Calico Joe (13 page)

“It can, but you gotta know your source. This is good stuff, some of the best—light, tasty, virtually harmless.”

Harmless? My toes are burning. As the child of a violent alcoholic, I have never been attracted to the drinking life, and after an evening of lemon gin and moonshine whiskey I realize how wise I have been.

“The second sip is easier, and the third is the best,” he says. I take an even smaller sip, and it burns less, probably because of the scar tissue left behind by the first.

“Tell me, Paul, how did you know your father was going to bean Joe?” he asks, reaching for his pipe and tobacco pouch.

“That’s a long story,” I say, trying to find my tongue.

He smiles and spreads his arms. “We have all night. I usually read until midnight and sleep till eight.”

I take a third sip and actually get a slight taste of peach flavoring. “He was of the old school. If a batter hits a home run, then the batter wins the duel. His reward is obvious; he gets nothing more. It’s a sin to insult the pitcher by showing off in any way. Standing at the plate and admiring the drive; flipping the bat; loafing around the bases to soak up the attention; and heaven forbid any show of self-gratification or emotion. No sir. The batter wins, and he circles the bases quickly
and gets to the dugout. Otherwise, he pays for it. If a batter does anything to show off, then the pitcher has the right to knock him down. That was straight from the old code, and my father swore by it.”

“That might not work in today’s game,” Clarence says, blowing a cloud of smoke.

“I wouldn’t know, Clarence. I haven’t watched a game in thirty years.”

“So, did Joe do something to show up Warren Tracey? You were there. Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau said repeatedly that Joe did nothing wrong.”

“Well, according to Warren’s official party line, the answer is no. No, because he soon began claiming that it was an accident, he did not throw at Joe, that it was simply a pitch up that got away from him. I suspect that once it became obvious Joe was seriously injured, Warren changed his tune and started lying.”

“You seem awfully certain about this.”

“When I was a little boy, five or six, I decided I wanted to be a pitcher because my father was a pitcher. I was pretty good and got better as I grew up. I didn’t get a lot of backyard coaching because he was seldom at home, but we lived in the same house, and some of his knowledge rubbed off on me, I guess. I was pitching once and a kid hit a home run, a real shot, and he danced and yelled all the way around the bases. My father was there, which was a rare occasion, and the next time this kid came up, my father yelled, ‘Knock him down,
Paul.’ I was 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 heat. “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.”