John Grisham - Calico Joe

After thirty-one games, he had sixty-two hits in 119 at bats, with eighteen home runs and twenty-five stolen bases. He had made one error at first and had struck out only six times. His batting average of .521 was easily the highest in the majors, though he had not had enough at bats to qualify for the official ranking. As expected, his average was slowly declining.

Ty Cobb, the greatest hitter of all time, had a career average of .367. Ted Williams—.344. Joe DiMaggio—.325. Joe Castle was not yet being compared to the great ones, but no rookie had ever hit .521 after 119 at bats.

On August 20, the Mets were at home against the Cardinals, and my father was starting. After winning two in a row, he had lost a one-run game to the Dodgers and got roughed up by the Giants but avoided taking the loss. His record was six and seven, and he was feeling good about his game. After his banana milk shake, he asked me if I would like to ride with him to Shea Stadium. This, of course, meant that I would be allowed to hang around the locker room, dugout, and field for hours before the first pitch. I jumped at the chance. He promised to drive me home after the game, which, of course, meant he would not be hitting the bars. The tension around the house had thawed somewhat. My parents were civil to each other, at least in the presence of Jill and me. For two uncertain kids, this only confused matters.

I was in the Mets dugout, watching the Cardinals take batting practice, soaking in the sights and sounds, reveling in the rarest of moments, when Willie Mays walked by and said, “Hey, kid, what brings you here?”

“My dad’s pitching,” I said, thoroughly awestruck.

“Tracey?”

“Yes sir.”

And then Willie Mays sat down beside me on the bench as if time meant nothing. He said, “I can’t remember your name.”

“Paul Tracey,” I said.

“Nice to see you again, Paul.”

I tried to say something but froze.

“Your dad’s pitching well these days,” he said. “Seems like he told me you’re a pitcher too.”

“Yes sir, but our season’s over. I’ll be twelve next year.”

Lou Brock was in the cage for the Cardinals, spraying baseballs everywhere. We watched him take a dozen swings, then Willie spoke to another player who walked in front of us. When we were alone again, he said, “You know, I never wanted to pitch. You gotta rely on too many other players to succeed. You can be having a great day on the mound, then, just like that, somebody makes an error and you lose the game, you know?”

“Yes sir.” I would agree with anything Mr. Mays had to say.

“Or you strike out twenty, give up two hits, and lose the game one to nothing, you know what I’m saying, Paul?”

“Yes sir.”

“Plus, I could never throw strikes, which is tough when you’re trying to pitch.”

“I’ve had that problem occasionally,” I said, and Willie Mays laughed out loud. He tapped me on the knee and said, “Good luck to you, Paul.”

“Thanks, Mr. Mays.”

He jumped to his feet and was yelling at one of the Cardinals. I looked at my knee for a long time and vowed to never wash that pair of jeans. A few minutes later, Wayne Garrett and Ed Kranepool sat nearby and began watching batting practice. I inched a bit closer so I could eavesdrop.

“You hear what Castle did today?” Garrett asked as he chomped on bubble gum.

“No,” Kranepool replied.

“Four for four with two doubles, off Don Sutton.”

“Off Sutton?” Kranepool asked in disbelief.

“Yep. I thought the kid was cooling off.”

“Guess not. Should be a wild weekend around here. You got any spare tickets?”

“Are you kidding?”

I sat alone eight rows from the field and close to the Mets dugout. My father gave up a home run to Joe Torre in the first inning, then settled down and pitched well. He ran out of gas in the top of the seventh, with the Mets leading 5–2, and when Yogi Berra pulled him, he received an impressive ovation from the crowd. I was on my feet, clapping and yelling as loud as possible. He tipped his cap to me, and at that moment I realized how much I wanted to adore him.

His record was seven and seven. His next start would be against the Cubs.

After two lemon gins, I am sufficiently mellow and want no more. Clarence seems unfazed by the booze, and when he goes for his third, I decline and ask for water. Fay is buzzing about, cooking and setting the table on the back porch. The sun is falling, and its last rays glisten across the White River below us. Clarence and I sit under a maple tree next to the vegetable garden and talk about the Castle boys.

Their grandfather, Vick Castle, signed with the Cleveland Indians in 1906 and five years later made it to the big leagues, but for less than a month. He played in ten games before being sent down. After the season he was traded, then broke an ankle, and his career fizzled. He returned to Izard County and ran a sawmill before dying at the age of forty-four. Bobby, his only son and Joe’s father, signed with Pittsburgh in 1938, and in 1941 he led the AAA International League in hitting and RBIs. He was destined to start at third base for the Pirates in 1942, but the war got in the way. He joined the Navy and was shipped to the Pacific, where he lost half a leg to a land mine.

His oldest son, Charlie, signed out of high school with the Washington Senators and bounced around the minors for six years before he called it quits. Red, the middle brother, signed with the Phillies in 1966 but couldn’t get out of single A. He quit, joined the Marines, and volunteered for two tours of duty in Vietnam.

Clarence enjoys his narrative and does not need notes. I am amazed at his ability to recall, though I have no way of knowing his level of accuracy. There is something about his twinkling eyes and bushy eyebrows that leads me to believe that this guy is not beyond embellishment. But it doesn’t matter; he loves to talk and tell stories, and the Castle family is obviously a favorite topic. I am delighted to be here and happy to listen.

“Even when Charlie and Red were playing,” he is saying, “everyone was talking about Joe. When he was ten or so, a little fellow, he hit four home runs in a game against Mountain Home. That was the first time he got his name in the newspaper. I went to the archives and pulled it out. In 1973, I got flooded with folks wanting all sorts of background on Joe Castle. I spent half the summer digging through back copies. When he was twelve, he led our All-Stars to a third-place finish in Little Rock, and I ran this huge front-page story about the team, big photo and all. When he was thirteen, he stopped playing with the kids and spent all summer with a men’s team. Joe played first, Red at second, three and four in the lineup, and they must’ve played a hundred games. That’s when we realized he might be special. The scouts began showing up when he was fifteen. Charlie was in the minors. Red was in the minors. But everybody was talking about Joe. I was covering a state play-off game in May 1968, down in Searcy, and he hit a baseball that bounced off a school bus in a parking lot, 420 feet from home plate. Can you imagine? A sixteen-year-old kid hitting a 420-foot home run, with wood, not aluminum. The scouts were drooling, shaking their heads in disbelief. Pretty amazing.”

“Clarence, dinner is ready,” Fay yells from the porch, and we do not waste time. That barbecue pork sandwich for lunch was now at least eight hours in the past. Directly under a ceiling fan, Fay has set a beautiful table, small and round, with fresh-cut flowers in a small vase in the center. There is a large bowl of tomato, cucumber, and onion salad and another of grilled squash and eggplant over brown rice. She waves at the food and says, “Two hours ago, it was still on the vine.”