Calico Joe (4 page)

After the Scrappers game, our last of the regular season, the team met for a party in Tom Sabbatini’s backyard. Mr. Sabbatini had the grill going—hot dogs and cheeseburgers—and most of the parents were there, including my mother. My father was pitching that night in Atlanta, but we were not interested in that game. Instead, Mr. Sabbatini rigged up an impressive radio, and we listened to WCAU out of Philadelphia. It was not unusual in those days to scan the dial with a small transistor radio and pick up games from New York, Philadelphia, Boston, even Montreal and Baltimore. I often spent hours in my room at night keeping track of several games.

Each time Joe Castle stepped to the plate, the party came to a halt as we crowded closer to the radio. Harry Kalas was the Phillies announcer, and his voice grew more excited as the game went on, even though his team was getting drubbed. With each of Joe’s hits, and especially with the two home runs, we yelled and jumped around as if we were lifelong Cubs fans. At one point, Harry said, “I suspect there are a lot of
Cubs fans out there tonight, especially in the little town of Calico Rock, Arkansas.”

When Joe came up in the ninth, we were so nervous we were bouncing on our tiptoes. After each foul ball, we took a deep breath, then leaned in closer to the radio. Harry said, “Two strikes on Castle.” We heard the crack of the bat, and Harry, in his patented home-run call, described what was happening: “The pitch … there’s a drive … this ball is … outta here! In the upper deck … Mike Schmidt territory … Greg Luzinski territory. Five for five … Nine for nine. Unbelievable, baseball fans, simply unbelievable.”

History was happening, and though we were only eleven years old and far away from the game, we felt as if we were a part of it. We had already checked the schedule and knew that it would be late August before the Cubs arrived at Shea Stadium. My buddies were already dropping hints about needing tickets.

After three games in Philadelphia, and ten for the road trip, the Cubs were going home. As Harry Kalas signed off, he said, “I cannot imagine the reception Joe Castle will get tomorrow afternoon at Wrigley Field. I wouldn’t mind being there myself.”

The Cubs left Philadelphia at midnight and arrived two hours later at O’Hare. As the team boarded a bus to leave the airport, Joe Castle got his first taste of fame. Several dozen
Cubs fans were waiting behind a chain-link fence for a glimpse of their new star. He walked over, shook a few hands, thanked them for coming out at such an hour, then hustled back to the bus, where his teammates were waiting, eager to leave but also enjoying the moment. The front office arranged a hotel room under an alias, and Joe finally fell asleep at 3:00 a.m.

Not long afterward, his parents and two brothers left Calico Rock for the long drive to Chicago. The Cubs played the Giants at 2:00 p.m. Saturday, and only a sudden death would keep them away from Wrigley.

Cable television was still a few years in the future, and the only games televised nationally were the World Series, the All-Star Game, and the NBC Game of the Week on Saturday afternoon with Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek. The July 14 game was scheduled to be televised from Tiger Stadium in Detroit, where the A’s were in town. At dawn, NBC, along with the rest of the baseball world, awakened to the irresistible story of Joe Castle and his stunning debut in Philadelphia. Suddenly the biggest game of the day was the Cubs versus the Giants; indeed, no other game was even close. Every baseball fan in America would be itching for news out of Wrigley.

It was raining in Detroit, not a heavy rain, but moisture nonetheless, and at dawn NBC made the controversial and long-remembered decision to move the Game of the Week to Chicago. The Tigers and the A’s squawked for a few weeks
afterward, but no one listened. Joe Castle owned major-league baseball in July 1973, and NBC never regretted its decision. The gamble paid off; it was to be another historic game.

Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek were roused from their sleep in Detroit and put on a plane to Chicago, where NBC was scrambling to piece together a production crew and get enough cameras wired up at Wrigley. The network was also praying for clear skies. By mid-morning, the weather was better in Detroit than in Chicago; indeed, when the Tigers game started at 2:00 p.m., there was not a cloud to be seen anywhere. Gowdy and Kubek would later admit that they were thrilled at the change of venue because of the excitement at Wrigley Field.

In 1957, Kubek, the Yankees longtime shortstop, played against one Walt Dropo, better known as Moose because he was six feet five and weighed 220 pounds. In 1950, Dropo was the American League Rookie of the Year, but injuries soon derailed a promising career. Over the next eleven seasons, Moose Dropo played for several American League teams and hit .270 with 152 home runs, respectable numbers but not the kind to be remembered. However, in July 1952, while playing for Detroit against the Yankees, he hit safely in twelve consecutive at bats, without a walk. It was an astonishing feat, a record regarded by many experts as unbreakable.

Suddenly Moose Dropo’s forgotten career was attracting attention. The Saturday edition of the
Chicago Sun-Times
ran an old photo of Dropo alongside a new one of Joe Castle, and
beneath them was the question in bold print: “Twelve In A Row?” The
Tribune
sports page blared: “Nine for Nine!”

Wrigley Field was built in 1914, and various expansions over the decades brought its capacity to 41,000. The previous season, 1972, the Cubs averaged 16,600 fans for each home game. Until the arrival of Joe Castle, the 1973 Cubs were averaging 16,800. By 10:00 a.m. Saturday, crowds were gathering around the ticket booths at Wrigley. Long lines were forming along Addison Street. Parties were under way on the rooftops beyond left field. Wrigleyville was alive, and as the morning dragged on, it began to rock. Everyone was desperately looking for a ticket.

A Cubs equipment manager fetched Joe from his hotel and sneaked him into an unnoticed maintenance door under the right field bleachers. When Joe took his first step onto the turf at Wrigley, it was just after 11:00 a.m. He had slept less than three hours because sleep was all but impossible. The gates had been opened, and the stands were filling quickly. No one recognized him in his street clothes. Near the home dugout, he introduced himself to several of the groundskeepers and politely said no to a reporter. In the Cubs dressing room, he admired his new locker as he changed into his uniform. A light lunch was served, and Joe was eating a sandwich with Don Kessinger when a trainer said, “Hey, Joe, your parents are here.”

In a narrow hallway outside the locker room, Joe hugged his mother and embraced his father and brothers, Red and
Charlie. All five were in various stages of disbelief, with Joe perhaps being the most composed. “It’s just baseball,” he said. “They’ll get me out eventually.”

Not surprisingly, Red had some advice. “Keep swinging. If it’s close, don’t take a chance.”

Charlie added, “You’re gonna see breakin’ stuff. No more fastballs. Stay back.”

“Right, right,” Joe said, laughing, then took his family inside the locker room for a quick tour. They were overwhelmed, sleepwalking through an adventure they had dreamed about for years.

The Giants came into Wrigley five games behind the Dodgers in the West. Willie Mays was gone; in fact, he was idling away his waning days with the Mets. But the Giants still had Willie McCovey and Bobby Bonds, and their record was slightly better than the Cubs’ on July 14. Their starter was Ray Hiller, a left-hander with six wins and seven losses.

There were at least forty-one thousand rowdy Cubs fans packed into Wrigley at 2:00 p.m. Countless others watched from the rooftops beyond the left field wall. When Joe Castle’s name was called in the bottom of the first, a deafening ovation shook the old place and buried the voices of Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek.

Hiller was a junk dealer whose fastball rarely topped eighty. He lobbed up a couple of harmless curveballs, and
Joe resisted the urge to flail away. His third pitch was some knuckle-curve combo that fluttered high and outside, and with the count 3 and 0, Joe got the signal to hit away. Hiller came in with a slider that didn’t move much, and Joe swung with a vengeance. The ball lifted high and lazy at first, then it seemed to gain speed. Soon, there was no doubt it was gone; the question was, where would it land? Gary Matthews, the left fielder, took two steps back, then stopped, turned around, put his hands on his hips, and watched to see where it was going. The ball eventually bounced off the fifth-floor facade of a building, some 470 feet from home plate. Perhaps he was fatigued from all the home-run trots, or maybe he was learning to savor the moment, but whatever the reason, Joe rounded the bases at a slower pace, but not slow enough to aggravate the pitcher. “Never show up the pitcher,” Red and Charlie had drilled into him since the age of ten.

Wrigley Field had never been louder. The standing ovation roared until Joe took a step out of the dugout, tipped his cap, and acknowledged the adoring crowd. Then he blew a kiss at his mother, who was in the owner’s seats in the second row.

Ten for ten, with six home runs.

Joe led off in the bottom of the third with the score tied 1–1. On the first pitch, he faked a bunt, and the entire Giant infield reacted in spasms. Ed Goodson at third and Chris Speier at short were on their heels before the pitch, expecting a line shot from an astonishingly quick bat. They eventually shot forward. Tito Fuentes did the same, while McCovey
stutter-stepped around first base. After Hiller recovered from the pitch, he bolted upright, as if terrified of a bunt. Evidently, the Giants scouts had been alerted to Joe’s bunting skills. Ball one. Hiller kept his fastball off the center of the plate, opting instead to pick at the corners and hope for the best. His second pitch was a fastball, five inches outside. Joe waited and waited, then went with the pitch and slapped it to right field for a single.

Eleven for eleven.

It may have been the thrill of watching history in the making, or it could have been the clearing skies and sunshine and cold beer, or perhaps even the excitement that a full house always provided, or probably all of the above, but the atmosphere at Wrigley was electric. By now, Joe was receiving a standing ovation when he stepped into the on-deck circle, another when he stepped to the plate, and of course an even rowdier one with each hit.

He tipped his cap and helmet to the crowd, then took a lead off first.

His twelfth at bat came in the bottom of the sixth with the Cubs up 3–2. When the forty-one thousand faithful stood to applaud, they remained standing. On television, Curt Gowdy admitted to having a knot in his stomach. On the radio, Vince Lloyd described it as the most dramatic moment he could remember. Lou Boudreau went silent.

Hiller had abandoned his fastball altogether and was surviving on long, looping curves, changeups, and a nasty combo
of a slider and curve known as a slurve. Joe fouled off the first two pitches, both balls, and cursed himself for swinging at bad pitches. He shortened his stance, choked up, and took a ball high. The fourth pitch was a slow, dropping curve, a pitch that might cross the plate at the knees or six inches lower, and Joe took no chances. He chopped down on the pitch, and it slammed hard into home plate—a fair ball. It ricocheted high into the air toward third, where Goodson charged and waited, and waited. When he finally caught the ball, Joe was past first base for his twelfth consecutive hit. Move over Moose Dropo.