John Grisham - Calico Joe

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.”

Warren laughs loudly, and Joe follows.

We watch and are amused at their ability to laugh. I’ve known my entire life that Warren Tracey has no sense of humor, so it’s obvious Joe has said something funny.

“I think they’re getting along,” Clarence observes.

“I suppose they have to. If a fight breaks out, Warren has no one in his corner.”

“They’re in no mood for a fight. Charlie told me yesterday they admired your father for wanting to see Joe.”

“What was their hesitation?”

“Two reasons. They were afraid it might upset Joe and bring back a lot of bad memories. And they’re afraid this little meeting might somehow get leaked and end up in a story somewhere. I assured them that would not happen. Right?”

“Of course.”

“So how did you blackmail your father into coming?”

“The blackmail didn’t work. He’s here because he wants to be here. He’s a tough guy, and it’s taken the reality of death to soften him up. He’s looking back at a sloppy life with a lot of regrets.”

“What an awful way to die.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is.”

Joe looks at the first base dugout and says, “Charlie … Red.” His brothers get to their feet and leave the dugout.

Warren stands, looks at us, and waves us down.

We meet in front of home plate, and I shake hands with Joe Castle. He wears a cap, and thick, dark sunglasses to cover his bad eye. His hair is half gray, and he looks nothing like the smiling kid on the magazine covers of thirty years ago. In all fairness, though, who does look the same after thirty years?

Charlie and Red are nice enough but would rather observe than participate.

At my request, Clarence has a camera, and I explain to the Castles that I would like some photos to record the meeting. “Will they be published?” Red asks.

“Only with your approval,” I say. He and Charlie are suspicious, but they agree.

To my surprise, Clarence has brought something else. From a small plastic bag kept somewhere inside his coat, he pulls out two baseball caps—Cubs and Mets. He hands them to Joe and Warren and says, “I thought it would be a nice touch to photograph you guys in these.”

Joe looks at his with a frown, and Warren does the same. They are hesitant, as if the caps bring back too many memories. “Just a thought,” Clarence says, retreating, as if he might have screwed up the entire meeting. Then Joe creases the bill of his cap, removes the one advertising a feed store, and puts on his Cubs cap. Like all ballplayers, he adjusts here and there until it feels right. When Warren removes his golf cap, his head is as slick as an onion, not a single hair, and for a split second we recoil at the horrors of chemotherapy. It is a reminder that he doesn’t have long.