Calico Joe (20 page)

“I don’t know,” he says in frustration. “Why do men do
anything? Why do they gamble away fortunes, or kill themselves with booze, or marry crazy women? I don’t know. You drag me out here in the middle of Podunk, Arkansas, to ask why I chased women?”

“No, I did not. I don’t really care now.”

“How is your mother?”

“She’s doing fine. I see her several times a year. She’s beautiful, as always.” I almost add that she’s far better looking than Agnes but let it pass.

“Does she know I’m sick?”

“Yes, I told her back in August, as soon as I heard about it.”

“I doubt if she cares.”

“Should she care, Warren?”

He takes a deep breath, then begins to nod off. I silently urge him to fall asleep, to take a long, two-hour nap. His cancer is extremely painful, and when he is awake, he seems uncomfortable. He keeps painkillers in his shirt pocket.

We’ve touched briefly on his marriages, one subject I had planned to avoid. After he takes a nap, I hit pay dirt with a simple question: “Did you ever play baseball in Arkansas?”

“Oh yes, in the Texas League we played the Arkansas Travelers several times a year. A wonderful old stadium in downtown Little Rock. Nice crowds.”

The door swings wide open, and Warren springs to life. Forgotten games, old teammates, strange happenings, locker room humor, curfew violations, life in the bus leagues—we stay on the subject of minor-league baseball for a lot of miles.
But he tires easily, and his long narratives stop suddenly when he needs water or a few moments with his eyes closed. He nods off again, things are quiet, then he’s awake and remembering another story.

During his long, difficult career, he was stationed in dozens of small towns, some of which he has not thought about in years. They come back to him now, in a flood of memories. I am surprised to learn that Warren is a fine raconteur with a flair for the punch line. The more stories he tells, the more he remembers.

Why have I never heard these?

We do not talk about Joe Castle and the reason for this trip. I have no idea what Warren will say, but I have a hunch he does.

He coughs, grimaces, takes a pill, then nods off again. We are in the hills now, and it’s getting dark.

On the edge of Mountain View, about an hour south of Calico Rock, I spot a nice, clean motel and pull in. I pay cash for two single rooms. Warren says he’s not hungry and needs to lie down. I get a burger from a fast-food place and take it back to my room.

C
larence 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.”