Calico Joe (15 page)

Four days later, on September 3, Labor Day, my father walked to the mound at Busch Stadium in St. Louis and was met with a thunderous round of boos and hisses. He lasted two innings, walked four, struck out none, hit no one, gave up five runs, and was rapidly pitching himself out of the rotation. The New York sportswriters were howling for his replacement.

With Joe Castle still unconscious in a New York hospital, Warren Tracey was hated everywhere he went. His name was toxic. His pitching was a disaster. His teammates were winning, but they were also tired of the distractions he brought to the game. It was obvious he wasn’t worth the trouble he was causing.

A
fter his first two or three wives, Warren began marrying for money instead of looks and lust. One of his later ones, Florence, died from heatstroke and left him with a nice home and some cash in the bank. He isn’t rich, but comfortable enough to avoid work and spend his days at the club playing gin rummy and golf and drinking. When he was about fifty-five, roughly ten years ago, his then wife, Karen, I believe, convinced him to sober up and stop smoking. To his credit, he did, though the damage to his body had been done. Poor Karen. She soon realized he was far more agreeable on the sauce than off. They divorced, and, never solo for long, he took up with Agnes, the current wife.

They live in one of those typical Florida gated communities, with rows of low-slung modern houses tucked along fairways and ponds and around putting greens. Everyone is over sixty and drives a golf cart.

On the subject of golf. As soon as his baseball career ended, Warren plunged headlong into what he hoped would be a new career on the tour. He hooked up with a pro somewhere near Sarasota and played and practiced for hours every day. He was thirty-five and the odds were against him, but he felt as though he had nothing to lose. He qualified for the Citrus Circuit, a low-budget south Florida tour, sort of like Class B minor-league baseball. He won his second tournament and got his name in the fine print of the
Miami Herald
. Someone saw it. That someone told others, and a rough plan came together. At the next tournament, just as Warren was about to hit his first tee shot, a pack of Cubs diehards began jeering and cursing him. He stepped away, exchanged words, and waited for an official to intervene. Such tournaments, though, are not heavily secured or supervised, and the hooligans refused to go away. When his first tee shot landed in a small lake, the Cubs fans cheered and howled. They followed him from hole to hole on the front nine, and he fell to pieces.

The concentration of a golfer is fragile—witness the strict rules regarding fan behavior at a PGA event. Warren, though, was far from the PGA, and the Citrus Circuit could do little to control what few fans showed up. They stalked Warren Tracey, and wherever he played, they waited in ambush. In one tournament, he birdied the first three holes, in silence, then was verbally assaulted by several large, belligerent young men as he approached the tee box on number four. His scores
continued to rise, along with his blood pressure, and when he shot an 88 in the second round of his fifth tournament, he quit.

Evidently, there are a lot of Cubs fans in Florida, and over the years Warren had a number of run-ins with them on golf courses. He also had fights in bars, stores, and airports, and for a long time he traded in cash and avoided credit cards. He once got screwed out of $40,000 in a condo deal by two men who were Cubs fans and deliberately suckered him into the transaction. The surname Tracey is not that common, and for years after the beaning it meant trouble for Warren.

The ancient security guard clears me through the gate. It is early evening, and couples are biking and walking for exercise along the footpaths next to the winding street. The golf course is deserted. Everything is green and well-groomed.

According to my research, the home was appraised at $650,000 and had been purchased by Warren and Agnes five years earlier. I didn’t keep records, but it must be the fifteenth place he has lived in Florida in the past thirty years. I suppose Warren is the restless type; he tires quickly of wives and homes.

I have not seen him in four years. Sara and I did the obligatory Disney World trip with the girls, and for some reason I thought it was important for the kids to at least meet their paternal grandfather. What a disaster. He did not want us in
his home, nor did he want us to meet Agnes. So we met for lunch at a chain restaurant—Wink’s Waffles—not far from his gated community, and he struggled to be civil. He had not met my children before, and Warren in the role of grandfather was a pathetic sight. He was a stranger to the girls, to Sara, and to me as well, and he could not have been more uncomfortable.

Sara’s parents live in Pueblo, Colorado, and we see them several times a year. They adore their granddaughters and are as involved in their lives as possible. So the girls had a clear idea of what a grandfather should be. Warren, though, completely baffled them. He was unsure of their names, thoroughly uninterested in small talk, and showed no warmth whatsoever because he had neither the desire nor the ability, and when he glanced at his watch thirty minutes into the little family reunion, it was noticed by all of us.

Afterward, I promised Sara and the girls that they would never again be subjected to my father. I knew they approved of this decision. Later, once we were home, the girls told their mother that they felt sorry for me. They could not comprehend how a nice guy like their dad could have such a lousy father.

Parked on the cobblestoned driveway is a Mercedes that is at least fifteen years old. I ring the doorbell, and Agnes eventually answers. This is our first face-to-face meeting. It will be brief. Neither she nor I want to spend ten seconds together. She is the latest victim in a long, sad list of vulnerable and
desperate women who, out of loneliness or some other unfathomable reason, agreed to marry Warren Tracey. As I follow her through the foyer, I wonder how many husbands she has been through, but I really don’t care.

Warren is in the den watching television, some breed of delicate little lapdog on the sofa next to him. He rises quickly, manages a smile, and offers a hand. As I shake it, I am impressed by his appearance. His skin is pale, his movements slow, but for a dying man he looks remarkably healthy. He mutes the television but does not turn it off. Nothing he does, regardless of how rude, surprises me. I back into a chair, while Agnes sits on the sofa next to the dog. I’ll get rid of her in a minute.

We kill some time talking about his surgery, and I feign interest. Next, it’s the chemotherapy, which will start in a week. “I’m gonna beat this thing, Paul,” he says, a well-rehearsed line delivered with no conviction. He seems to think I care. He seems to believe I have traveled from New Mexico to Florida because I am concerned about him. There is no doubt in my mind that if I were hospitalized and on my deathbed, Warren Tracey would find an excuse not to show up. Why, then, does he think I am interested in his chemo?

Why? Over the years, I’ve learned the answer. He’s special. He played the game. Maybe he didn’t put up Hall of Fame numbers, but he was still one of the elite who made it to the big stage. His entire life has been lived in his own little
self-absorbed, narcissistic world where he is a cut above the rest.

I feed him quarters and keep him talking. How long will the chemotherapy last? What do the doctors really think? I know a guy whose uncle lived fifteen years with pancreatic cancer. Is more surgery a possibility?

He does not ask about my wife, my daughters, his daughter, or her children. As usual, it’s all about Warren.

Agnes, who’s a little on the chunky side and easily as old as Warren, just sits there rubbing the dog and grinning goofily at Warren, as if his narratives are witty and original. It doesn’t take much to amuse Agnes, I decide after ten minutes. I wonder if it has crossed her mind that in virtually all polite circles she, as the hostess, is expected to offer me something to drink.

I look at her and say, “Say, Agnes, I have a few things I need to discuss with Warren in private. You know, family stuff, rather personal. Could the two of us have a few minutes?”

She does not like this at all, but Warren smiles and nods his head at the door. She huffs out of the den, closing the door behind her. I reach over, take the remote, turn off the television, sit back down, and say, “Guess who I saw this morning, Warren?”

“How should I know?”

“Always the smart-ass, right?”

“Always, yes.”

“Joe Castle, that’s who. I was in Calico Rock yesterday afternoon and last night, and this morning I saw Joe.”

“I suppose you were just passing through.”

“No, not at all. I went there for the purpose of seeing him.”

His shoulders sag a little as the air gets heavier. I am staring at him, but he has found something on the floor to hold his gaze. A minute passes, then another. He finally grunts and says, “Something you want to say?”

I move closer to him and sit on the edge of the coffee table. Two feet away, I realize how little sympathy I have for this dying old man. There is far more anger than pity, but I promised myself I would not visit our past. “I want you to go see Joe, Warren. Now, before it’s too late, before you pass away, before he passes away. There will never be another time like now. Go, sit down with him, offer a hand, offer the truth, offer an apology, at least attempt to close this story.”

He frowns as if in severe pain. He looks at me as his mouth falls open, and for a while he cannot speak.

“I’m serious, Warren. You have lied for thirty years about what happened, but you and I both know the truth. For once in your miserable life, stand up and admit you’re wrong, apologize. You’ve never reached out to him. You would never face him. You would never face the truth, quite the opposite. You’ve lied and lied and lied until you probably believe your own lies. Stop the lying, tell Joe the truth, and tell him you’re sorry.”

“You got a lot of guts coming here with this crap,” he snarls.

“I have far more guts than you, old man. If you had a backbone, you would go see him. I’ll go with you. We’ll make the journey together, and when it’s over, you’ll feel a lot better about yourself.”

“Aren’t you the wise one?”

“I am, on this matter anyway.”

His pale face has reddened with anger, but he holds his tongue. Another minute passes. “What did you say to him?” he asks.

“Nothing. We didn’t speak. I saw him from a distance. He walks with a bad limp, and a cane, thanks to you.”

“I did not intend to hit him.”

I raise both hands and laugh. “Here we go again. The biggest lie in the history of organized baseball, and what’s worse, everyone knows it’s a lie, including both of us.”

“Get out of my house!”

“I will in a minute. Let’s face the truth, Warren. You won’t make it to Christmas. The odds are heavily against you. When you die, those who know you are not going to say things like: ‘Good ole Warren, he loved his kids.’ Or, ‘Good ole Warren, what a generous soul.’ Or, ‘Warren truly loved his wives.’ Nothing like that, Warren, because it doesn’t fit. The one thing that will be mentioned in your obituary, if you have one at all, is the fact that you threw the most famous
beanball in the history of the game. And in doing so, you deliberately destroyed one of the most promising careers of all time. That’s what they’re gonna say, Warren, and you can’t do a thing about it.”

“Please leave.”

“I’ll be happy to leave, Warren, just let me finish. You can never undo the misery you created—the neglected kids, the tormented son, the abused wife, the alcoholism, the philandering, the long trail of debris you’ve left behind. Can’t fix it, Warren, even if you are so inclined, which I’m sure you are not. But there is one person you can reach out to and perhaps make his life a little brighter. Do it, Warren. Do it for Joe. Do it for yourself. Do it for me.”

“You’ve lost your mind.”

I reach into my jacket and remove some folded papers. “I want you to read this, Warren. It’s titled ‘The Beaning of Joe Castle’ by Paul Tracey, son of Warren. I wrote it many years ago, and I’ve revised it a thousand times. Every word is true. My plans are to get it published as soon as possible after your death. I’ll start with
Sports Illustrated
,
Baseball Monthly
, the newspapers in Chicago, not sure after that, but I’ll bet somebody will want to print it. I don’t want a dime. I want the truth to be known.” I drop the papers onto his lap. “The only way to prevent this from being published is to go with me to Calico Rock and see Joe.”