John Grisham - Calico Joe

I could hear the relief in the voices of Nelson and Kiner. No one traveling with the Mets wanted to go into Wrigley the following day with Warren Tracey around.

My mother was playing tennis at a club a few blocks away. I decided that she should hear the news that her husband was suddenly out of work, and the sooner the better. I rode my bike over, watched her play from a distance, and when she finished, I caught her as she was leaving the court. She took it hard. Not only was he cut from the team, but at thirty-four his career was surely over. I had no idea how much money they had saved, if any, though my mother kept a pretty tight budget. And now that he had nothing to do, he would spend more time at home, a prospect that none of us looked forward to.

Our little world was unraveling. My father was out of work and over the hill. He was drinking more, staying out more, and fighting more with my mother, who was dropping hints about a new life, one without him. We had changed our phone number twice because of the anonymous calls and now had a private number. It was not unusual to see a police car parked in front of our home. We were frightened.

The Cubs won two of the three games against the Mets. There were no fights, no beanballs, and no ejections. When the series began, the teams were tied for first in the National League East, and with fifteen games to go, no one could afford another suspension or injury.

Without Joe in the lineup, the Cubs had won eleven and lost thirteen. Their ten-game lead three weeks earlier had been reduced to one. They were sinking, Chicago style, while the Mets were winning. To Cubs fans, the beaning of Joe Castle had been a deliberate attack planned by the Mets to get him off the field so their team would falter. In Warren Tracey, the Mets had the perfect attack dog—a journeyman headhunter who could do the dirty work and then get thrown out with the trash. Seaver, Koosman, and Matlack could stay above it all.

This was not just idle chatter from drunks in a bar. Many of Chicago’s sportswriters were now conspiracy theorists and fanning these flames.

There was still a fervent, though fading, dream that Joe would snap out of his coma, hop off the bed, hustle out of the hospital, and take up where he left off. But with each passing day, the sad reality settled in a bit deeper. Wait till next year, the Cubs were famous for saying, but now they meant it. Wait till next year, when Joe’s back and he’s a year older and more experienced. Just wait.

On September 18, the day after the series ended and the Mets moved on to Montreal, Joe Castle woke up and spoke to a nurse. This was reported on the local station, and my mother heard it first. She told me, and I rode over to Tom Sabbatini’s to discuss this exciting news. Mr. Sabbatini knew what I was going through, and he offered to take us to the hospital the following Saturday.

After school the next day, I went to the library and read the coverage in the Tribune and Sun-Times . Joe was still in serious condition, but at least he was awake, talking, and eating. Red was by his side and agreed to allow a reporter from the Tribune inside the room for ten minutes. The reporter asked Joe how he felt, and his response was, “I have felt much better.” He was described as sedated, groggy, and not always responsive to questions. There was a photograph, a heartbreaking picture of Joe Castle with his head wrapped in thick gauze, much like a casualty from combat. His right eye was covered too. The eye was of grave concern to his doctors.

Mount Sinai had been deluged with cards, flowers, gifts, and visitors wanting to see Joe. A temporary shrine had been set up in a wide, open foyer on the ground floor. In the center, there was a large photo of Joe—the same one from the cover of Sports Illustrated —and to each side were long, wide panels of corkboard. Hundreds of fans had tacked on notes, cards, and letters to Joe. At the foot of the panels were cardboard boxes filled with flowers, chocolates, and other gifts.

Tom and I wrote letters, though we didn’t share them before they were sealed in envelopes. In an effort to get Joe’s attention, my letter began with “Dear Joe: I am Paul Tracey, Warren’s son. I am so sorry for what my father did.” I went on to gush about how closely I had followed his career, how great I thought he was, and how badly I wanted him to get better and return to the field.

Saturday morning, we took the train into the city. It was a beautiful fall day; the leaves were turning and blowing in the breeze as we strolled through Central Park. When we entered the hospital from Fifth Avenue, a hand-painted sign read JOE CASTLE WALL, and an arrow pointed to the left. We found the wall and tacked our letters side by side as close to his photo as possible. A volunteer explained that the letters, cards, and gifts were collected every two or three days and would be given to Mr. Castle at some convenient time in the future. She thanked us for coming.

“Where is he?” I asked.

She looked up and said, “Fourth floor, but I’m afraid you can’t go there.”

“How’s he doing today?”

“I’ve heard he’s improving,” she said, and she was right. According to the newspapers, he was slowly making progress, but a dramatic comeback seemed doubtful. We hung around for a few minutes, looking at the assortment of letters, cards, and gifts. I glanced up and down the wide corridors in the distance, all busy with the typical hospital foot traffic. I was tempted to drift away, find the elevators, and somehow make my way to the fourth floor, where I could cleverly sneak into Joe’s room for a private chat. But good judgment prevailed.

Mr. Sabbatini grew up on the Lower East Side and knew the city like a cabdriver. He was also a Yankees fan, a pleasant one. He had tickets, and we rode the subway to the Bronx, to The House That Ruth Built, and spent that beautiful afternoon watching the Yankees, with Thurman Munson, Graig Nettles, and Bobby Murcer, play the Orioles, with Brooks Robinson, Boog Powell, and Paul Blair.

Tom and I decided that we had been narrow-minded in the selection of the National League as our only potential home. We discussed the possibility of also playing for a team in the American League. Mr. Sabbatini agreed that this was wise on our part.

Something was different, though. My dreams were not as clear and exciting. My love for the game was not as deep. I joked along with Tom as we discussed which American League teams would be acceptable. We evaluated the important factors—uniform colors, stadium size, winning tradition, great players from the past, and so on—but it was not as much fun as it had been a month earlier.

Mr. Sabbatini listened and laughed and offered his advice. He was an exceptionally nice person, generous with his time and always kind with his comments. He seemed especially concerned about me. He understood the earthquakes and aftershocks that were rattling my world, and he wanted me to know that he was in my corner.

I walk into Wink’s Waffles at 8:30 and ask for a table by the window. The place is full of seniors consuming far too many calories thanks to the latest coupon scheme devised to attract those over sixty-five. The hostess is reluctant to seat me where I want to be seated, so I inform her that I’m expecting at least three others. This works and I get my table, which, as I recall, is very near the one we had four years ago, when my girls met their paternal grandfather for the first and last time. I drink coffee, read the newspaper, and watch the parking lot.