eleven years old and didn’t want to throw at anyone. The kid did not get beaned. My father was furious. After the game, we had a big fight. He slapped me around the backyard, told me I would never make it as a pitcher because I was a coward, afraid to throw at hitters. He was a nasty person, Clarence.”
Another sip, another puff. “And you’ll see him tomorrow?”
“That’s right, for the first time in several years.”
“And you think you can convince him to come here, to Calico Rock?”
“I have no idea, but I’ll try.”
“It seems like a long shot, on both ends.”
“I have a plan. It might not work, but I’m trying.”
He pours some more moonshine. After a few minutes, I begin to nod off. “Does this stuff knock you out?” I ask.
“Definitely. You’ll sleep like a baby.”
“I’m gone. Thanks.”
I go to bed in their guest room, beneath the hum and breeze of a ceiling fan, only three blocks away from the small house where Joe Castle lives with his mother. The last time I saw him he was on a stretcher being rushed off the field, away to a New York City hospital, leaving behind forever the brilliance of his game, the dreams of his fans, and the promising career that would never be.
* * *
Fay is consumed with her work at her easel when I say good-bye. I thank her for the hospitality, and she says the guest room is always available. I follow Clarence back to Main Street, where we park and walk to Evans Drug Store. As we enter, he says, “You might want to stick with Paul Casey, just to be safe.”
No problem. I have used that alias more times than he can imagine.
The café is filled with the early morning crowd, all men, and Clarence speaks to a few as we head for a table in the rear. I manage to avoid having to introduce myself. Evidently, Clarence is a vegetarian only at home, where Fay is in charge of the menu. Away from her, he orders eggs and bacon, and I do likewise. Waiting on the food, we sip coffee and listen to the enthusiastic conversations around us. At a long table near the front window, a group of retired gentlemen are worked up over the war in Iraq. There are plenty of opinions and little regard for who else in the café might hear them.
“I assume this is a fairly conservative town, politically,” I say to Clarence.
“Oh yes, but it’s usually split during elections. Izard County is all white, but there are a lot of your old-time Roosevelt Democrats still around. They’re known as ‘drop-cord Democrats.’ ”
“That’s a new one.”
“Rural electricity, brought in by the New Deal way back.”
“Why is the county all white?”
“It’s historic. There was never much farming around here, so no slaves. No reason for black folks to settle here. Now I guess they prefer to go elsewhere, but we’ve never had a problem with the Klan, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No, that’s not what I was thinking.”
The wall above the cash register is covered with rows of team photos—Little League, softball, high school basketball—some current, others faded with the years. In the center is a framed cover of the August 6, 1973, edition of Sports Illustrated. Calico Joe, the Phenom. I look at it and smile. “I remember the day it arrived in the mail,” I say.
“We all do. Probably the greatest day in the town’s history.”
“Do folks around here still talk about Joe?”
“Seldom. It’s been thirty years, you know? I can’t recall the last conversation about him.”
The eggs and bacon arrive. The war wages not far away. We eat quickly, and I pay the check, cash—no credit card. I don’t want anyone to see my name. Clarence decides we should take his car—a maroon Buick—because a strange vehicle with out-of-state license plates might stir suspicion. Not surprisingly, the Buick smells like stale pipe tobacco. Air-conditioning is not an option, and we make the short drive with the windows down.
The high school is a mile or so from Main Street, in a newer section of town. I know that Calico Rock is too small for a football team, so when I see lights, I know the baseball field is close. In the distance, in center field, a man is riding a turf mower. “That’s him,” Clarence says.
Fall classes have yet to begin, and the lots are empty. We park near an old rodeo arena, cross a street, and approach the backstop from behind some bleachers. We climb to the top row and settle into a spot shaded by the small press box. The field is beautiful. The Bermuda grass is lush and green. Everything else is wilting under the August sun and drought, but the turf of Joe Castle Field is thick, manicured, and well irrigated. The base paths and infield dirt are meticulously groomed. The mound looks as though it has been hand sculpted. A ten-foot-wide warning track of crushed limestone circles the entire playing surface, and there is not a weed visible. Just beyond the chain-link fence in left center is a large scoreboard with JOE CASTLE FIELD across the top and HOME OF THE PIRATES along the bottom.
Joe is on a red spiderlike mower with various cutting decks and numerous blades, a serious machine obviously built for playing surfaces. He wears a black cap with the bill pulled low and glasses. Not surprisingly, he has put on weight over the years.
“He’s here every day?” I ask.
“Five days a week.”
“It’s the middle of August. There won’t be another baseball game until, what, March?”
“Middle of March, if it’s not snowing.”
“So why does he cut the grass and prepare the field every day?”
“Because he wants to. It’s his job.”
“He’s paid?”
“Oh yes. Joe came home just before Christmas of 1973. He spent two months in a hospital in New York, then the Cubs flew him to Chicago, where he spent several weeks in another hospital. Red and Charlie drove him home in time for Christmas. He was talking about playing some more, but we knew the truth. Just after the first of the year, he had the stroke, a massive one. He was at home, by himself, and by the time they got him to the hospital in Mountain Home, there was some damage. His left side is partially paralyzed. You’ll see when he walks.”
“Does he know we’re up here?”
“Yes. He saw us park, walk over, find a seat. He knows we’re talking about him. It’s likely he will not get close enough to say hello, and before the day is over, either Red or Charlie, probably Charlie, will call me and want to know what I was doing here and who I had with me. I’ll tell him you’re my nephew from Texas, a high school baseball coach who wanted to admire our field.”
“Okay. Back to the story. Why is Joe paid to take care of the field?”
“After the stroke, it was obvious he was disabled and needed a job. So the school system hired him as a custodian, full-time with health insurance and pension, and for thirty years Joe has been taken care of. He works on the field, putters around the gymnasium, and when the baseball team has a game, he sits up here in the press box and works the scoreboard.”
“What a great idea.”
“We take care of each other here in Calico Rock, Paul. Especially Joe.”
Joe finishes a long sweeping cut, from the right field foul line to the left, then whirls around for another one. The mower is close to the outfield warning track. If the blades are actually clipping the Bermuda, I cannot detect it. The uncut portion looks as pristine as the swath he’s just finished.
“What are you thinking?” Clarence asks, firing up his pipe again.
“What could have been. Where would Joe be now had it not been for the injury. How great could he have been?”
“That’ll drive you crazy. I did it for years, then realized it’s a waste of time. The story of Joe Castle is nothing but a great tragedy. It’s difficult to accept, but after a while you try to move on.”
“Is it a good idea for Warren Tracey to come here, to meet with Joe?”
A long puff, a large cloud of smoke. The temperature has to be close to ninety already, and I wonder how a person can enjoy smoking in such h
eat. “You know, Paul, sitting here as we are, it seems impossible that your father would show up, shake hands with Joe, and talk about their past.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Do you really think you can convince him to come?”
“I’m going to try, Clarence. I think I can do it.”
“How?”
“Blackmail.”
Joe turns for the final swipe at the outfield grass. He has yet to look in our direction.
“I don’t suppose I want to get into that,” Clarence says.
“No, you don’t.”
We watch and listen to the mower. Finally, Clarence says, “Yes, in my worthless opinion, it would mean a lot to Joe if Warren Tracey shook his hand and offered his apology. The two have never spoken, never met since that night. It strikes me as a good idea. But how in hell can you pull it off?”
“It’s a long shot, Clarence. But I need your help. I want you to speak to his brothers and clear it on this end. Otherwise, I’m wasting my time.”
Joe parks in foul territory outside the left field line and turns off the mower. He swings his right leg over, braces himself, and hops down. He grabs a cane and shuffles toward a storage shed. He walks with a pronounced limp, with his left foot dragging behind, his right foot advancing in stutter steps, his shoulders dipping as he slowly moves forward.
“That poor guy,” I say, and a part of me feels like crying. That beautiful young kid who could fly from home to first in under four seconds, who stole second and third back-to-back seven times in thirty-eight games, who turned lazy singles into thrilling doubles, that magnificent athlete with greatness emanating from every part of his game, has been reduced to a crippled custodian who mows grass that does not need mowing. Just the thought of it—when Joe was thirty years old and should have been in the prime of a great career, he was, instead, doing exactly what he is doing now.
“Very sad,” Clarence adds. Joe disappears into the storage shed. “We probably won’t see him again. I guess we should leave.”
* * *
As we return to Main Street, Clarence agrees to approach Charlie and Red and explore the idea of a meeting. I repeat the obvious: Warren does not have long to live. There is no time to waste.
We stop by the Calico Rock Record, where I find a cup of coffee. It takes a while to say good-bye. We have enjoyed our time together and sincerely hope we meet again soon. Leaving the town, I have no idea if I will ever return.
Four hours later, I am in Memphis. I fly through Atlanta on my way to Tampa, where I rent another car and drive east, toward Winter Haven.
14
Long after the police officer left, my mother and I sat in the den and watched westerns. The doors were bolted; the shades were drawn; every light in the house was on; the officer promised to patrol our street; and we were still afraid. Perhaps we should have dismissed the call as a prank by an irate Cubs fan who found our number in the phone book, but it felt much more serious than that. We had never received such a threat, and given the trauma and emotions of the night, we were unable to shrug it off and go to sleep.
During a commercial, my mother asked, “How did you know he was going to hit Joe Castle?” She was on one end of the sofa, I was on the other, both of us were still dressed.
“Because that’s the way he plays baseball,” I replied.
“Why do they allow beanballs?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never heard a good reason.”
“Such a stupid sport,” she said.
I didn’t argue. We were also afraid that Warren might stagger home and cause trouble. He had been forced off the field with a bloody nose, so he wasn’t badly injured in the brawl. But if he wasn’t home by 3:00 a.m., he wasn’t coming home. He was probably in a bar, showing off his bruises, bragging about his skills as a beanball artist, and no doubt taking credit for the Mets win.
I dozed off, but at 6:00 a.m. my mother nudged me and said, “Here’s the news.” Channel 4 out of Manhattan began the day at 6:00 a.m. with news, weather, and sports, and they didn’t waste time getting to the story. “A wild night at Shea,” the reporter gushed as the footage rolled. From a camera somewhere near the Mets dugout, the tape showed the beanball and Joe going down. Again, in slow motion, and again as the reporter described it in detail. He said that Joe was in serious condition at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan.
At least he was alive.
Next up was the brawl, and just as in real time it seemed to go on forever. Having been an eyewitness, I had seen enough. The entire episode made me sick and depressed, and as I realized later, it would turn me against the sport.
When the sun was up, I walked to the end of the driveway and retrieved the New York Times. I glanced up and down the street to make sure everything was safe but at the time did not realize I would be looking over my shoulder for many months to come.
My mother sipped coffee and flipped through section A. I, of course, read every word about the game and all of its related issues. The front page of the sports section had two large photos. The first was Joe on the ground seconds after being hit and before the trainers crowded around him. The second was a beautiful shot of Razor Ruffin flattening my father with a bruising tackle. Ruffin had no comment after the game, nor did Warren Tracey, Yogi Berra, Whitey Lockman, or any other player or coach. There was little doubt, though, that the fighting was far from over. The two teams squared off again at 2:00 p.m. that afternoon. The doctors at Mount Sinai weren’t saying much, but Joe was unconscious and in serious condition.
The phone rang, and we both stared at it for a second. I was closer, so I slowly lifted the receiver. “Hello.”
An agitated voice yelled, “Warren Tracey is a dead man!”
My mother quickly unplugged the phones.
* * *
The Chicago newspapers were outraged. “Beaned!” screamed the headline in the Sun-Times, just above a photo of Joe Castle on the ground, his helmet nearby. The Tribune was somewhat more restrained. Its headline read, “Mets Find Way to Stop Castle.”
Mid-morning Saturday, Commissioner Bowie Kuhn met with his executives in the offices of Major League Baseball in New York City. After reviewing the footage and talking to eyewitnesses, he suspended Razor Ruffin and Whitey Lockman for ten games, Warren Tracey for five, and eight other players for three games each. His office issued a banal statement wishing Joe Castle a speedy recovery.
Shea was sold out again for the Saturday game, with many more Cubs fans there and looking for trouble. A smoke bomb landed near home plate just after the first pitch was thrown by Tom Seaver. The game was delayed for fifteen minutes while the air cleared. The Mets fans booed, the Cubs fans cursed, the atmosphere in the park was tense. Security was beefed up considerably, and uniformed policemen stood almost shoulder to shoulder along the warning track. Joe had been hit by the third pitch thrown to the third batter in the third inning, and with perfect coordination a wave of smoke bombs rained down on the field as Tom Seaver threw the third pitch to Burt Hooton, the Cubs starter, in the top of the third inning. Fights broke out as Mets fans attacked the bombers. Arrests were made. The game was delayed for half an hour as warnings blared from the PA announcer. An ugly situation was getting worse.
* * *
I tried to watch the game but could not. I wanted to leave the house and hide at the Sabbatinis’ for a few hours, or a few days, but then my mother would have been by herself. So I stayed in my room, turned the radio on and off, and killed time.
When the Mets were in town and my father was home, I usually waited a couple of days before clipping articles from the sports page for my scrapbooks. But I was bored, and he wasn’t home, and I frankly did not care what he thought. Sitting at the kitchen table, I carefully cut out the stories from the Times, then went to my closet, where I kept a dozen scrapbooks, photo albums, and card collections. I maintained these in a meticulous order, and to my knowledge no one ever touched them but me. Because of the avalanche of stories and photos of Joe Castle
and his historic debut, I had reassembled all of his material into his very own scrapbook. The only other players to be so honored were Tom Seaver, Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, and Catfish Hunter. The rest of the scrapbooks were collections of memorabilia, articles, and photos dedicated to entire teams—the 1973 Mets, the 1972 Mets, the Big Red Machine, the 1972 Oakland A’s, and so on. Two years earlier, I had opened a scrapbook dedicated to my father, but there simply was not enough material to sustain it.
My Joe Castle scrapbook was missing. I searched every inch of my closet and my room, and when I was certain it was not there, I stretched out on my bed and stared at the ceiling. Jill was away at camp, and besides, she wouldn’t touch anything remotely related to baseball. Nor would my mother.
Our home had a basement with a small washroom, an even smaller utility room, and a large game room with a television and a pool table. From the game room, there was a door that led to the backyard. Coming home at all hours of the early morning, my father often crept into the game room and passed out on the narrow sofa. Sometimes he slept there when my parents were fighting. Sometimes they fought there, away from Jill and me. Often, on the days when he pitched, he would spend hours down there, alone, with the shades pulled and lights off, lost in his own world. He considered the game room to be his own private little territory, and that was fine with the rest of us. If he wanted it for himself, we were happy to stay away.
I eased down the stairs, flipping on lights. In the game room, I found my scrapbook on an end table next to the sofa. It was open to the eight-by-ten photograph, inscribed to me, “To Paul Tracey, with best wishes, Joe Castle.”
Next to the scrapbook was an orange Mets stadium cup, his cup, the only cup from which he would drink his banana milk shake precisely six hours before his first pitch. He had once flown into a rage and broken dishes in the kitchen when he couldn’t find the damned cup.
I froze when I realized what I had discovered. It was like walking into a crime scene and having a delayed reaction as the truth settled in. Alone and in the semidarkness, the criminal had quietly plotted his actions, then inadvertently left behind the evidence.
I backed away and went to find my mother.
We were both rattled, frightened, and tired, and we decided to leave. We packed our bags quickly, locked the house, and drove to Hagerstown, Maryland, to stay with her parents for a few days. Warren could have the house and the death threats and all the baggage and debris he so richly deserved. I didn’t realize it at the time, and I’m not sure my mother did either, but it was our first big step toward separation.
* * *
The Mets won the second game of the series that Saturday, and did so without having to fight for it. Two pitchers were ejected for throwing at batters, and both teams were itching for another brawl. But with so many players suspended, the issue of winning games became more important than winning beanball wars.
Baseball waited for Joe to wake up, to snap out of it, put some ice on his wounds, return to the stadium, and continue to dazzle and set records, but as of Sunday morning he was still in a coma.
The Mets won Sunday, and on Monday night completed a four-game sweep. The Cubs had roared into New York with a ten-game lead, and they limped out of town reeling and already feeling the pressure of another late-season collapse. They had won twenty-eight of the thirty-eight games in which Joe had played, but they were obviously a different team without him.
On August 30, Warren Tracey started at Shea against the Pirates. He gave up a single to the leadoff hitter, then walked the next two. With the bases loaded, he hit Willie Stargell in the ribs. It was not intentional, but nonetheless Stargell didn’t appreciate being hit, especially by a pitcher who was by then the most notorious headhunter in the game. He said something to my father as he slowly walked to first base, and for a moment things were tense. The umpires, on high alert, jumped in and prevented trouble. His next pitch was a fastball down the middle, and Richie Hebner hit it four hundred feet for a grand slam. By the time Yogi could get him out of the game, the Pirates were up 7–0 with no outs.
Four days later, on September 3, Labor Day, my father walked to the mound at Busch Stadium in St. Louis and was met with a thunderous round of boos and hisses. He lasted two innings, walked four, struck out none, hit no one, gave up five runs, and was rapidly pitching himself out of the rotation. The New York sportswriters were howling for his replacement.
With Joe Castle still unconscious in a New York hospital, Warren Tracey was hated everywhere he went. His name was toxic. His pitching was a disaster. His teammates were winning, but they were also tired of the distractions he brought to the game. It was obvious he wasn’t worth the trouble he was causing.
15
After his first two or three wives, Warren began marrying for money instead of looks and lust. One of his later ones, Florence, died from heatstroke and left him with a nice home and some cash in the bank. He isn’t rich, but comfortable enough to avoid work and spend his days at the club playing gin rummy and golf and drinking. When he was about fifty-five, roughly ten years ago, his then wife, Karen, I believe, convinced him to sober up and stop smoking. To his credit, he did, though the damage to his body had been done. Poor Karen. She soon realized he was far more agreeable on the sauce than off. They divorced, and, never solo for long, he took up with Agnes, the current wife.