Calico Joe (9 page)

Fay is Ms. Rook, a spry little woman with white hair and a pair of large, round, orange-rimmed glasses. She welcomes me profusely, grabbing my hand with both of hers, as if she has not had a guest in years. “From Santa Fe?” she says. “I love Santa Fe, the home of the most fascinating woman I wish I could have met.”

“And that would be?”

“Why Georgia O’Keeffe, of course.”

“Fay is an artist,” Mr. Rook adds, though this is becoming obvious. We are on the back porch by now, high above the White River in the distance, and I have unknowingly entered the studio of a serious painter. Stacks of easels, racks of perfectly organized paint bottles, boxes of brushes of all sizes and shapes. A few samples of her work reveal an impressionist fascination with flowers and landscapes.

“Would you like something to drink?” Mr. Rook asks as he steps to a small bar.

“Sure.”

“The house drink is lemon gin,” he says as he pours a yellow mix from a pitcher into a glass filled with ice. I have never heard of lemon gin, but it is apparent I will not be given a choice of cocktails.

“That stuff is dreadful,” Ms. Rook says, rolling her eyes as if the old boy might have a problem. He thrusts the glass at me and says, “It’s not real lemon gin, which I’m told is real gin flavored with lemon, which sounds awful, but this is more of a lemonade with a bit of Gordon’s thrown in to spice it up. Cheers.”

We tap glasses, and I take a sip. Not bad. We shuffle to the side porch and find seats amid the wicker. Ms. Rook is a study in bright colors. Her white hair has a streak of purple above the left ear. Her toenails are painted pink. Her cotton drip-dry dress is a collage of reds and blues. “You must stay for dinner,” she says. “We eat from the garden, everything is fresh. No meats. Is that okay?”

There was no way to offer a polite no, and besides, I have already realized that a good restaurant might be hard to find in Calico Rock. Nor have I seen a motel.

“If you insist,” I say, and this seems to thrill her beyond words.

“I’ll go pick the squash,” she says, bouncing to her feet and hurrying away.

We sip our drinks and talk about the heat and humidity but soon find our way back to more important matters. He begins, “You have to understand, Paul, that the Castles
are very protective of Joe. If you met him, let’s say randomly, out there on the street, for example, though that would never happen because Joe is seldom seen around town, but, anyway, if you bumped into him and tried to say hello, he would simply walk away. I can’t imagine Joe chatting with a stranger. It just doesn’t happen. Over the years, we’ve had the occasional journalist show up looking for a story. There were a couple of pieces written a long time ago, and they said things that weren’t nice.”

“Such as?”

“Joe is brain damaged. Joe is disabled. Joe is bitter. And so on. The family is very distrustful of anyone who shows up and wants to talk about Joe. That’s why they would never allow him to speak to you.”

“Could I talk to his brothers?”

“Who am I? You’re on your own, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Red and Charlie are nice enough, but they can be tough guys. And when it comes to their little brother, they can turn nasty real quick. They carry guns, like a lot of people around here. Hunting rifles and such.”

The lemon gin is settling in, and I want to change the subject to anything but guns. I take a long sip, as does Mr. Rook, and for a moment the only sounds are the whirling blades of the ceiling fans. Finally, I ask, “Did you see him play at Wrigley?”

A wide, nostalgic smile breaks across his face, and he begins to nod. “Twice. Fay and I drove to Chicago early in
August of that summer. The
Sports Illustrated
piece had just been published, and the world couldn’t get enough of Joe Castle.”

“How did you get tickets?”

“Scalpers. There were a lot of folks around here who wanted desperately to get to Chicago for a game, but word was out that you couldn’t get tickets. Joe got a handful each game, and there was always a fight for those. I remember drinking coffee one morning downtown and Mr. Herbert Mangrum walked in. He had some money, and he had just flown to Pittsburgh to watch the Cubs. Said he had to pay a scalper $300 for two tickets, in Pittsburgh. Herb was a big talker, and he went on and on about seeing Joe in Pittsburgh.”

“So you drove to Chicago with no tickets?”

“That’s right, but I had a contact. We got lucky and saw two games. Spoke to Joe after the first one. The kid was on top of the world. We were so proud.”

“Which games?”

“August 9 and 10, against the Braves.”

“You missed the fun. He got ejected the next day.”

Mr. Rook licks his lips, cocks his head, and gives me a strange look. “You know your stuff, don’t you?”

“Yes sir, I do.”

“Could you please drop the ‘sirs’ and the ‘misters’? I’m Clarence, and my wife is Fay.”

“Okay, Clarence. What do you want to know about the short, happy, and tragic career of Joe Castle?”

“How many games did he play?” Clarence asks, knowing the answer.

“Thirty-eight, and I have the box score for every one. He would’ve played forty-three but for the ejection on August 11, the day after you saw him play.”

Clarence smiles, nods, takes a long sip, and says, “You’re wrong, Paul. He would’ve played three thousand games if he hadn’t been beaned.” He sets his drink on the table, stands, and says, “I’ll be right back.”

He returns with a cardboard box, which he sets on the floor next to his sofa. From it he removes four thick three-ring binders, all matched and perfectly organized. He places them on the wicker table and says, “This is the book I never wrote—the story of Joe Castle. Many years ago, I started the first chapter, then put it aside. This is not the only unfinished project, mind you, in fact there are many, and I suppose the world is a better place because of my tendency to procrastinate.”

“How can a newspaper editor procrastinate? Doesn’t your life revolve around deadlines?”

“Some deadlines, sure, but because we stare at the calendar all day long, we tend to shove aside our other projects.”

“So why didn’t you write this book?”

“Truthfully, it was the family. I talked to Red one time, and he didn’t like the idea. This town is too small to make enemies, and if the family wasn’t willing to cooperate, then the book was not worth writing.” He flips through the second
binder and finds the tab for August 11, 1973. “Sit over here,” he says, patting a spot next to him. I move around to take a look, eager to see his research.

“This is one of my favorite stories,” he says, pointing to an article in the
Tribune
about Joe getting ejected for charging the mound. There was a large photo of a brawl. “By early August of that summer, the pitchers were throwing at Joe more and more. It’s part of the ritual of being a rookie, especially one who happens to be on a tear. But the Cubs had Ferguson Jenkins and Rick Reuschel, two tough guys who threw hard and were known to protect their hitters. There were rumors that Jenkins and Reuschel and some of the other Cubs pitchers had spread the word that if Joe got hit, the retaliation would be swift. As things turned out, Joe didn’t need any help. The Braves had a journeyman lefty named Dutch Patton, a big thick guy, six five or so, and the first time up Joe ripped a double, then stole third. We were still in Chicago but couldn’t get tickets to the game, so we were watching on television. When Joe came up in the third inning, Patton threw at his head and almost nailed him. The Cubs dugout went berserk; the fans were ready to riot. Joe yelled something at Patton, and he yelled something back. The home plate umpire got involved. A very tense situation. Joe got back in the box, dug in, and Patton went into his windup. Just as he released the ball, Joe dropped his bat and sprinted toward the mound. He was so quick and fast he caught everybody—including Patton and the catcher, Johnny Oates—completely off guard. I’ve
seen the film clip a hundred times, and what happened was pretty frightening. Patton managed to swing his glove at Joe, who ducked and shot a right cross into Patton’s mouth. A left hook to the nose knocked him down and, like a jackhammer, Joe pummeled him with five more shots to the face, each one drawing blood. Patton left the field on a stretcher, didn’t wake up for six hours, and didn’t pitch for a month. Johnny Oates finally managed to pull Joe off, and by then there were forty players on the field slugging it out. The brawl lasted for ten minutes, and there were something like seven or eight ejections. Joe was suspended for five games, and the Cubs lost all five.”

As he talks, I listen intently and flip through his binder. I have a copy of the
Tribune
story, along with the photo, but my little scrapbook on Joe Castle is nothing compared with the spread before me. I know the story of Joe’s retaliation against Dutch Patton, and Clarence has not missed a detail.

“What was so funny, at least to me, was that I had seen Joe pull the same trick before,” Clarence is saying.

“When?” I ask as he pauses and waits for me to prompt him.

“When he was seventeen, in a high school game against Heber Springs. Scouts all over the place, all here to see Joe. First time up, he hit a ball over the lights in right field. The second time up, the pitcher threw at his head. He kept his cool, waited. When you charge the mound, your biggest threat is being tackled from behind by the catcher. All three of
the Castle boys understood this rather basic part of the game. Joe waited until the pitch was thrown, then sprinted to the mound. It was pretty ugly. These were kids, and the benches did not empty as fast as they do in the big leagues …” Clarence’s words trail off as though he doesn’t want to finish the story.

“Did he hurt the pitcher?”

“Let’s just say the kid didn’t pitch for a few days, maybe weeks, maybe never, I don’t know, but I’m sure he lost his enthusiasm for throwing beanballs. Joe was not a bully, just the opposite; he was a really nice kid. But he didn’t like guys throwing at him.”

“Who broke up the fight?”

“The umpires. No player on the other team wanted to get near it.”

I flip back and forth and come across the cover of
Sports Illustrated
. “I’ll bet this caused some excitement around here.”

“Oh yes, not that there was a lack of excitement that summer. Everybody in town wanted to talk to the reporter. Let me refresh your drink there, Paul.” He takes both glasses to the back porch. I follow and peek into the kitchen, where Fay is slicing eggplant. When the drinks are ready, Clarence repacks his pipe and lights it. With fresh lemon gins in hand, we walk down the rear steps and gaze at the White River.

“Where did the nickname come from?” I ask.

Clarence chuckles and takes a sip. “
Sports Illustrated
, I guess. That’s the first time I ever heard of Calico Joe. But it
stuck. The Chicago writers ran with it and never looked back. They had Shoeless Joe a half century earlier, so I guess it was irresistible.”

“It’s such a perfect nickname.”

“It is, or was.”

We watch two men in a boat cast their lines and drift with the current.

“What does Joe do around here?” I ask.

“He takes care of his baseball field.”

“His field?”

“Yes. Joe Castle Field, over at the high school. He mows the grass every morning. He rakes the dirt, pulls weeds, lays the chalk, sweeps the dugouts, and in general putters around the field five days a week. If it snows, Joe scrapes it off the bleachers. When it’s raining, he sits in the dugout, third base side, and watches the puddles form around the infield. When it stops raining, he gently spreads the dirt around so there will be no puddles the next time. About this time of year, after summer ball is over, he’ll paint both dugouts and the press box. It’s his field.”

“Can I see him tomorrow?”

“Again, I’m not his keeper. You can do whatever you want.”

“But would he speak to me?”

“I’ve already explained that, Paul. Joe doesn’t speak to strangers.”

“Would he speak to my father, if I brought him here?”

Clarence coughed and glared at me as if I had insulted his wife. “Are you crazy?”

“Maybe. He’s dying, Clarence, and before he’s gone, I would like for the two men to have a word.”

“What kind of word?”

“I’m not sure, but ideally I would like my father to apologize.”

“Have you discussed this with your father?”

“No, not yet, and before I do, I need to know if Joe will agree to a meeting.”

“I doubt seriously if that can happen, Paul. And it would be a huge mistake for Warren Tracey to show up here in Calico Rock. That could start some serious trouble.”

I
t took a week for the black eye to fade away, and I spent most of the time in my room, reading and looking in the mirror. My father stopped by twice with clumsy efforts at making peace, but I was not in the mood. When you get backhanded by your father, the pain lasts far longer than the bruises. Mercifully, the Mets left town for a long road trip, and I ventured out of my room and tried to enjoy the last month of my summer break.

On August 8, the Mets shut out the Astros in Houston. My father pitched seven innings, gave up only three hits, walked only two, and won his fifth game of the season. I listened to the game in the den and, as usual, recorded every pitch and play on my official Mets scorecard. I knew it was his best game in many years, and as Lindsey Nelson and Ralph Kiner said nice things about my father, I couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit of pride, although grudgingly. I was getting in bed when he called home and wanted to chat about the game. We stayed
on the phone for half an hour as he recounted the highlights and patiently answered my questions, and when we eventually said good night, I was so excited I had trouble sleeping. Four days later, he pitched a complete-game four-hitter against the Padres for his second win in a row, a rare feat for Warren Tracey. Because he was on the West Coast, he did not call me after the game, but late the next morning he checked in from his hotel room, and we talked for almost an hour.