, and it’s almost 9:00 p.m. when Warren’s flight is called. His gate is near mine, and we walk slowly along the corridor. They are boarding when we arrive.
He takes a deep breath and looks me in the eyes. “Listen, thanks for doing this. It means a lot to me, and it meant a lot to Joe. A real burden has been lifted.”
“It’s known as the restorative powers of forgiveness.”
“Aren’t you the wiseass?”
“I suppose.”
“It’s true, Paul, you’re a lot wiser than me because you’ll live a life with few regrets. Me, I’ll die with a long list of things I’d like to do differently. This is not a pleasant way to go.”
“You can’t fix it now, Warren.”
He offers a hand, and we shake. “You’re right. But I have a lot of regrets, Paul.”
I have no response to this. I cannot offer a shallow and meaningless “Oh, it’s okay, Warren, all is forgiven.” We shake hands again, and it’s obvious he wants a quick embrace. I do not.
He turns and drifts away and never looks back.
23
Agnes calls every other day with the latest on his deteriorating condition. He’s stopped eating; his systems are shutting down; he’s in the hospital; he’s back home; he’s been turned over to hospice. Warren is behaving like the Warren of old—unable to place the calls himself, unwilling to talk. Sara asks me repeatedly if I want to go see him.
No. I have already seen him.
Jill and I chat occasionally. It’s the Tracey family at its finest—Warren talks to Agnes, who calls me, and I call my sister. Jill does not want to talk to him, to see him, or to show up at a memorial service after he is gone.
He lingers, and the calls from Agnes become monotonous. I look at the calendar. Thanksgiving is approaching, and I hope Warren does not upset our plans.
He does not. He dies on November 10, at the age of sixty-five, alone in a hospice facility. Agnes tells me that a memorial service is planned for Friday of the following week. Sara and I have a somewhat testy and prolonged disagreement about whether she should attend the service with me. I am adamant that she is not going; she feels some sort of weird obligation to pay her respects to a man she hardly knew, a man who skipped our wedding and offered not a single word of congratulations when our three girls were born. There is no family to sit with and mourn. There will be no post-burial get-together.
Sara has no business going. Besides, I don’t want to blow another $500 on a plane ticket. When the discussion is over, she grudgingly concedes.
* * *
A lot of people die in Florida, and many are retirees without deep roots in their communities. Because of this, the burial business is efficient and streamlined. The services tend to be small, quick, even impersonal.
Warren wanted to be cremated, and his wishes are carried out. His memorial is held in the windowless chapel of a mausoleum not far from his home. With perfect timing, I arrive, alone, fifteen minutes before the service and find Agnes sitting in the family’s private waiting room. Some family. It’s Agnes and her daughter, Lydia, a person I’ve never met, and me. You would think that a man who married five women would generate a bit more interest.
We sit and talk, and the clock absolutely stops. Agnes again asks me if I want to give a eulogy or say a few words. Again, I politely decline, and use the excuse that I might not be able to control my emotions and do not want to embarrass myself. Emotions aside, any warm and touching thoughts or stories I could add at this point would be outright fabrications.
Lydia, who eyes me suspiciously, finally gets down to business. “You know, Paul, we’ve already read his last will and testament.”
I throw up both hands and say, “I don’t care what’s in it. I want nothing. I will accept nothing. If my name is mentioned, I will refuse to take anything.”
“He left you and Jill $10,000 each,” Agnes says.
Dividing the spoils before the burial seems in bad taste, but I let it pass. “I can’t speak for Jill,” I say, “but I don’t want it. He never gave me a dime when I was in high school or college or when I needed a little extra, and I’m not taking his money now.”
“I guess that’s between you and the lawyers,” Lydia says, and I get the impression she has had some experience with lawyers.
“I guess so.”
“And he left $25,000 to a baseball field in Calico Rock, Arkansas,” Agnes says.
This actually makes me smile, and I say, “That’s nice.” Good for Warren.
I am not going to ask about the size of the estate—the timing is bad, and I don’t really care, and I’ll find out later during probate.
We move next door to the chapel. There are about twenty seniors standing around the front pew, whispering, waiting, all in fine spirits it seems. The attire is Florida geezer casual—a lot of sandals and not a single jacket or tie. I avoid introducing myself to these people. I will never see them again, and I’m not about to swap a story or two about how great my old man was. I assume they are neighbors, golfing buddies, or Agnes’s friends. I also assume that none of the men played professional baseball and shared a locker room with Warren Tracey. I know for a fact that there are no members of the 1973 Mets.
The chapel has dark stone walls and feels like a dungeon. An appropriate, mournful hymn is being piped in. A man in a suit asks us to please be seated. Thankfully, there is no reserved pew for the family. I ease away, toward the rear. Agnes has yet to shed a tear, and I suspect she will not be the only one to make it through with dry eyes. The friends and family sit and wait and absorb the mood music.
I don’t know why I am here. Warren is gone, and if he could watch, he would not give a damn if I showed up or not. The notion of properly paying one’s respects is ludicrous. The dead person could not care less. He is lying up there in a casket or, in Warren’s case, a small blue urn next to t
he podium.
What did Yogi Berra say? “Always go to other people’s funerals, otherwise they won’t go to yours.”
A guy in a black robe appears, probably of the generic dial-a-priest variety because Warren Tracey never went near a church. Maybe Agnes belongs to one. The priest chats with her, soothes her, then steps up to the small podium, spreads his arms like Charlton Heston at the Red Sea, and says, “Welcome.”
The rear door opens quietly and catches my attention. Three men enter the chapel—Red Castle, then Joe with his cane and jerky gait, then Charlie. They ease into the rear pew without making a sound. All three are wearing navy blazers and white shirts, by far the best dressed of anyone here.
I am shocked, and then I am not. What a brilliant, classy thing to do.
Instinctively, I get up and walk back to where they are sitting. I ease into the pew in front of them and whisper to Red, “Thanks for coming.” All three nod. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
Charlie points to Joe and says, “Joe wanted to take a road trip.”
“Welcome,” the priest says louder, in our direction. I look at him, and he seems ready to rap our knuckles for talking during his sermon. I stay where I am, with the Castle boys, and we endure a meaningless ritual that is painfully stretched into thirty minutes. The highlight is a eulogy by Marv somebody from, of course, the golf club. Marv tells a real knee-slapper about playing golf with Warren one day. Warren was driving the golf cart. His ball was in the water. He got too close to the edge of the pond, flipped the cart, Marv almost drowned, and Warren avoided getting splashed with a single drop of water.
We laugh because we are expected to. Marv’s not much of a speaker, and I get the impression he drew the short straw. I can just see these old goats sitting around the men’s grill, playing gin rummy, arguing about who will speak at whose funeral. “Okay, Marv, you do Warren, and I’ll do yours, and Fred’ll do mine.”
The priest does a credible job of filling in the gaps. He reads some scripture, relying heavily on the book of Psalms. He hits the high points of God’s love, goodness, forgiveness, salvation, and it becomes obvious that whatever Agnes is, she is not Catholic, Jewish, or Muslim. He never mentions the fact that Warren played professional baseball. Winding down, he informs us that Warren will be interred down the hall, on Wall D of the Third Pavilion, but that this will be done privately, family only.
I decide to skip this. I have no desire to see the hole in the wall where Warren’s ashes will spend eternity. Agnes can handle it. She’s the only one who might stop by once a month for the next three months, touch his name in stone, and try to conjure up some emotion. I know I’ll never be back.
Besides, I want to talk to Joe.
24
The Meditation Room is empty, and we claim it for the next few minutes. It’s even more of a dungeon than the chapel and gives the appearance of never being used. We move four chairs into a circle and have a seat.
“I’m very touched that you guys would drive this far,” I begin.
Red says, “Joe hasn’t been to Florida since spring training of 1973. He wanted to get out of town, and so here we are.” I remind myself that all three played minor-league ball, and like most prospects they arrived in camp each spring just like the veterans. Moving up and down the ranks of the minors and riding the buses, they have seen more of the country than I have.
“Thank you for coming,” I say.
Charlie says, “And thank you for bringing your dad to Calico Rock. It meant more to Joe than you’ll ever know.” Joe is smiling, nodding, content to allow his brothers to do most of the talking.
Red adds, “It really meant a lot.”