Calico Joe (3 page)

As promised, my mother awakened me at 6:00 a.m. so I could watch the early morning New York news programs. I was hoping for a glimpse of Joe Castle. Channel 4 did a quick rundown on the National League games. The Mets had won
in Atlanta to put them two games over .500. Then there was Joe Castle sprinting around the bases in Philadelphia, once, twice, three times. The drag bunt, though, got as much air-time as the three home runs. The guy could fly.

My mother brought in the
New York Times
from the driveway. On the front page of the sports section was a black-and-white photo of Joe Castle and a long story about his historic debut. I found the scissors, cut it out, and started a new scrapbook, one of many I meticulously maintained. When the Mets were in town and my father was home, I was forced to save the newspapers for a few days before clipping the baseball stories.

I loved it when the Mets were on the road. My father was gone, and our house was peaceful and pleasant. When he was around, though, the mood was far different. He was a self-absorbed, brooding man with seldom a kind word for any of us. He had never met his potential, and this was always the fault of someone else—the manager, his teammates, the owners, even the umpires. On the nights after he pitched, he often came home late and drunk, and that’s when the trouble started. I suspected, even at the age of eleven, that my parents would not stay together.

He rarely called home when the Mets were away. I often thought how wonderful it would be for my father to check in after a game and talk baseball with me. I watched or listened to every Mets game and had a dozen questions, but I guess he was too busy going out with the boys.

For me, baseball was a joy to play when my father wasn’t watching. Because of his schedule, he rarely had the chance to see my games, and that was an indescribable relief. When he was there, though, I had no desire to play. He would lecture me on the way to the park, snarl at me during the game, and, worst of all, berate me all the way home. He even slapped me once as soon as we were driving away from the field. From the age of seven, I cried after every game my father saw me play.

S
ara and I met during our sophomore years at the University of Oklahoma. We married a month after we graduated. Warren was invited to both the commencement exercises and the wedding but failed to show. This surprised no one.

We have three beautiful daughters and live in Santa Fe, where I write software for an aerospace firm. Sara was an interior designer until the girls came along and she decided to become a full-time mother. Not surprisingly, I was thrilled with each birth, each healthy baby, and not the least disappointed in the gender God selected for us. I did not want a boy, because I did not want to see him pick up a baseball and start tossing it around. Most of my friends have a boy or two, and they have all coached the game at some level. I am sure I would have felt the temptation to do likewise with a boy, so I am relieved to have all girls.

I quit the game when I was eleven years old and haven’t watched an inning in thirty years.

My employer is one of those progressive companies with all manner of benefits and flexible work rules. I could practically work from home, but I enjoy the office, my colleagues, even my bosses. It’s exciting to watch the technology spring to life, evolve, and eventually hit the market.

I explain to my boss that I need a few days off for a quick trip unrelated to my job. He says fine. I tell Sara my plans, and she understands completely. She knows the history, and I guess we both have known this trip would one day become inevitable.

I drive to the airport in Santa Fe and buy a one-way ticket to Memphis.

When Warren was thirty-five years old, he managed to persuade an old friend in the Orioles organization to give him one final tryout in spring training. He could still throw hard, but he had no control; plus, his name was toxic, and no other team would touch him. He bombed in his first appearance and was cut the next day. He called home and informed my mother he planned to stay in Florida, where, supposedly, some minor-league team wanted him as a pitching coach. This was not true and I knew it. I was twelve by then and well aware that my father was a habitual liar. A few months later she filed for divorce, and when the school year ended, we moved to Hagerstown, Maryland, to live with her parents.

Warren Tracey retired from the game with a record of sixty-four wins and eighty-four losses, a career earned run average of 5.85. In sixteen seasons, he played for the Pirates, Giants, Indians, Royals, Astros, and Mets, and spent more time in the minors than in the majors. His three-year stint with the Mets was his longest stay anywhere, and they sent him down to AAA at least four times. He struck out 430 batters and walked 416. His name is in the record book only because he led the league in hit batsmen in 1972. He was never happy anywhere, and when he wasn’t being traded, he was demanding to be traded. Not a particularly stellar career, but baseball fans know that only one player out of ten who signs a minor-league contract makes it to the Bigs for a single game. When I was very young and still impressionable, I was proud of the fact that my father was a major leaguer. No other kid on my street could make that claim. As I grew older, though, I often wished I had a normal dad, one who enjoyed having a catch in the backyard and coaching his son.

When he was with the Mets, he left for spring training each year in early January, long before he was supposed to report. He used various excuses for this, but the reality was that he wanted to get away from home, to play golf every day, to work on his tan, and to drink and catch up with old girlfriends. Jill and I didn’t care which excuse he used. We were relieved to have him back on the road.

After the year in Hagerstown, my mother informed us
that he had remarried down in Florida. Jill and I thought this was terrible news because he and his new wife might decide to start a family.

On the leg from Dallas to Memphis, I open my old scrapbook on Joe Castle. It is filled with newspaper clippings, magazine articles, the August 6 edition of
Sports Illustrated
, with Joe on the cover, and the item I had treasured most during that remarkable summer of 1973, an eight-by-ten black-and-white photo of his youthful, smiling face. Across the bottom he had printed neatly, “To Paul Tracey, with best wishes,” then scribbled his autograph. I had a whole collection of these when I was a boy. My buddies and I wrote letters to hundreds of professional players, asking for autographed photos. Occasionally one responded, and to get a photo in the mail was a reason to strut. My father got a few of these letters but was too important to grant a favor. He constantly griped about the fans who wanted autographs.

I hid my scrapbooks from my father. In his twisted opinion, he was the only player worthy of my adulation.

After I quit the game, my mother secretly stored my memorabilia in the attic. She gave it back—two cardboard boxes full—after I got married. At first I wanted to burn it, but Sara intervened, and it survives until this day.

I have never been in Memphis in August, and when I step out of the airport terminal, I have trouble breathing. The air
is hot and sticky, and my shirt is wet within minutes. I ride a shuttle to Avis, get my rental car, crank up the AC, and head west, across the Mississippi River, into the flat farmlands of the Arkansas delta.

Calico Rock is four hours away.

O
n Friday, July 13, 1973, the front page of the sports section of the
Chicago Tribune
ran the bold headline “Four for Four.” There was a large black-and-white photo of Joe Castle, and three different stories about his historic first game. The entire city was buzzing about “the kid.” For a tribe hardened by years of frustration, Cubs fans had a rare moment to gloat.

Joe slept late in his hotel room, called his parents collect and talked for an hour with them and his brothers, then had a long, late breakfast with Don Kessinger and Rick Monday. He killed some more time by calling his teammates in Midland. Reporters were looking for him, but he was already tired of their attention. At 4:00 p.m., he stepped onto the team bus for the quick ride back to Veterans Stadium. In the locker room, Whitey Lockman walked over and said, “You’re batting third tonight, kid, don’t screw it up.” Two hours before game time, Joe walked onto the field, stretched and warmed up, then took
one hundred ground balls at first base. It seemed as though time had stopped. He couldn’t wait for game time.

When he stepped to the plate with two outs in the top of the first, there were forty-five thousand Phillies fans in the stadium. There were also millions of Cubs fans glued to TVs and radios. With the count at two balls, he ripped a double into the right field corner. Five for five. In the top of the third, with the bases loaded, he singled to right and drove in two. Six for six. In the fifth, with the bases empty, two outs, and the infield back, and from the right side, he pushed a bunt toward third. When Mike Schmidt picked it up bare-handed, Joe was flying past first base, and there was no throw. Seven for seven. In the seventh inning, he bounced a fastball off the top of the scoreboard in left center field, and as he rounded the bases, at a somewhat slower pace, the Phillies fans offered subdued but prolonged applause.

Eight for eight.

With two outs in the top of the ninth, and the Cubs leading 12–2 in a blowout, Joe dug in from the left side. He had two singles, a double, and a home run, and many in the crowd and legions of those watching and listening were praying for a triple. Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau were openly begging for one on the radio. Hitting for the cycle—single, double, triple, home run—was a rare event in baseball. It happened, on average, three times each season, and since Joe seemed intent on crushing all records, why not hit for the cycle? Instead, he fouled off ten straight pitches, worked the count full, then hit
one of the longest home runs in the history of Veterans Stadium. As he rounded third, Mike Schmidt said, “Not a bad game, kid.”

Nine for nine, with five home runs.

Unbridled mania swept the streets of the North Side of Chicago.