Calico Joe

  “I’m not trying to be wise, Warren. You have a lot of unfinished business in your life, and this is one loose end you can wrap up before you’re gone.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’m fighting this thing tooth and nail, and my doctors know a hell of a lot more than you do.”

  I am not going to argue about whether he is dying. If he thinks he is in the lucky 5 percent who will live for five years, I am in no position to say otherwise. His coffee arrives, and the waitress asks about the others who might be joining us.

  “It’s just the two of us,” I say.

  “Are you ready to order?”

  “Sure. I guess I should have a waffle. Blueberry, with sausage.”

  “Nothing for me,” he says gruffly, waving her away.

  “Who do you think will print this crap?” he asks.

  “Do you read Sports Illustrated?”

  “No.”

  “There’s a senior writer there named Jerry Kilpatrick. Baseball is his favorite beat. A Chicago guy, my age. I’ve talked to him twice, and he’s interested in the story, and the truth. Joe Castle will never be forgotten in Chicago, and Kilpatrick thinks the story would be great. Especially after you’re gone.”

  “You don’t know the truth,” he growls.

  “We both know it, Warren.”

  He sips his coffee and gazes out the window. Finally, he says, “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You don’t know the game.”

  “Are you talking about the code, Warren? The little unwritten rules of baseball, one of which says that beanballs must be used to, number one, get guys off the plate, or, number two, retaliate when one of your players gets hit, or, number three, put a guy in his place if he shows up the pitcher. I can’t remember numbers four and five. Is that what you’re talking about, Warren? Because if it is, then you’re dead wrong because Joe didn’t crowd the plate, nobody was throwing at your hitters, and Joe did nothing to show you up. You wanted to hit him in the head because you envied his success, and you liked to hit players and start trouble, and, well, I don’t know, Warren, what was your reason for the beanball? You used it so often. Maybe you realized you couldn’t get him out, so you hit him in the head. Was that it, Warren?”

  “You’re clueless.”

  “Okay, then explain things to me, Warren. Why do you have no regrets about intentionally hitting Joe Castle in the face?”

  “It’s part of the game, sort of like the football player who breaks his neck or blows out a knee, never to play again. The boxer with brain damage. The race car driver who’s killed in a crash. The skier who falls off a mountain. It’s sports, okay? Bad things happen, and when they do, you don’t run around crying and apologizing and trying to make everything okay. That’s not the game as I knew it.”

  I will not bicker. I could blow holes in his twisted logic for the next hour and gain nothing. We take a break and listen to the chatter around us. Alone, the two of us, for the first time in decades. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I was alone with my father. I’ve seen him half a dozen times since he abandoned us, and only a couple of those little meetings were his idea. There is so much I would like to say, none of it pleasant, and I battle the urge to unload a lifetime’s worth of debris. But I promised myself I would not beat him up. Given his attitude at the moment, I doubt if Warren Tracey would sit still during a round of verbal abuse. He’s still a fighter.

  The waitress delivers the waffle, a thick dessert-like creation smothered in whipping cream. I take a bite of link sausage, something Sara would never consider buying, and dive back into our little session. “So, finally, after thirty years, you’re admitting you deliberately hit Joe?”

  “I’m really hesitant to say anything to you because you might add it to your little short story here. Since you’re divulging family matters anyway, I don’t trust you.”

  “Fair enough. You have my word that anything you say here today will not be included.”

  “Still don’t trust you.”

  “I’m not going to argue such things as trust and responsibility, Warren. Why did you throw at Joe Castle?”

  “He was a cocky kid, and I didn’t like what he did to Dutch Patton. Dutch and I played together in Cleveland.”

  “He was not a cocky kid, no more so than any other major leaguer. And you did not play with Dutch Patton in Cleveland. Dutch never played for the Indians.” I take a small bite of a large waffle, without taking my eyes off him. His mouth drops open and his eyes glow, as if he might throw a punch. Suddenly he grimaces and exhales as a jolt of pain shoots through his midsection. I forgot what he’s going through.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  “I’ll be all right. I’m thinking about playing golf tomorrow.”

  I appreciate the change in subjects. We talk about golf for a few minutes, and the mood lightens considerably. Then it darkens again when I realize he has played golf since he was six years old; he won the Maryland Open when he was seventeen; and he has never played a single round with me. I understand the DNA thing, but the man across the table is nothing but my biological father. Nothing more.

  I make quick work of the waffle and sausage and slide the platter away. “You were trying to explain why you beaned Joe. I don’t think we finished that part of the conversation.”

  “You’re so damned smart, why don’t you explain it?” he snaps angrily.

  “Oh, I know, Warren. I’ve known for a long time. There were several reasons you wanted to hit Joe, all twisted and pretty sick, but as you say, that was your game. You resented his success and the attention he was getting. In your warped mind, he showed you up after he hit his home run in the first inning. You wanted to be the first tough guy to hit him in the head. You loved hitting people and starting trouble. And you were envious because I, along with countless other little boys in the summer of 1973, worshipped Joe Castle. You had slapped me around. You were trying to make amends, trying to be my hero, and you couldn’t stand the thought of me dreaming of becoming some other player. All of the above and probably more, but that’s enough. I don’t have access to your thoughts, thank God.”

  “So it was all about you?”

  “I didn’t say that, Warren. Only you know why you did it. The sick part is that you can’t admit it. You’ve lied for thirty years and never had the spine to admit what you did.” This sounds much harsher than I want it to be.

  His shoulders sag a little, and there are tiny beads of sweat on his forehead. He pinches his nose and almost under his breath says, “I’m sorry I slapped you around, Paul.”

  I roll my eyes in frustration and want to curse. “You’ve apologized a hundred times for that, Warren. I’m not here because of the slapping. I’m not here to dredge up your deficiencies as a father. I buried those a long time ago.”

  With a paper napkin, he wipes the sweat from his face. His skin has lost what little color it had. He takes a sip of coffee and stares at me. In a voice that is suddenly weak and raspy, he says, “I threw at Joe, but I swear I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

  I was waiting for this, one of baseball’s greatest lies, one of the lamest excuses in the history of sports. I shake my head in disbelief and say, “Gee, what a surprise. The same asinine cop-out pitchers have been using for a hundred years. So, let me get this straight, Warren. You deliberately throw a fastball at a batter’s face, at ninety or perhaps ninety-five miles an hour, from sixty feet away, a distance that gives him less than a second to react, with the intent, the goal, the dream to see the ball hit him somewhere above the neck and knock him to the ground, preferably in a state of unconsciousness. If they carry him off, no big deal. If he misses a few games, no big deal. Yet when the beanball actually does serious damage, you can hide behind the old faithful ‘Gosh, I didn’t mean to hurt him.’ Can’t you see how utterly ridiculous this is, Warren? You sound like a fool for saying it.”

  Again, I am aware that this
sounds too harsh, but I’m fighting anger right now.

  He drops his head, nods at something, then looks through the window. There is a crowd of seniors waiting around the front door. The hostess keeps looking our way. I think she wants our table, but I’m in no hurry.

  He finally mumbles, “It was just part of the game.”

  “Your game, maybe,” I shoot back. “But then, you were a headhunter.”

  “I was not.”

  “Then why did you throw at their heads? Why didn’t you throw at Joe’s thigh or hip or ribs, anything below the shoulder? That’s what the code says, right, Warren? The code says sometimes you have to hit a guy—I understand that. But the code also says you never throw at a guy’s head. But you were a tough guy, weren’t you, Warren? You wanted to hit Joe in the head.”

  “I’m bored with this conversation. What do you want, Paul?”

  “Let’s take a trip together, go to Calico Rock. You can sit down with Joe and shake hands, say what you want to say, have a long chat about the game, about life, whatever. I’ll be there. Joe has a couple of brothers who take care of him, I’m sure they’ll be there. It will mean a lot to Joe and his family. I promise you, Warren, you will not regret doing this. Let’s close this chapter. Now.”

  He picks up my story and says, “And if I don’t, then you’ll get this published after I’m gone?”

  “That’s the plan,” I reply, doubting now that the blackmail was a good opening strategy.

  Quickly, he rips it in two, tosses it at me, and says, “Go ahead. I’ll be dead.” He’s on his feet and working his way through the crowd at the front door, moving nicely for an old sick man. He gets in the golf cart, grips the wheel, and pauses as if he’s hit with another sharp pain. He gazes into the distance, waiting, deep in thought, and for a second I think that maybe he has changed his mind.

  Then he drives away, and I am certain I will never see him again.

  18

  On September 23, the doctors released a statement about Joe’s condition. Because of the trauma to the optic nerve, Joe had lost at least 80 percent of the vision in his right eye, and the loss was permanent. The probability of Joe playing again was, in their opinion, “extremely low.”

  The news broke the hearts of Cubs fans. Their annual “wait till next year” suddenly lost all of its promise and excitement. The greatest prospect in their long, frustrated history would never play again.

  It also crushed the spirits of the players. Joe’s teammates were struggling without him, and the news from New York was devastating. Later that afternoon they were blown out by the Braves, and they would lose the next three, falling two games behind the Mets, who were winning and on the verge of clinching the National League East. The Mets would go on to beat the Reds for the pennant, and do so without a player hitting over .300 or a pitcher winning twenty games. In the second coming of the Miracle Mets, they pushed the A’s to seven games before losing the World Series.

  The miraculous yet tragic career of Joe Castle came to an end. His numbers were mind-boggling—in thirty-eight games he had 160 at bats, seventy-eight hits, twenty-one home runs, twenty-one doubles, eight triples, thirty-one stolen bases, and forty-one RBIs. His batting average of .488 was the highest ever, but would not be entered into the record books because he didn’t play enough. Other records would stand: (1) the first rookie to hit three home runs in his first game; (2) the first rookie to hit safely in his first nineteen games; (3) the first rookie to steal a base in nine consecutive games; (4) the first rookie to steal second and third in seven different games; and, his most famous, (5) fifteen consecutive hits in fifteen at bats. He tied several other rookie records, including four hits in his first game.

  But on September 23, 1973, his numbers meant little to him and his fans.

  * * *

  My father eventually came home after being released by the Mets, and during the first family dinner he tried to appear upbeat about his future. Supposedly, several teams were interested in him for the 1974 season. Negotiations were under way, deals being offered. We listened and pretended to believe him, but we knew the truth.

  In an effort to stay busy, he painted the inside of the garage, installed new gutters, worked on his car, and seemed to be making plans to live there for a long time.

  My mother was playing a lot of tennis and secretly looking for a job.

  I came home from school one afternoon and, as usual, planned to leave as soon as possible and hustle down the street to the Sabbatinis’. My father was in the den watching television, and when I walked through, he said, “Say, Paul, you got time for a catch? I need to keep my arm loose.”

  As bad as I wanted to say no, I couldn’t do it. “Sure.”

  I had vowed to never again toss a baseball with my father.

  * * *

  … an open area where we had a small backstop and a wooden home plate. He grabbed me by the arm and said, “First of all, don’t ever ignore me again like that. You hear me? I’m your father and I know a thousand times more baseball than those clowns who call themselves coaches.” I tried to pull away, but he dug in with fingernails. He was getting angrier with each passing second. “You hear me? Don’t ever ignore me again.”

  “Yes sir,” I said, but only to keep from getting hit.

  He let go and put his finger under my chin. “Look at me,” he snarled. “Look me in the eyes when I’m talking to you. There’s a right way and a wrong way to play this game, and you got it all wrong. Never, I repeat, never let a hitter show you up like that. At any level of the game, I don’t care if you’re eight years old or playing in the World Series, never let a hitter show you up like that. This is how you handle that type of an asshole. Get up there.”

  I took the bat and got in a stance at home plate. He backed away, maybe fifty feet. He was wearing his glove, and he had three baseballs in it. I was an eleven-year-old kid, without a batting helmet, facing a pitcher for the Mets, one who was not only angry but in the process of teaching me the crude art of hitting a batter.

  “The code says he’s getting hit, okay, so the next time he prances his cocky ass up to the plate, it’s your job to hit him. Same as if one of your guys got plunked, then you gotta protect your team. Are you listening to me?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I do it with three pitches. Some guys go right at them and hit them with the first pitch. I don’t do that, because most batters are looking for it on the first pitch. I set them up. My first pitch is a fastball a foot outside.”

  He took a windup and threw a fastball a foot outside. It wasn’t full speed, but then I wasn’t fully grown. The pitch looked awfully fast to me.

  “Don’t step out!” he growled. “Second pitch, same as the first.” Another windup, another fastball a foot outside.

  “Now, this is when you nail the son of a bitch. He’s leaning in a little, thinking I’m picking at the outside corner, so he’s not thinking about getting drilled. I’m not gonna hit you in the head, so don’t step out, okay? Dig in, Paul, like a real player.”

  I was terrified and couldn’t move. He took his windup and threw the ball at me, not high and not as hard as he could, but when the ball hit my thigh, it hurt like hell and I think I screamed. He was yelling, “See. You’re gonna survive. That’s how you do it. Two fastballs away, then you hit the bastard, preferably in the head.” He scurried around and picked up the three baseballs while I rubbed my thigh and tried not to cry. “Give me the bat and get your glove,” he said.

  I was now the pitcher, and he was at the plate. “Two fastballs outside. Let’s go.”

  I delivered the first one in the grass and three feet off the plate. “You gotta hit the catcher’s mitt, Paul, come on, damn it,” he snarled as he waved the bat like a real hitter. His career batting average was .159.

  I threw the second pitch outside and higher.

  “Now,” he said, taking a step toward me. “Drill me right here.” He tapped the side of his head. “Stick it in my ear, Paul.” He w
as back at the plate in his stance. “Stick it in my ear. You can’t throw hard enough to hurt me.”

  I was forty feet away, gripping the baseball, wanting desperately to throw a pitch that would knock out his teeth, spill blood, fracture his skull, and lay him out flat on the grass. I kicked high, delivered, and the ball went straight down the middle of the plate, a perfect strike. As it bounced off the backstop, he picked it up, threw it back to me, and said, “Come on, you little chicken-shit. Hit me with the damned baseball.”

  I threw another fastball, one that was higher but still over the plate. This made him even angrier, and after retrieving the ball, he fired it back. It was getting dark. He threw the ball much too hard. It glanced off the webbing of my glove and hit me in the chest. I shrieked and started crying, and before I realized it, he was in my face, yelling, “If you don’t take this ball and hit me in the head, I’m gonna beat your ass, you understand?”

  As he stomped to the plate, I glanced at the house. Upstairs, Jill was peeking out her bedroom window.

  My third effort at beaning him was as unsuccessful as the first two. The pitch was high and inside, but not close enough to do the damage I wanted. To show his disgust, he reached out with his left hand and caught the pitch bare-handed. What an insult to a pitcher, but then I really didn’t care. I just wanted to get away from this madman. He flung the bat toward the house and came after me.

  “You’re a coward, you know that, Paul? Nothing but a coward. It takes guts to throw at batters, but a pitcher has to do it.”

  “Not in Little League,” I managed to say.

  “In every league!”

  I guess I was too small to punch, so he slapped me across the face with the back of his left hand, protecting, of course, his pitching hand. I screamed and fell down, and just as he grabbed me by the collar, I heard my mother yell, “Get away from him, Warren!”

  She was standing ten feet away, holding the baseball bat, something she had probably never done before in her life, and aiming its barrel at my father. Jill was hiding behind her. For a few seconds no one moved, then, seeing the opportunity, I crawled away.

  “Put the bat down,” he said.

  “You hit him in the face,” she said. “What kind of animal are you?”

  “He hit him with the baseball too,” Jill added.

  “Shut up,” he snarled.

  A few more seconds passed as everyone took a breath. We slowly made our way inside, each carefully watching the other. My parents went to the basement and fought for a long time, and when they got tired, he left.

  (EXCERPT FROM “THE BEANING OF JOE CASTLE,” BY PAUL TRACEY, SON OF WARREN)

  19

  Killing time in the Atlanta airport, I call Clarence Rook. It has been slightly more than twenty-four hours since I said good-bye to him, but it seems like a month. “You’ll never guess who called me last night,” he says.

  “Charlie or Red?”

  “Charlie. Said he got a call from Joe, who said I showed up at the field with a stranger, and he was just checking in to make sure everything’s okay. That’s what Charlie always says—‘Clarence, everything okay?’ I said, sure, Charlie, just a nephew from Texas who wanted to see the field.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him the truth?” I ask.

  “Well, I did, later. I got to thinking about it, chatted with Fay, and so I called Charlie back, said I had something important to discuss with him and Red, and could we meet for coffee? We did, this morning, at a quieter place north of town. I told them all about you, your visit, and so on.” He stops talking, and this is not a good sign.

  “Let me guess. They did not weep with sorrow at the news that Warren Tracey has terminal cancer.”

  “They did not.”

  A pause, another bad sign. “And the idea of him coming to Calico Rock to meet with Joe? How was that received?”

  “Not very well, at least not at first. In fact, they didn’t like the idea of you being here.”

  “Will they shoot me if I return?”

  “No. They warmed up considerably, even promised to talk to Joe and see if he likes the idea. I pushed a little, but it’s really none of my business. What about the meeting with your father?”

  I decide to spin it. “I got the door open, I think. We had some frank discussions, a lot of old family stuff, nothing you want to hear. The problem is that he is in denial about his cancer, and until he faces the prospect of death, he will be hard to persuade.”

  “Poor guy.”

  “Maybe, but I could not reach the point where I actually felt sorry for him.”

  I ask about Fay, and the conversation runs out of gas. An hour later, I board the flight to Dallas.