And, “They’ll get me out eventually.”
And, “The pennant? That’s already in the bag, man. We’re thinking about the World Series. I want to play the A’s.”
In spite of these comments, it was clear he liked bantering with the press and much of what he said was tongue-in-cheek. The Chicago baseball reporters, a notoriously tough bunch, were in awe and described him as “cocky but not the least bit arrogant” and “at times obviously overwhelmed by what he had done.” His teammates were stunned but also realistic. One said, “He’ll cool off, but let’s hope it takes a few weeks. Right now we’ve won four in a row, and that’s all that matters.” Whitey Lockman, when asked if Joe would remain in the lineup, retorted, “What, are you crazy?”
The postgame photos revealed a fresh-faced kid who looked all of twenty-one and was on top of the world. He was handsome, with deep-set blue eyes and curly, sandy hair, the kinds of looks that would soon attract women everywhere he went. He was single and had no significant female in his life, according to one story.
Everyone was falling in love with Joe Castle.
* * *
I had watched the Game of the Week with my mother in our den and afterward met Tom Sabbatini and Jamie Brooks at a sandlot where we tossed the ball around and talked nonstop about Joe. We took turns reenacting each of his at bats. On that glorious summer afternoon, there was no doubt that each of us would one day do something as dramatic as Joe Castle. We would play professional baseball, no question about that, the only unknown was for which team. Not surprisingly, the three of us decided that we would play for the Cubs, together, and for a long time.
I was having dinner with my mother and Jill when the phone rang. It was my coach, and he began by explaining that the All-Star voting had taken place that morning. I had been selected for the twelve-player roster, the only eleven-year-old to make the team. I was dreaming of this, of course, but I figured it was a long shot. I was stunned and elated, and after squealing this news to Mom and Jill, I wanted desperately to tell my father. But he was in Atlanta with the Mets, at the ballpark for a 7:00 p.m. game, and I knew he would not call afterward. Mom suggested I wait until late Sunday morning and call his hotel.
* * *
The sandwich is gone. I gather my scrapbook, pay the check, and continue my journey. Before long, I leave the rice and bean fields and enter hill country, then the Ozark Mountains, which are not really mountains but more like slightly larger hills. At Batesville, birthplace of Rick Monday, I cross the White River and follow it north, through Mountain View and into the Ozark National Forest. It is a beautiful drive along Highway 5, a narrow winding road that is probably worthy of a postcard in October, but it is August and the grass is brown.
As far as I could tell, Joe Castle still lives in Calico Rock. After his brief career ended, he returned home and dropped out of sight. There had been stories about him, but with time, and with virtually no access, the journalists and reporters had forgotten about him. One of the last efforts had been a visit by a writer for Sports Illustrated in 1977, but the town had quickly closed ranks, and almost no information was exchanged. The reporter could not find Joe and was asked to leave by his brother Red.
* * *
As I enter Calico Rock, I tell myself for the hundredth time that I am being foolish. Not only would I fail in my little mission, but there is also an element of danger.
It is a lovely village, on a bluff above the White River. Trout docks are bunched near the bridge; fishing is important along the river. I park in front of the shops on Main Street, and for a moment I wonder what it must have been like thirty years earlier when Joe’s friends and family gathered in crowds to listen to Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau call the games during that magical summer. I can almost feel the heartbreak when Joe went down.
I am looking for a man named Clarence Rook, the owner of the Calico Rock Record, the small weekly newspaper that has been reporting the town’s business for half a century. Mr. Rook has been with the paper for almost that long, and if he chooses not to cooperate, I really have no alternative plan. The office is on Main Street, three doors down from Evans Drug Store. I take a deep breath and walk inside. A young secretary in blue jeans greets me with a big smile and friendly hello.
“I’m looking for Mr. Clarence Rook,” I say in a well-rehearsed line.
“He’s pretty busy,” she says, still smiling. “Can I help you?”
“No, but thanks. I really need to see him.”
“Okay. Can I have a name?”
“Paul Casey. I’m a reporter with Baseball Monthly.” These lies will not last long, but the truth simply will not work right now.
“Interesting,” she says. “And what brings you to Calico Rock?”
“I’m working on a story,” I reply, well aware of how vague I sound.
“Okay,” she says, retreating. “Let me see what he’s doing.”
She disappears into the back. I can hear voices. The walls are lined with framed copies of old editions, and it doesn’t take long to find one from July 1973. The bold headline read: “Joe Castle in Stunning Debut with Cubs.” I take a step closer and begin reading. The story was written by Clarence Rook, as were most of the front-page articles, and it was filled with unabashed pride.
I have a copy of it in my scrapbook.
“Mr. Rook will see you,” she reports, nodding to a narrow hallway. “First door on the right.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile and head for the rear.
Clarence Rook is a colorful sight—red cheeks, white shirt, red bow tie, red suspenders, probably seventy years old, with a thick gray beard and a mop of Mark Twain–style white hair. He is chewing on the stem of a pipe, one that rarely leaves his mouth, and he is behind an old wooden desk covered with stacks of assorted files and papers. To one side is a battered Royal typewriter, circa 1950, still being used.
“Mr. Casey,” he says in a high-pitched, energetic voice as he thrusts forward his right hand. “Clarence Rook.”
I shake his hand and say, “Nice to meet you, sir. Thanks for seeing me like this.”
“No problem. Have a seat.”
I sit in the only chair that is not filled with assorted debris.
“Where you from?” he asks with a smile that reveals a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth.
“Santa Fe,” I say.
“Oh, beautiful country out there. Ms. Rook and I drove out west a few years ago, stopped in Santa Fe to see the O’Keeffe museum. Spectacular country, wouldn’t mind living there myself.”
“Yes sir, we enjoy it, but you have a pretty nice town here.”
“Indeed we do. I was born just up the road in Mountain Home; don’t guess I’ll ever leave.”
“How long have you owned the paper?” I ask in an effort to kill some time with preliminary chitchat. He seems perfectly willing to do the same.
“Bought it twenty years ago from Mrs. Meeks, who owned it forever. She hired me when I was a kid. Never thought I would spend my life publishing a paper, but I’ve loved every minute of it. So you write too?”
“No sir, I’m not a writer, not a reporter.”
The smile vanishes as his eyes narrow and he tries to digest this.
I continue, “And my name is not Paul Casey. It’s Paul Tracey.”
From a drawer he picks up a pouch of tobacco, slowly fills the bowl of his pipe, tamps it firm, then strikes a match. He never takes his eyes off me, and after he blows a small cloud of smoke, he asks, “Have you ever been told you favor Warren Tracey?”
“I’ve heard that before, yes.”
“Any relation?”
“He’s my father.”
As expected, this is not well received. For thirty years, I have often hesitated when giving my last name. Usually, it does not get a reaction, but there have been enough uncomfortable moments to render me gun-shy.
He puffs hard for a while, glaring at me, and finally says, “You could get shot around here.”
“I didn’t
come here to get shot, Mr. Rook.”
“Why are you here, son?”
“My father is dying of pancreatic cancer. He’ll be gone in a few months.”
Another puff, another cloud. “I’m sorry,” he says, but only to be polite.
“I doubt if this news will cause too much anguish here in Calico Rock,” I say.
He nodded and said, “You’re right about that. Most folks in these parts would enjoy watching Warren Tracey burn at the stake. And slowly.”
“I realize that.”
“Does anyone else know you’re here?”
“No sir. Only you.”
He takes a deep breath and stares at a table lamp, trying to collect his thoughts. A clock on his wall gives him the time as 5:10. I wait, somewhat nervously. He’ll either order me out of his office or decide to chat a bit longer. I’m betting on the latter because he is, after all, a reporter and naturally curious.
“Where is your father these days?” he asks.
“Florida. He left the family when I was twelve, and we’ve had little contact over the years. We’re not close, never have been.”
“Did he send you here?”
“No sir. He doesn’t know.”
“May I ask, then, what, exactly, are you doing here?”
“I want to talk to Joe Castle, and I’m hoping that you know the family pretty well.”
“Indeed I do, and I know them well enough to tell you that Joe doesn’t talk to strangers, and he sure as hell won’t talk to the son of Warren Tracey.”
6
Sunday, July 15, 1973. Wrigley Field was once again packed with forty-one thousand fanatics. Another crowd, estimated at ten thousand, mingled outside the stadium looking for tickets, drinking beer, listening to the radio, and in general getting as close as possible to baseball history. Adding to the excitement was the fact that Juan Marichal was starting for the Giants, and his road games generally increased the gate. Though his better years were behind him, Marichal could still beat any team on any day. With his high-kicking windup, superb control, intimidating tactics, and dogged competitiveness, Marichal was colorful and always dangerous. In the previous thirteen years, he had pitched many games at Wrigley, and he had won far more than he had lost.
He wasted no time in causing trouble. When Joe dug in in the bottom of the first, Marichal’s first pitch was aimed directly at his shoulder. Joe hit the ground and barely missed being maimed, and Wrigley almost exploded. From the Cubs dugout, there were shouts, threats, lots of cursing at the mound, where Marichal rubbed the baseball, smiled, and considered the next pitch. As a rookie in his fourth game, Joe knew it was not the moment to charge the mound. He had to earn that right, and it would happen soon enough. Keep your cool, his brother Red had advised him. They’ll start throwing at you before long.
The next pitch was a fastball, and Joe, swinging from the left side, ripped it down the right field foul line, a screaming bullet that froze the defense and stunned the crowd. The ball was clearly foul, but it kept rising and rising until it landed high in the upper deck. The pitch had been outside by six inches and was traveling at something close to ninety-five miles an hour, and Joe had easily yanked it foul. Marichal was impressed. Willie McCovey took a step back at first, and Joe noticed this. The third pitch was a fastball inside. Joe broke with the delivery, his bat trailing. Marichal was at the end of his theatrical delivery and in no position to field a bunt. McCovey got a bad jump. Tito Fuentes raced to cover first, but to no avail. The ball rolled through the baseline chalk for forty feet, then bounced slightly to the left. When McCovey picked it up, Joe Castle was sprinting past first base, now fourteen for fourteen.
McCovey said nothing to the kid. When the crowd settled down, Marichal stepped onto the rubber and looked at Dave Rader behind the plate. He went into his stretch, kicked high, as always, and Joe was halfway to second by the time Marichal released the ball. Rader’s throw to Fuentes was perfect, but much too late. After a leisurely slide into second, Joe bounced to his feet, looked at Marichal, shrugged, smiled, and spread his arms as if to say, “You throw at me, I’ll make you pay.”
Two pitches later, he stole third, then scored on a passed ball.
In the bottom of the fourth, he blooped a single to shallow center for his fifteenth consecutive hit. Marichal then caught him leaning and picked him off first.
As Joe had predicted, they eventually got him out. In his sixteenth at bat, in the bottom of the seventh inning, Joe crushed a ball to deep center, and for a second it looked as if it were gone. But the center fielder, Garry Maddox, drifted back and back until he was on the warning track, then back some more until he was almost touching the ivy. Three hundred ninety-nine feet from home plate, Maddox caught the ball, and the streak was over.
Joe was at second base, jogging, watching Maddox, and when the out was final, he turned and headed to the dugout. The crowd rose again in thunderous applause, and Joe took his time leaving the field.
After the game, the Cubs announced that his jersey would be changed. Number 42 was set aside, and for the remainder of his brief career Joe Castle wore Number 15.
* * *
The following Thursday, the Mets began a four-game home series against the Cardinals that was a run-up to the All-Star Game. Of course I knew the pitching rotation. My father was scheduled to get the ball Thursday night, and I wanted to be at Shea Stadium.
Thursday afternoon, before he left for the game, we managed to talk a little baseball. As usual, he was preoccupied and going through his pregame jitters. He was aloof on most days, but when he was about to pitch, he was so distant I wondered if he actually heard my voice. He was thirty-four years old and trying desperately to make something of his declining career. Looking back, I’m sure he was frightened at the prospect of aging out of baseball. The years were slipping by, and the great Warren Tracey was proving to be not so great after all. In the Mets rotation, he was the fourth man behind Jon Matlack, Jerry Koosman, and the incredible Tom Seaver. As the teams headed into the All-Star break, his record was four wins and six losses, and his earned run average was a bloated 5.60. The New York sportswriters were demanding a new fourth man. The Mets were two games under .500 and apparently going nowhere.
“Congratulations on making the All-Star team,” he said. We were on the patio, in the shade, drinking milk shakes. He had a banana shake, one he made himself, precisely six hours before he took the mound, one of his little quirks. All baseball players, especially pitchers, have them, he once told me, so I started looking for a quirk.
“Thanks. We’ve been practicing every day this week. First game’s Saturday against Rye at two o’clock.”
“Sorry I can’t make it.” The Mets played at the same time Saturday, so both of us would be happy. He wouldn’t be at my game, and I wouldn’t be at his. “You gonna pitch Saturday?” he asked.
“I doubt it. Right now I’m number two behind Don Clements. He’s twelve.”
He couldn’t have cared less. He sipped his milk shake and gazed across the lawn, lost in his own world. I really couldn’t blame him. On the days I pitched, I thought of nothing else. I could not imagine how nerve-racking it must be to walk to the mound at Shea Stadium in front of fifty thousand fans and perform.
“What about this Joe Castle guy?” I asked.
He snorted his disapproval. “Not a bad start, but these guys flame out. Once or twice around the league, and we figure them out. Every rookie’s got a hole in his swing. Sooner or later, we find it.”
He seldom said nice things about other players, even his own teammates. At the age of eleven, I thought this was odd, but it would take a few years to understand that he was so insecure about his own game he could rarely admire that of another player.
“Wait until he starts seeing the hard slider,” he said, his words trailing off as his mind drifted away.
I wasn’t going to argue or cause trouble. I was just thrilled to be talking baseball with my father. “Not a bad start”? After seven ga
mes, Joe had twenty-four hits in thirty-one at bats, with nine home runs and nine stolen bases.
“Say, Dad, I would like to see you pitch tonight. I’ll take the train in and stay out of the way. Tom can come with me.”
He frowned and took another sip.
It would be safe to assume that the son of a player would have all sorts of perks, including pregame passes on the field, locker room clearances, and, of course, access to tickets. It did not work that way with Warren Tracey. He did not want me hanging around and often complained about other players who let their kids crawl through the dugout before game time. He considered this to be highly unprofessional. To him, the turf was sacred ground, and only those in uniform should be allowed to step on it. He flatly refused to speak with any reporter on the field before a game because, in his opinion, the press should be confined to the press box.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he finally said, as if this were some great favor. My mom would not allow me to ride the train alone, so I had invited Tom Sabbatini.
“I guess your mother’s not going to the game,” he said.
Talk about a volatile subject. My mother went to a few games each season—as few as possible. We sat with the other Mets families, and I knew some of the players’ kids, though we were not friends, because no one else lived in White Plains. My mother refused to socialize with the other wives, and it was many years before she explained why. My father chased women—on the road, at home, in spring training, whenever, wherever, it didn’t matter to Warren. My mother knew this, though I’m not sure how she knew. As with every professional baseball team, there were players who fooled around and others who did not. I don’t know the percentages, and I doubt if a reliable study has ever been undertaken. Who really wants to know? As my mother explained to me years later, all the wives knew the reputations of the philanderers, and it was safe to assume that every Mets wife knew Warren Tracey could not keep his pants on. She felt humiliated sitting in the section for the players’ families with Jill and me and trying to pretend we were just another happy family.
By July 1973, my parents had endured twelve years of a bad marriage. Both were making their own secret exit plans.
* * *
That night Tom and I took the train to Grand Central, then the subway to Shea Stadium. Our seats were perfect—ten rows from the field near the Mets dugout. My father pitched well, going six strong innings and giving up only three hits, but the Mets blew a two-run lead in the ninth. On the way home, the subway was filled with rowdy Mets fans, some of them drunk. Occasionally, on these trips, or around the Little League field, or even at school, I would hear someone complaining about Warren Tracey. New York sports fans are rabid and well-informed, and they do not suffer from a lack of opinions. (I was at Shea once when they booed Tom Seaver.) Whenever I heard a derogatory comment about my father, I would always flinch and resist the temptation to return the insult. Often, though, the complaints were legitimate.
I made it home, checked in with Mom, then hurried to bed. I did not want to be awake when he got home, if, in fact, he made it back. His worst drunks were on the nights after he pitched. He wouldn’t play again for three days, so why not blow it out and raise some hell?
7
The following Saturday, the White Plains East All-Stars lost to Rye in the first round of the regional tournament, and the Mets lost to the Cardinals. I didn’t play, and neither did my father. Of course, as a starting pitcher he would never play on his day off, but I should have played an inning or two. During the regular season, when I was not pitching, I roamed the outfield. I hit .412 in eighteen games, sixth highest in the league, and late in the game against Rye we needed a hitter at the plate. Our coach, though, felt otherwise.
Looking at the brackets near the concession stand, I suddenly felt lousy. I would be the starting pitcher in our next game Monday afternoon against Eastchester, and my father would be in the vicinity. He did not make the National League All-Star team, did not even come close, though in his opinion he should have been considered. The All-Star break ran for three days, with the game to be played in Kansas City on Tuesday night.
With a schedule that runs from the first of April to the end of September, eighty-one games at home and eighty-one on the road, big leaguers cherish the All-Star break. Those not chosen to play often dash home or enjoy brief vacations. The year before, after being overlooked yet again, my father and a teammate spent the break trout fishing in Montana, then met the team in San Francisco when the schedule resumed. Listening carefully, I had unfortunately heard no such talk of a fishing trip this year.
* * *
When my father watched me play, he never sat in the stands with my mother or the other spectators. He didn’t want to be bothered. Once, a kid asked for his autograph, and he griped about it for a week. He played for the Mets; therefore, he was famous and did not wish to mingle with ordinary parents. To get away, he would find a spot on the fence not far from our dugout, and from there, alone, he would growl and yell advice. He despised all of my coaches because they, of course, knew so little about the game. Invariably, they tried to engage him because of who he was, and his rude behavior was embarrassing. On several