They live in one of those typical Florida gated communities, with rows of low-slung modern houses tucked along fairways and ponds and around putting greens. Everyone is over sixty and drives a golf cart.
On the subject of golf. As soon as his baseball career ended, Warren plunged headlong into what he hoped would be a new career on the tour. He hooked up with a pro somewhere near Sarasota and played and practiced for hours every day. He was thirty-five and the odds were against him, but he felt as though he had nothing to lose. He qualified for the Citrus Circuit, a low-budget south Florida tour, sort of like Class B minor-league baseball. He won his second tournament and got his name in the fine print of the Miami Herald. Someone saw it. That someone told others, and a rough plan came together. At the next tournament, just as Warren was about to hit his first tee shot, a pack of Cubs diehards began jeering and cursing him. He stepped away, exchanged words, and waited for an official to intervene. Such tournaments, though, are not heavily secured or supervised, and the hooligans refused to go away. When his first tee shot landed in a small lake, the Cubs fans cheered and howled. They followed him from hole to hole on the front nine, and he fell to pieces.
The concentration of a golfer is fragile—witness the strict rules regarding fan behavior at a PGA event. Warren, though, was far from the PGA, and the Citrus Circuit could do little to control what few fans showed up. They stalked Warren Tracey, and wherever he played, they waited in ambush. In one tournament, he birdied the first three holes, in silence, then was verbally assaulted by several large, belligerent young men as he approached the tee box on number four. His scores continued to rise, along with his blood pressure, and when he shot an 88 in the second round of his fifth tournament, he quit.
Evidently, there are a lot of Cubs fans in Florida, and over the years Warren had a number of run-ins with them on golf courses. He also had fights in bars, stores, and airports, and for a long time he traded in cash and avoided credit cards. He once got screwed out of $40,000 in a condo deal by two men who were Cubs fans and deliberately suckered him into the transaction. The surname Tracey is not that common, and for years after the beaning it meant trouble for Warren.
* * *
The ancient security guard clears me through the gate. It is early evening, and couples are biking and walking for exercise along the footpaths next to the winding street. The golf course is deserted. Everything is green and well-groomed.
According to my research, the home was appraised at $650,000 and had been purchased by Warren and Agnes five years earlier. I didn’t keep records, but it must be the fifteenth place he has lived in Florida in the past thirty years. I suppose Warren is the restless type; he tires quickly of wives and homes.
I have not seen him in four years. Sara and I did the obligatory Disney World trip with the girls, and for some reason I thought it was important for the kids to at least meet their paternal grandfather. What a disaster. He did not want us in his home, nor did he want us to meet Agnes. So we met for lunch at a chain restaurant—Wink’s Waffles—not far from his gated community, and he struggled to be civil. He had not met my children before, and Warren in the role of grandfather was a pathetic sight. He was a stranger to the girls, to Sara, and to me as well, and he could not have been more uncomfortable.
Sara’s parents live in Pueblo, Colorado, and we see them several times a year. They adore their granddaughters and are as involved in their lives as possible. So the girls had a clear idea of what a grandfather should be. Warren, though, completely baffled them. He was unsure of their names, thoroughly uninterested in small talk, and showed no warmth whatsoever because he had neither the desire nor the ability, and when he glanced at his watch thirty minutes into the little family reunion, it was noticed by all of us.
Afterward, I promised Sara and the girls that they would never again be subjected to my father. I knew they approved of this decision. Later, once we were home, the girls told their mother that they felt sorry for me. They could not comprehend how a nice guy like their dad could have such a lousy father.
Parked on the cobblestoned driveway is a Mercedes that is at least fifteen years old. I ring the doorbell, and Agnes eventually answers. This is our first face-to-face meeting. It will be brief. Neither she nor I want to spend ten seconds together. She is the latest victim in a long, sad list of vulnerable and desperate women who, out of loneliness or some other unfathomable reason, agreed to marry Warren Tracey. As I follow her through the foyer, I wonder how many husbands she has been through, but I really don’t care.
Warren is in the den watching television, some breed of delicate little lapdog on the sofa next to him. He rises quickly, manages a smile, and offers a hand. As I shake it, I am impressed by his appearance. His skin is pale, his movements slow, but for a dying man he looks remarkably healthy. He mutes the television but does not turn it off. Nothing he does, regardless of how rude, surprises me. I back into a chair, while Agnes sits on the sofa next to the dog. I’ll get rid of her in a minute.
We kill some time talking about his surgery, and I feign interest. Next, it’s the chemotherapy, which will start in a week. “I’m gonna beat this thing, Paul,” he says, a well-rehearsed line delivered with no conviction. He seems to think I care. He seems to believe I have traveled from New Mexico to Florida because I am concerned about him. There is no doubt in my mind that if I were hospitalized and on my deathbed, Warren Tracey would find an excuse not to show up. Why, then, does he think I am interested in his chemo?
Why? Over the years, I’ve learned the answer. He’s special. He played the game. Maybe he didn’t put up Hall of Fame numbers, but he was still one of the elite who made it to the big stage. His entire life has been lived in his own little self-absorbed, narcissistic world where he is a cut above the rest.
I feed him quarters and keep him talking. How long will the chemotherapy last? What do the doctors really think? I know a guy whose uncle lived fifteen years with pancreatic cancer. Is more surgery a possibility?
He does not ask about my wife, my daughters, his daughter, or her children. As usual, it’s all about Warren.
Agnes, who’s a little on the chunky side and easily as old as Warren, just sits there rubbing the dog and grinning goofily at Warren, as if his narratives are witty and original. It doesn’t take much to amuse Agnes, I decide after ten minutes. I wonder if it has crossed her mind that in virtually all polite circles she, as the hostess, is expected to offer me something to drink.
I look at her and say, “Say, Agnes, I have a few things I need to discuss with Warren in private. You know, family stuff, rather personal. Could the two of us have a few minutes?”
She does not like this at all, but Warren smiles and nods his head at the door. She huffs out of the den, closing the door behind her. I reach over, take the remote, turn off the television, sit back down, and say, “Guess who I saw this morning, Warren?”
“How should I know?”
“Always the smart-ass, right?”
“Always, yes.”
“Joe Castle, that’s who. I was in Calico Rock yesterday afternoon and last night, and this morning I saw Joe.”
“I suppose you were just passing through.”
“No, not at all. I went there for the purpose of seeing him.”
His shoulders sag a little as the air gets heavier. I am staring at him, but he has found something on the floor to hold his gaze. A minute passes, then another. He finally grunts and says, “Something you want to say?”
I move closer to him and sit on the edge of the coffee table. Two feet away, I realize how little sympathy I have for this dying old man. There is far more anger than pity, but I promised myself I would not visit our past. “I want you to go see Joe, Warren. Now, before it’s too late, before you pass away, before he passes away. There will never be another time like now. Go, sit down with him, offer a hand, offer the truth, offer an apology, at least attempt to close this story.”
He frowns as if in severe pain. He looks at me as h
is mouth falls open, and for a while he cannot speak.
“I’m serious, Warren. You have lied for thirty years about what happened, but you and I both know the truth. For once in your miserable life, stand up and admit you’re wrong, apologize. You’ve never reached out to him. You would never face him. You would never face the truth, quite the opposite. You’ve lied and lied and lied until you probably believe your own lies. Stop the lying, tell Joe the truth, and tell him you’re sorry.”
“You got a lot of guts coming here with this crap,” he snarls.
“I have far more guts than you, old man. If you had a backbone, you would go see him. I’ll go with you. We’ll make the journey together, and when it’s over, you’ll feel a lot better about yourself.”
“Aren’t you the wise one?”
“I am, on this matter anyway.”
His pale face has reddened with anger, but he holds his tongue. Another minute passes. “What did you say to him?” he asks.
“Nothing. We didn’t speak. I saw him from a distance. He walks with a bad limp, and a cane, thanks to you.”
“I did not intend to hit him.”
I raise both hands and laugh. “Here we go again. The biggest lie in the history of organized baseball, and what’s worse, everyone knows it’s a lie, including both of us.”
“Get out of my house!”
“I will in a minute. Let’s face the truth, Warren. You won’t make it to Christmas. The odds are heavily against you. When you die, those who know you are not going to say things like: ‘Good ole Warren, he loved his kids.’ Or, ‘Good ole Warren, what a generous soul.’ Or, ‘Warren truly loved his wives.’ Nothing like that, Warren, because it doesn’t fit. The one thing that will be mentioned in your obituary, if you have one at all, is the fact that you threw the most famous beanball in the history of the game. And in doing so, you deliberately destroyed one of the most promising careers of all time. That’s what they’re gonna say, Warren, and you can’t do a thing about it.”
“Please leave.”
“I’ll be happy to leave, Warren, just let me finish. You can never undo the misery you created—the neglected kids, the tormented son, the abused wife, the alcoholism, the philandering, the long trail of debris you’ve left behind. Can’t fix it, Warren, even if you are so inclined, which I’m sure you are not. But there is one person you can reach out to and perhaps make his life a little brighter. Do it, Warren. Do it for Joe. Do it for yourself. Do it for me.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
I reach into my jacket and remove some folded papers. “I want you to read this, Warren. It’s titled ‘The Beaning of Joe Castle’ by Paul Tracey, son of Warren. I wrote it many years ago, and I’ve revised it a thousand times. Every word is true. My plans are to get it published as soon as possible after your death. I’ll start with Sports Illustrated, Baseball Monthly, the newspapers in Chicago, not sure after that, but I’ll bet somebody will want to print it. I don’t want a dime. I want the truth to be known.” I drop the papers onto his lap. “The only way to prevent this from being published is to go with me to Calico Rock and see Joe.”
“Blackmail?”
“You got it, Warren. Old-fashioned blackmail, but for a good reason.”
I toss a business card onto the sofa and say, “I’m at the Best Western down the road. If you want to talk, I’ll meet you at your favorite spot, Wink’s Waffles, at nine in the morning.”
He was scratching his forehead when I left the room. I did not see Agnes on the way out.
* * *
I check into the Best Western, call home and chat with Sara, then head downstairs to find something to eat. The restaurant is empty and uninviting, but there are a few salesmen swapping stories over drinks in a lounge. I choose a table, order a sandwich and a glass of tea, and notice a television in a corner. The Cubs are playing the Mets with the sound on mute. I stare at it, the first baseball game I’ve watched in thirty years.
16
On September 8, 1973, Warren Tracey started against the Padres in San Diego. He walked two in the first inning but got out of trouble with a bases-loaded double play. He walked two more in the second, then gave up back-to-back doubles. On the air, Ralph Kiner referred to his pitching as “batting practice.” By the time Yogi Berra pulled him, the Padres had a five-run lead and two runners on, and the Mets, who had won eight of their last ten, were in trouble.
In his last three starts, Warren had completed just three innings, given up seventeen runs on twelve hits, walked thirteen, and had an ERA that approached triple figures. Since hitting Castle, he had lost his ability to throw inside, and every hitter in the National League knew it. The New York sportswriters and fans were screaming for his head, and it was obvious the Mets had to do something. The team was winning, with the exception of Warren, and there was open speculation about who would replace him in the rotation.
And there was more pressure. On September 15, the Mets were scheduled to arrive in Chicago for a three-game series, and there was an excellent chance that the sight of Warren Tracey on the field at Wrigley would lead to bloodshed. The death threats were pouring in—to the Mets home office, in anonymous letters to the editors, to the homes of some of the Mets players. The Chicago sportswriters were speculating about how dangerous Wrigley would be if the Mets were foolish enough to put Tracey on the mound. Commissioner Bowie Kuhn was watching the situation closely.
On September 14, three weeks after the beaning, the Mets released Warren Tracey.
* * *
Of course, my father did not call home with the news that he had been cut from the roster. That would have required some maturity and courage on his part. The Mets were in L.A., and as I tuned in for the pregame show, I heard Lindsey Nelson and Ralph Kiner talking about the decision by the Mets front office to get rid of Warren Tracey. He had pitched himself out of a job, and they spent some time recapping his season and career. A month earlier, he had a record of seven and seven and was pitching effectively. But since the Castle incident, he had been a disaster.
I could hear the relief in the voices of Nelson and Kiner. No one traveling with the Mets wanted to go into Wrigley the following day with Warren Tracey around.
My mother was playing tennis at a club a few blocks away. I decided that she should hear the news that her husband was suddenly out of work, and the sooner the better. I rode my bike over, watched her play from a distance, and when she finished, I caught her as she was leaving the court. She took it hard. Not only was he cut from the team, but at thirty-four his career was surely over. I had no idea how much money they had saved, if any, though my mother kept a pretty tight budget. And now that he had nothing to do, he would spend more time at home, a prospect that none of us looked forward to.
Our little world was unraveling. My father was out of work and over the hill. He was drinking more, staying out more, and fighting more with my mother, who was dropping hints about a new life, one without him. We had changed our phone number twice because of the anonymous calls and now had a private number. It was not unusual to see a police car parked in front of our home. We were frightened.
* * *
The Cubs won two of the three games against the Mets. There were no fights, no beanballs, and no ejections. When the series began, the teams were tied for first in the National League East, and with fifteen games to go, no one could afford another suspension or injury.
Without Joe in the lineup, the Cubs had won eleven and lost thirteen. Their ten-game lead three weeks earlier had been reduced to one. They were sinking, Chicago style, while the Mets were winning. To Cubs fans, the beaning of Joe Castle had been a deliberate attack planned by the Mets to get him off the field so their team would falter. In Warren Tracey, the Mets had the perfect attack dog—a journeyman headhunter who could do the dirty work and then get thrown out with the trash. Seaver, Koosman, and Matlack could stay above it all.
This was not just idle chatter from drunks in a bar. Many of Chicago’s sportswriters w
ere now conspiracy theorists and fanning these flames.
There was still a fervent, though fading, dream that Joe would snap out of his coma, hop off the bed, hustle out of the hospital, and take up where he left off. But with each passing day, the sad reality settled in a bit deeper. Wait till next year, the Cubs were famous for saying, but now they meant it. Wait till next year, when Joe’s back and he’s a year older and more experienced. Just wait.
* * *
On September 18, the day after the series ended and the Mets moved on to Montreal, Joe Castle woke up and spoke to a nurse. This was reported on the local station, and my mother heard it first. She told me, and I rode over to Tom Sabbatini’s to discuss this exciting news. Mr. Sabbatini knew what I was going through, and he offered to take us to the hospital the following Saturday.
After school the next day, I went to the library and read the coverage in the Tribune and Sun-Times. Joe was still in serious condition, but at least he was awake, talking, and eating. Red was by his side and agreed to allow a reporter from the Tribune inside the room for ten minutes. The reporter asked Joe how he felt, and his response was, “I have felt much better.” He was described as sedated, groggy, and not always responsive to questions. There was a photograph, a heartbreaking picture of Joe Castle with his head wrapped in thick gauze, much like a casualty from combat. His right eye was covered too. The eye was of grave concern to his doctors.
Mount Sinai had been deluged with cards, flowers, gifts, and visitors wanting to see Joe. A temporary shrine had been set up in a wide, open foyer on the ground floor. In the center, there was a large photo of Joe—the same one from the cover of Sports Illustrated—and to each side were long, wide panels of corkboard. Hundreds of fans had tacked on notes, cards, and letters to Joe. At the foot of the panels were cardboard boxes filled with flowers, chocolates, and other gifts.
Tom and I wrote letters, though we didn’t share them before they were sealed in envelopes. In an effort to get Joe’s attention, my letter began with “Dear Joe: I am Paul Tracey, Warren’s son. I am so sorry for what my father did.” I went on to gush about how closely I had followed his career, how great I thought he was, and how badly I wanted him to get better and return to the field.
Saturday morning, we took the train into the city. It was a beautiful fall day; the leaves were turning and blowing in the breeze as we strolled through Central Park. When we entered the hospital from Fifth Avenue, a hand-painted sign read JOE CASTLE WALL, and an arrow pointed to the left. We found the wall and tacked our letters side by side as close to his photo as possible. A volunteer explained that the letters, cards, and gifts were collected every two or three days and would be given to Mr. Castle at some convenient time in the future. She thanked us for coming.
“Where is he?” I asked.
She looked up and said, “Fourth floor, but I’m afraid you can’t go there.”
“How’s he doing today?”
“I’ve heard he’s improving,” she said, and she was right. According to the newspapers, he was slowly making progress, but a dramatic comeback seemed doubtful. We hung around for a few minutes, looking at the assortment of letters, cards, and gifts. I glanced up and down the wide corridors in the distance, all busy with the typical hospital foot traffic. I was tempted to drift away, find the elevators, and somehow make my way to the fourth floor, where I could cleverly sneak into Joe’s room for a private chat. But good judgment prevailed.
* * *
Mr. Sabbatini grew up on the Lower East Side and knew the city like a cabdriver. He was also a Yankees fan, a pleasant one. He had tickets, and we rode the subway to the Bronx, to The House That Ruth Built, and spent that beautiful afternoon watching the Yankees, with Thurman Munson, Graig Nettles, and Bobby Murcer, play the Orioles, with Brooks Robinson, Boog Powell, and Paul Blair.
Tom and I decided that we had been narrow-minded in the selection of the National League as our only potential home. We discussed the possibility of also playing for a team in the American League. Mr. Sabbatini agreed that this was wise on our part.
Something was different, though. My dreams were not as clear and exciting. My love for the game was not as deep. I joked along with Tom as we discussed which American League teams would be acceptable. We evaluated the important factors—uniform colors, stadium size, winning tradition, great players from the past, and so on—but it was not as much fun as it had been a month earlier.
Mr. Sabbatini listened and laughed and offered his advice. He was an exceptionally nice person, generous with his time and always kind with his comments. He seemed especially concerned about me. He understood the earthquakes and aftershocks that were rattling my world, and he wanted me to know that he was in my corner.
17
I walk into Wink’s Waffles at 8:30 and ask for a table by the window. The place is full of seniors consuming far too many calories thanks to the latest coupon scheme devised to attract those over sixty-five. The hostess is reluctant to seat me where I want to be seated, so I inform her that I’m expecting at least three others. This works and I get my table, which, as I recall, is very near the one we had four years ago, when my girls met their paternal grandfather for the first and last time. I drink coffee, read the newspaper, and watch the parking lot.
At 8:55, a golf cart appears from the path next to the restaurant. It’s Warren, alone. He parks in a row of other carts, stands slowly and stretches his back, then walks with the careful movements you would expect of a man who is recuperating from a nasty surgery. Sick as he is, there is still the unmistakable walk of an old man who was once a great athlete. Head high, chest up, a trace of a swagger. He’s holding sheets of paper, no doubt my little memoir about his beanball.
I wave him over, and he joins me; no handshake, no smile. His eyes are red and puffy, as if sleep eluded him. He opens with a pleasant “You can’t print this piece of shit.”
“Well, good morning, Warren. Sleep well?”
“You heard me.”
“I can and will, Warren. Why the crude language? Hit a bit too close to home? Surely you’re not calling it a pack of lies?”
“It’s a pack of lies.”
The waitress appears, and he orders coffee. When she’s gone, he says, “What are you trying to prove?”
“Nothing. What I’m trying to do is force you to face the consequences, for one of the few times in your life.”
“Aren’t you the wise one?”