Calico Joe

21

Clarence is waiting inside the front door of the Calico Rock Record. The morning is bright, the air light and cool, a far different feel from my last visit in August. Main Street is coming to life. We arrive at 9:00 a.m., as scheduled. Warren slept for ten hours and says he feels good.

“I’m very sorry about your illness, Mr. Tracey,” Clarence says sincerely, after they shake hands.

“Thank you. And it’s Warren, okay?”

“Sure. Would you like some coffee?”

We would, and we gather in Clarence’s wonderfully cluttered office for the morning ritual of coffee. Clarence brings us up to speed on the latest conversations with the Castle clan. They have yet to agree to a meeting, but they haven’t ruled one out either. Clarence thinks things will go well if we simply show up. I knew before I left Santa Fe, and Warren knew before he left Florida, that such a meeting might not take place, but we agreed to try anyway. On the phone, Warren said he would feel better having tried to speak with Joe, if indeed Joe has no desire to meet.

We ride with Clarence across town to the high school. Again, Joe is on his red Toro mower, slowly and meticulously riding back and forth across the outfield, cutting grass that is no longer growing. It is October and the grass is turning brown. Near the third base dugout, we climb the bleachers and take a seat. Two middle-aged men are sitting in the first base dugout. “Red and Charlie,” Clarence says as we settle into our places with nothing to do but watch Joe cut grass. There is no one else around. It’s almost 10:00 a.m., and the high school is busy in the distance.

“And he does this every day?” Warren asks. He’s to my left, Clarence to my right.

“Five days a week if the weather is nice,” Clarence says. “March through November.”

“It’s a beautiful field,” Warren says.

“They give an award each year for the best high school baseball field in the state. We’ve won it so many times I can’t keep up. I guess it helps when you have a full-time grounds-keeper.”

After a few more surgical cuts, Joe lifts his blades and heads for the first base dugout. He kills the engine, gets off the mower, and says something to his brothers. One of them steps out of the dugout with two folding chairs that he carries to a spot just in front of home plate. “That’s Red,” Clarence says quietly.

Red unfolds the chairs, arranges them so that they are facing the pitcher’s mound, and when their placement suits him, he takes a few steps in our direction, stops, and says, “Mr. Tracey.”

“I think that’s you,” I say to Warren, who gets to his feet and slowly makes his way down the bleachers to the field. He is met by Red, who extends a hand and says, “I’m Red Castle. Nice to meet you.”

They shake hands and Warren says, “Thanks for doing this.”

Joe is shuffling toward the chairs, his cane poking the ground in front of him, his feet doing their sad little stutter steps. His left arm and hand hang by his side, and he works the cane with his right hand. When he is close enough, he stops and offers it. Warren takes it with both of his hands, grasps it, and says, “It’s good to see you, Joe.”

When Joe speaks, it is in a high-pitched, halting staccato, as if he knows precisely what the next word will be but getting it out requires some effort. “Thanks … for … coming.” They sit in the chairs at home plate, and Red goes back to the first base dugout.

With their shoulders almost touching, they sit for a moment and stare out beyond the mound, their thoughts known only to themselves.

“You have a beautiful field here, Joe.”

“Thanks.”

From where we sit, we cannot hear them. Red and Charlie are seated on the bench in the dugout, likewise too far away to hear.

“A long way from Shea Stadium,” Clarence says softly.

“A thousand miles and a thousand years. Thanks for doing this.”

“You did it, Paul, not me. I’m happy to be in the middle of it—a reporter’s dream. How many die-hard baseball fans in this country would kill to have our seats right now?”

I shake my head. “A couple of million in Chicago alone.”

Joe says, “Sorry … about … the … cancer.”

“Thanks, Joe. Just a bad break, you know. Bad luck. Sometimes you get lucky; sometimes you don’t.”

Joe nods. He is acquainted with bad luck. A minute passes as they sit and stare and ponder what to say next.

“I think we’re supposed to talk about baseball, Joe. That’s the reason I’m here.”

Joe is still nodding. “Okay.”

“How often do you think about that night at Shea Stadium, Joe, the last time we saw each other?”

“Not … much … Don’t … remember … much.”

“Well, I’m envious, because I remember too well. It was a beanball, Joe, one I threw at your head as hard as I could possibly throw a baseball. I wanted to hit you, to knock you down, to put you in your place, and all that crap. It was intentional, Joe, and I’ve regretted it ever since. I’m sorry. I apologize. It was a nasty, mean-spirited, really stupid thing to do, and it ruined what was destined to be a great career. There—I said it. I’m sorry, Joe.”

Joe nods and nods and finally says, “It’s … okay … it’s … okay.”

Warren is on a roll and wants to unload everything. “I meant to hit you, Joe, but I had no idea all the bad stuff would happen. I know that sounds crazy. You throw a fastball at a guy’s head with the clear intention of hitting him, yet you say you didn’t really mean to hurt him. It’s foolish, I know. So I guess I was a fool as well as an idiot.”

“It’s … okay … it’s … okay.”

“When I let it go, I knew it was on-target. I knew it would land somewhere above the neck. But it was too perfect, and for a split second you didn’t move. When it hit, I could hear bones break. A lot of people heard bones break that night. It was pretty scary. I knew you were hurt. When they put you on the stretcher, I thought you were dead. God, I’m sorry, Joe.”

“It’s … okay … Warren.”

There was a long gap in the conversation as both men continued to gaze into the distance. Warren says, “Do you remember your first at bat that night, the home run?”

“I … remember … every … home … run.”

Warren smiles. Typical hitter. “At one point, you fouled off eight straight pitches. I had never seen a bat that quick. I threw fastballs, sliders, curves, changeups, even a cutter, and you just waited and waited until the last possible split second, then flicked the bat and fouled them off. The home run you hit was four inches off the plate. I fooled you all right, but you recovered and hit it almost four hundred feet. That’s when I decided to hit you. I was thinking, well, if I can’t get him out, I’ll just knock him down. Intimidate him. He’s just a rookie.”

“Just … part … of … the … game.”

“Maybe. A lot of players have been hit in the head, but few got hurt. Ray Chapman was killed by a pitch in 1920. Mickey Cochrane never played again after taking one in the head. Tony Conigliaro was a certain Hall of Famer, then he got beaned in the eye. I hit him once, did you know that?”

“Tony C.?”

“Yep. In 1965, I was pitching for Cleveland. Tony crowded the plate, and he was fearless. I drilled him in the shoulder and never felt bad about it. Sometimes you gotta hit a guy, Joe, you know that. But you don’t try to hurt someone; it’s never part of the game to throw at a guy’s head. He’s got a family, a career. That was my mistake.”

“You … hit … a … lot … of … people.”

Warren takes a deep breath and readjusts his weight. He took a pain pill an hour earlier, and it’s wearing off. “True, and I have a lot of regrets, Joe. When I die, they won’t say anything about what a lousy husband and father I was. They won’t say much about my mediocre baseball career. No. What they’ll write about is that one pitch. I threw a million, but they’ll talk about the beanball that nailed Joe Castle. The one I’ll always regret.”

“Me … too.”

Both men find this funny and begin laughing softly.

“You have every right to hate me, Joe. I cost you so much. In the blink of an eye, your career was gone, and there was no one to blame but me. It would be nice, as I’m getting close to the end, to know that you don’t hate me. Is this asking too much?”

“I … hate … no … one.”

“Even me? Come on, Joe, surely you’ve had some really evil thoughts about me over the years.”

“I … did … but … not … now … You … said … it … was … an … accident … and … I … wanted … to … believe … you.”

“But I was lying, Joe. It wasn’t an accident. I lied about it for thirty years. Now I’m telling you the truth. Does this make you hate me?”

“No … You … apologized … I … accept.”

Warren puts his right hand on Joe’s left shoulder and says, “Thank you, Joe. You’re a much bigger man than me.”

“I’m … still … batting … a … thousand … off … you.”

Warren laughs loudly, and Joe follows.

We watch and are amused at their ability to laugh. I’ve known my entire life that Warren Tracey has no sense of humor, so it’s obvious Joe has said something funny.

“I think they’re getting along,” Clarence observes.

“I suppose they have to. If a fight breaks out, Warren has no one in his corner.”

“They’re in no mood for a fight. Charlie told me yesterday they admired your father for wanting to see Joe.”

“What was their hesitation?”

“Two reasons. They were afraid it might upset Joe and bring back a lot of bad memories. And they’re afraid this little meeting might somehow get leaked and end up in a story somewhere. I assured them that would not happen. Right?”

“Of course.”

“So how did you blackmail your father into coming?”

“The blackmail didn’t work. He’s here because he wants to be here. He’s a tough guy, and it’s taken the reality of death to soften him up. He’s looking back at a sloppy life with a lot of regrets.”

“What an awful way to die.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is.”

Joe looks at the first base dugout and says, “Charlie … Red.” His brothers get to their feet and leave the dugout.

Warren stands, looks at us, and waves us down.

We meet in front of home plate, and I shake hands with Joe Castle. He wears a cap, and thick, dark sunglasses to cover his bad eye. His hair is half gray, and he looks nothing like the smiling kid on the magazine covers of thirty years ago. In all fairness, though, who does look the same after thirty years?

Charlie and Red are nice enough but would rather observe than participate.

At my request, Clarence has a camera, and I explain to the Castles that I would like some photos to record the meeting. “Will they be published?” Red asks.

“Only with your approval,” I say. He and Charlie are suspicious, but they agree.

To my surprise, Clarence has brought something else. From a small plastic bag kept somewhere inside his coat, he pulls out two baseball caps—Cubs and Mets. He hands them to Joe and Warren and says, “I thought it would be a nice touch to photograph you guys in these.”

Joe looks at his with a frown, and Warren does the same. They are hesitant, as if the caps bring back too many memories. “Just a thought,” Clarence says, retreating, as if he might have screwed up the entire meeting. Then Joe creases the bill of his cap, removes the one advertising a feed store, and puts on his Cubs cap. Like all ballplayers, he adjusts here and there until it feels right. When Warren removes his golf cap, his head is as slick as an onion, not a single hair, and for a split second we recoil at the horrors of chemotherapy. It is a reminder that he doesn’t have long.

With the caps in place, we take a step back and Clarence snaps away. The two players are standing, smiling, with Joe leaning on his cane. Clarence has a better idea. He suggests we move to right center and use the scoreboard of Joe Castle Field as a backdrop. This we do, and after a few dozen shots of Joe and Warren, I wedge myself into the frame and stand between my father and my old hero, all smiling.

The eight-by-ten will be the final entry in my Joe Castle scrapbook.

Suddenly there is nothing left to do. The two have met, said what needed to be said, and posed for photos. We say our good-byes and leave the field.

Driving back to Main Street, Clarence says that Fay would like to have an early lunch on the porch, if that’s okay. I glance at Warren in the rear seat, and he is shaking his head no. I do not want to offend Fay, or Clarence, so I say, “That’s nice, but we need to hit the road. Warren has a 4:00 p.m. flight.” I don’t feel bad about this, because I’ve seen enough of Calico Rock. And, being so hospitable, the Rooks would love nothing more than to spend the entire afternoon on the porch swapping stories and taking more photos. Then the lemon gins.

“No problem,” Clarence says. He parks and we meet at his rear bumper. I thank him again, and he offers his best wishes to Warren. I promise to call with updates.

Not far out of Calico Rock, Warren, who has gone silent, asks me to pull over. He gets into the backseat and falls asleep. The trip and the meeting with Joe have exhausted him, and he’s finally hit the wall.

He is still wearing his Mets cap.