“So why didn’t you write this book?”
“Truthfully, it was the family. I talked to Red one time, and he didn’t like the idea. This town is too small to make enemies, and if the family wasn’t willing to cooperate, then the book was not worth writing.” He flips through the second binder and finds the tab for August 11, 1973. “Sit over here,” he says, patting a spot next to him. I move around to take a look, eager to see his research.
“This is one of my favorite stories,” he says, pointing to an article in the Tribune about Joe getting ejected for charging the mound. There was a large photo of a brawl. “By early August of that summer, the pitchers were throwing at Joe more and more. It’s part of the ritual of being a rookie, especially one who happens to be on a tear. But the Cubs had Ferguson Jenkins and Rick Reuschel, two tough guys who threw hard and were known to protect their hitters. There were rumors that Jenkins and Reuschel and some of the other Cubs pitchers had spread the word that if Joe got hit, the retaliation would be swift. As things turned out, Joe didn’t need any help. The Braves had a journeyman lefty named Dutch Patton, a big thick guy, six five or so, and the first time up Joe ripped a double, then stole third. We were still in Chicago but couldn’t get tickets to the game, so we were watching on television. When Joe came up in the third inning, Patton threw at his head and almost nailed him. The Cubs dugout went berserk; the fans were ready to riot. Joe yelled something at Patton, and he yelled something back. The home plate umpire got involved. A very tense situation. Joe got back in the box, dug in, and Patton went into his windup. Just as he released the ball, Joe dropped his bat and sprinted toward the mound. He was so quick and fast he caught everybody—including Patton and the catcher, Johnny Oates—completely off guard. I’ve seen the film clip a hundred times, and what happened was pretty frightening. Patton managed to swing his glove at Joe, who ducked and shot a right cross into Patton’s mouth. A left hook to the nose knocked him down and, like a jackhammer, Joe pummeled him with five more shots to the face, each one drawing blood. Patton left the field on a stretcher, didn’t wake up for six hours, and didn’t pitch for a month. Johnny Oates finally managed to pull Joe off, and by then there were forty players on the field slugging it out. The brawl lasted for ten minutes, and there were something like seven or eight ejections. Joe was suspended for five games, and the Cubs lost all five.”
As he talks, I listen intently and flip through his binder. I have a copy of the Tribune story, along with the photo, but my little scrapbook on Joe Castle is nothing compared with the spread before me. I know the story of Joe’s retaliation against Dutch Patton, and Clarence has not missed a detail.
“What was so funny, at least to me, was that I had seen Joe pull the same trick before,” Clarence is saying.
“When?” I ask as he pauses and waits for me to prompt him.
“When he was seventeen, in a high school game against Heber Springs. Scouts all over the place, all here to see Joe. First time up, he hit a ball over the lights in right field. The second time up, the pitcher threw at his head. He kept his cool, waited. When you charge the mound, your biggest threat is being tackled from behind by the catcher. All three of the Castle boys understood this rather basic part of the game. Joe waited until the pitch was thrown, then sprinted to the mound. It was pretty ugly. These were kids, and the benches did not empty as fast as they do in the big leagues …” Clarence’s words trail off as though he doesn’t want to finish the story.
“Did he hurt the pitcher?”
“Let’s just say the kid didn’t pitch for a few days, maybe weeks, maybe never, I don’t know, but I’m sure he lost his enthusiasm for throwing beanballs. Joe was not a bully, just the opposite; he was a really nice kid. But he didn’t like guys throwing at him.”
“Who broke up the fight?”
“The umpires. No player on the other team wanted to get near it.”
I flip back and forth and come across the cover of Sports Illustrated. “I’ll bet this caused some excitement around here.”
“Oh yes, not that there was a lack of excitement that summer. Everybody in town wanted to talk to the reporter. Let me refresh your drink there, Paul.” He takes both glasses to the back porch. I follow and peek into the kitchen, where Fay is slicing eggplant. When the drinks are ready, Clarence repacks his pipe and lights it. With fresh lemon gins in hand, we walk down the rear steps and gaze at the White River.
“Where did the nickname come from?” I ask.
Clarence chuckles and takes a sip. “Sports Illustrated, I guess. That’s the first time I ever heard of Calico Joe. But it stuck. The Chicago writers ran with it and never looked back. They had Shoeless Joe a half century earlier, so I guess it was irresistible.”
“It’s such a perfect nickname.”
“It is, or was.”
We watch two men in a boat cast their lines and drift with the current.
“What does Joe do around here?” I ask.
“He takes care of his baseball field.”
“His field?”
“Yes. Joe Castle Field, over at the high school. He mows the grass every morning. He rakes the dirt, pulls weeds, lays the chalk, sweeps the dugouts, and in general putters around the field five days a week. If it snows, Joe scrapes it off the bleachers. When it’s raining, he sits in the dugout, third base side, and watches the puddles form around the infield. When it stops raining, he gently spreads the dirt around so there will be no puddles the next time. About this time of year, after summer ball is over, he’ll paint both dugouts and the press box. It’s his field.”
“Can I see him tomorrow?”
“Again, I’m not his keeper. You can do whatever you want.”
“But would he speak to me?”
“I’ve already explained that, Paul. Joe doesn’t speak to strangers.”
“Would he speak to my father, if I brought him here?”
Clarence coughed and glared at me as if I had insulted his wife. “Are you crazy?”
“Maybe. He’s dying, Clarence, and before he’s gone, I would like for the two men to have a word.”
“What kind of word?”
“I’m not sure, but ideally I would like my father to apologize.”
“Have you discussed this with your father?”
“No, not yet, and before I do, I need to know if Joe will agree to a meeting.”
“I doubt seriously if that can happen, Paul. And it would be a huge mistake for Warren Tracey to show up here in Calico Rock. That could start some serious trouble.”
10
It took a week for the black eye to fade away, and I spent most of the time in my room, reading and looking in the mirror. My father stopped by twice with clumsy efforts at making peace, but I was not in the mood. When you get backhanded by your father, the pain lasts far longer than the bruises. Mercifully, the Mets left town for a long road trip, and I ventured out of my room and tried to enjoy the last month of my summer break.
On August 8, the Mets shut out the Astros in Houston. My father pitched seven innings, gave up only three hits, walked only two, and won his fifth game of the season. I listened to the game in the den and, as usual, recorded every pitch and play on my official Mets scorecard. I knew it was his best game in many years, and as Lindsey Nelson and Ralph Kiner said nice things about my father, I couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit of pride, although grudgingly. I was getting in bed when he called home and wanted to chat about the game. We stayed on the phone for half an hour as he recounted the highlights and patiently answered my questions, and when we eventually said good night, I was so excited I had trouble sleeping. Four days later, he pitched a complete-game four-hitter against the Padres for his second win in a row, a rare feat for Warren Tracey. Because he was on the West Coast, he did not call me after the game, but late the next morning he checked in from his hotel room, and we talked for almost an hour.
My mother was happy because I was happy, but she was also suspicious about his sudden interest in me. My bruis
es were gone, and the emotional scars were fading, or so I thought.
In the New York papers, the battle was still raging over Warren Tracey and whether he should get benched or sent down. His two consecutive wins cooled his critics but did little to arouse any support. The Mets were coming to life, though it looked as if no team could catch the Cubs. Joe Castle was still red-hot and front-page news in Chicago and wherever he happened to be playing.
I made the calculations a dozen times, and assuming no sudden changes in the pitching rotations, the lineups, injuries, or disruptions due to weather, the Cubs would arrive at Shea Stadium on Friday, August 24. Joe Castle would make his New York debut, and my father would be on the mound. The Cubs would be in first place in the East, and the Mets, in all likelihood, would be in second. When I considered this, and I did so at least ten times each day that August, my stomach would tie itself in knots, and I could not swallow water. Warren Tracey versus Joe Castle. My feelings for my father were hopelessly mixed and confused. For the most part, I despised him; yet he was my father, and he was a professional baseball player pitching for the New York Mets! How many eleven-year-old boys could make such a claim? We lived in the same house. We had the same ancestors, name, address. His success or failure had a direct impact on me. I adored his parents, though I rarely saw them. He was my father, damn it! I wanted him to win.
However, the world of baseball was revolving around Joe Castle. He sold out wherever he went, and the seats were often filled during pregame batting practice. He was hounded by reporters so fiercely that he was hiding from them. On the road, fans flocked to the Cubs’ hotels hoping for an autograph or a glimpse. Young women were sending all types of proposals, marriage and otherwise. His teammates and coaches were devising schemes to protect his privacy. Insanity ruled off the field, but between the chalk lines Joe Castle continued to play like a kid on a sandlot. He sprinted after foul balls, lunged into the stands, turned lazy singles into doubles, bunted with two strikes, violently broke up double plays, tagged up on every fly ball to the outfield, usually had the dirtiest uniform when the game was over, and through it all ripped baseballs to all corners of the field.
The thought of Joe digging in against my father was overwhelming, but as the long hot days of August moved along, I found myself thinking of nothing else. My buddies were hounding me for tickets. The four games against the Cubs were sold out. New York was waiting.
* * *
His five-game suspension for punching out Dutch Patton ended on August 17, and with a talent for the dramatic Joe returned to a raucous Wrigley Field for an afternoon game against the Dodgers. He singled in the first, doubled in the fourth, tripled in the seventh, and when he stepped to the plate in the bottom of the ninth, he only needed a home run to complete the cycle. The Cubs needed a home run to win the game. Batting right-handed, he poked a blooper down the right field line, and as it rolled slowly to the wall, the race was on. Ron Santo scored easily from second with the tying run, and when Joe sprinted to third, he ignored the coach’s signal to stop. He never slowed down. The shortstop took the relay, looked at third, where Joe would have an easy triple, then hesitated at the sight of him streaking home. The throw was perfect, and the catcher, Joe Ferguson, snatched it and blocked the plate. Ferguson was six feet two, 200 pounds. Joe was six feet two, 185 pounds. In a split-second decision, neither chose to yield an inch. Joe lowered his head, left his feet, and crashed into Ferguson. The collision was thunderous and spun both players in violent circles in the dirt. Joe would’ve been out by three feet, but the ball was loose and rolling in the grass.
It was an inside-the-park home run, his first, and it was a miracle that both he and Ferguson walked away from the collision, though both did so rather slowly.
After thirty-one games, he had sixty-two hits in 119 at bats, with eighteen home runs and twenty-five stolen bases. He had made one error at first and had struck out only six times. His batting average of .521 was easily the highest in the majors, though he had not had enough at bats to qualify for the official ranking. As expected, his average was slowly declining.
Ty Cobb, the greatest hitter of all time, had a career average of .367. Ted Williams—.344. Joe DiMaggio—.325. Joe Castle was not yet being compared to the great ones, but no rookie had ever hit .521 after 119 at bats.
* * *
On August 20, the Mets were at home against the Cardinals, and my father was starting. After winning two in a row, he had lost a one-run game to the Dodgers and got roughed up by the Giants but avoided taking the loss. His record was six and seven, and he was feeling good about his game. After his banana milk shake, he asked me if I would like to ride with him to Shea Stadium. This, of course, meant that I would be allowed to hang around the locker room, dugout, and field for hours before the first pitch. I jumped at the chance. He promised to drive me home after the game, which, of course, meant he would not be hitting the bars. The tension around the house had thawed somewhat. My parents were civil to each other, at least in the presence of Jill and me. For two uncertain kids, this only confused matters.
I was in the Mets dugout, watching the Cardinals take batting practice, soaking in the sights and sounds, reveling in the rarest of moments, when Willie Mays walked by and said, “Hey, kid, what brings you here?”
“My dad’s pitching,” I said, thoroughly awestruck.
“Tracey?”
“Yes sir.”
And then Willie Mays sat down beside me on the bench as if time meant nothing. He said, “I can’t remember your name.”
“Paul Tracey,” I said.
“Nice to see you again, Paul.”
I tried to say something but froze.
“Your dad’s pitching well these days,” he said. “Seems like he told me you’re a pitcher too.”
“Yes sir, but our season’s over. I’ll be twelve next year.”
Lou Brock was in the cage for the Cardinals, spraying baseballs everywhere. We watched him take a dozen swings, then Willie spoke to another player who walked in front of us. When we were alone again, he said, “You know, I never wanted to pitch. You gotta rely on too many other players to succeed. You can be having a great day on the mound, then, just like that, somebody makes an error and you lose the game, you know?”
“Yes sir.” I would agree with anything Mr. Mays had to say.
“Or you strike out twenty, give up two hits, and lose the game one to nothing, you know what I’m saying, Paul?”
“Yes sir.”
“Plus, I could never throw strikes, which is tough when you’re trying to pitch.”
“I’ve had that problem occasionally,” I said, and Willie Mays laughed out loud. He tapped me on the knee and said, “Good luck to you, Paul.”
“Thanks, Mr. Mays.”
He jumped to his feet and was yelling at one of the Cardinals. I looked at my knee for a long time and vowed to never wash that pair of jeans. A few minutes later, Wayne Garrett and Ed Kranepool sat nearby and began watching batting practice. I inched a bit closer so I could eavesdrop.
“You hear what Castle did today?” Garrett asked as he chomped on bubble gum.
“No,” Kranepool replied.
“Four for four with two doubles, off Don Sutton.”
“Off Sutton?” Kranepool asked in disbelief.
“Yep. I thought the kid was cooling off.”
“Guess not. Should be a wild weekend around here. You got any spare tickets?”
“Are you kidding?”
* * *
I sat alone eight rows from the field and close to the Mets dugout. My father gave up a home run to Joe Torre in the first inning, then settled down and pitched well. He ran out of gas in the top of the seventh, with the Mets leading 5–2, and when Yogi Berra pulled him, he received an impressive ovation from the crowd. I was on my feet, clapping and yelling as loud as possible. He tipped his cap to me, and at that moment I realized how much I wanted to adore him.
His record was seven and seven. His next start wo
uld be against the Cubs.
11
After two lemon gins, I am sufficiently mellow and want no more. Clarence seems unfazed by the booze, and when he goes for his third, I decline and ask for water. Fay is buzzing about, cooking and setting the table on the back porch. The sun is falling, and its last rays glisten across the White River below us. Clarence and I sit under a maple tree next to the vegetable garden and talk about the Castle boys.
Their grandfather, Vick Castle, signed with the Cleveland Indians in 1906 and five years later made it to the big leagues, but for less than a month. He played in ten games before being sent down. After the season he was traded, then broke an ankle, and his career fizzled. He returned to Izard County and ran a sawmill before dying at the age of forty-four. Bobby, his only son and Joe’s father, signed with Pittsburgh in 1938, and in 1941 he led the AAA International League in hitting and RBIs. He was destined to start at third base for the Pirates in 1942, but the war got in the way. He joined the Navy and was shipped to the Pacific, where he lost half a leg to a land mine.
His oldest son, Charlie, signed out of high school with the Washington Senators and bounced around the minors for six years before he called it quits. Red, the middle brother, signed with the Phillies in 1966 but couldn’t get out of single A. He quit, joined the Marines, and volunteered for two tours of duty in Vietnam.
Clarence enjoys his narrative and does not need notes. I am amazed at his ability to recall, though I have no way of knowing his level of accuracy. There is something about his twinkling eyes and bushy eyebrows that leads me to believe that this guy is not beyond embellishment. But it doesn’t matter; he loves to talk and tell stories, and the Castle family is obviously a favorite topic. I am delighted to be here and happy to listen.
“Even when Charlie and Red were playing,” he is saying, “everyone was talking about Joe. When he was ten or so, a little fellow, he hit four home runs in a game against Mountain Home. That was the first time he got his name in the newspaper. I went to the archives and pulled it out. In 1973, I got flooded with folks wanting all sorts of background on Joe Castle. I spent half the summer digging through back copies. When he was twelve, he led our All-Stars to a third-place finish in Little Rock, and I ran this huge front-page story about the team, big photo and all. When he was thirteen, he stopped playing with the kids and spent all summer with a men’s team. Joe played first, Red at second, three and four in the lineup, and they must’ve played a hundred games. That’s when we realized he might be special. The scouts began showing up when he was fifteen. Charlie was in the minors. Red was in the minors. But everybody was talking about Joe. I was covering a state play-off game in May 1968, down in Searcy, and he hit a baseball that bounced off a school bus in a parking lot, 420 feet from home plate. Can you imagine? A sixteen-year-old kid hitting a 420-foot home run, with wood, not aluminum. The scouts were drooling, shaking their heads in disbelief. Pretty amazing.”
“Clarence, dinner is ready,” Fay yells from the porch, and we do not waste time. That barbecue pork sandwich for lunch was now at least eight hours in the past. Directly under a ceiling fan, Fay has set a beautiful table, small and round, with fresh-cut flowers in a small vase in the center. There is a large bowl of tomato, cucumber, and onion salad and another of grilled squash and eggplant over brown rice. She waves at the food and says, “Two hours ago, it was still on the vine.”
We pass the bowls and begin eating. I feel compelled to at least make an effort to discuss her art but decide against it. A visit like this will never be repeated, and I want to hear and talk about Joe Castle. After some chatter about my wife, daughters, and job, I manage to get things back on track.
“What was it like in 1970 when the draft was approaching?” I ask.
Clarence chews, swallows, takes a sip of water, and says, “Pretty crazy. We thought he would be the number one pick in the draft, at least that’s what the scouts had been saying for two years.”
“The town thought he was about to get rich,” Fay adds.
“Top money back then was $100,000 for the early picks. In case you haven’t noticed, this is a small town. Folks were openly discussing what Joe might do with all his money. Then something weird happened. In late May, Calico Rock was playing in the finals of the state tournament, over at Jonesboro, and Joe had two bad games. He had not had a bad game in ten years, then bam, two in a row. Some of the scouts got spooked, I guess. The Cubs took him in the second round, offered him $50,000, and away he went.”
“What happened to the money?” I ask.
“He gave $5,000 to his church,” Fay says, “and $5,000 to the high school, right, Clarence?”
“That sounds right. Another $5,000 went to dress up the Little League park where he had played so many games. Seems like he paid off the mortgage on his parents’ home, which wasn’t that much.”
“No shiny new Corvette?” I ask.
“Oh no. He paid $2,000 for Hank Thatcher’s Ford pickup. Hank had just died, and his wife was selling some of his stuff. She didn’t want the truck, so Joe bought it.”
I remind myself, again, of why I do not want to live in a small town. Such personal details would never be discussed, or even known, in a city.
I cannot remember the last time I have eaten vegetables as fresh as Fay’s. Sara cooks healthy meals, but I have never tasted squash and eggplant like this. “Delicious,” I say for the second or third time.
“Thank you,” Fay replies graciously. I notice that she eats very little. Clarence washes his food down with water, but the lemon gin is still close. Two fishing boats float quietly by on the river and head for the docks below the bridge in the distance. Our conversation drifts to Fay’s sister, who is dying of cancer in Missouri and wants them to visit her over the weekend. The cancer talk brings things around to my father. “When was he diagnosed?” Fay asks.
“Last week. It’s terminal, just a few months, maybe weeks.”