Calico Joe (5 page)

Again, he tipped his hat to the screaming crowd. Willie McCovey, a fierce competitor, tapped him on the rear with his glove and said, “Congratulations, kid.” Joe could only smile and nod. He was dreaming and in another world. Not too many years earlier, his baseball card collection included a double “All-Star” selection featuring both Willie McCovey and Willie Mays.

In the top of the eighth, McCovey hit a two-run bomb that sailed over the right field bleachers and was probably never found. The Giants led 5–3 when the Cubs came to bat in the bottom of the inning.

The score was one thing, but the majority of the fans were not there just to watch a ball game. It was a rare moment to celebrate. Their beloved Cubs had not won a World Series since 1908. There had been some memorable moments—the 1945 team lost the Series in seven games to Detroit—though this had been during the “war years,” when the good players
were serving in the armed forces. There had been a few Hall of Famers—Hack Wilson in the 1920s and Ernie Banks in the 1950s and 1960s. Generally speaking, though, Cubs fans were accustomed to disappointment. They were fiercely loyal, but also desperate for a team or a player that was better than the rest.

Joe’s thirteenth at bat had enough pressure because of the first twelve hits, but add a runner at each base, two outs, and two runs down, and the tension on the field was suffocating. The crowd was standing, yelling, some were even praying. Hiller was gone, replaced by a right-hander named Bobby Lund, a veteran reliever who threw exceptionally hard. Joe would later admit that he preferred to hit from the left side because he could pick up the fastballs a bit quicker. He was always content to foul off pitches and work the count full, but in this, his thirteenth and possibly most important at bat in whatever career he might eventually have, he decided to be impatient. He took the first pitch, a high fastball, and after one look at Lund’s delivery, he was ready. The second pitch was another fastball, maybe an inch outside, but close enough to rip. Joe hit a scorcher to right center, a bullet that Tito Fuentes at second actually leaped for and missed badly. The ball stayed ten feet off the ground until it crashed into the ivy, where Bobby Bonds played it on one hop and fired home. With two outs, the runners were off with contact, and Joe’s double cleared the bases.

When he slid unchallenged into second base, he owned
the record, the one that had been labeled “unbreakable.” Standing on second, he put his hands on his knees and stared at the dirt and for a few seconds tried to believe and savor the moment. The stadium was manic; the noise was earsplitting.

The Giants catcher, Dave Rader, had the ball and, when the dust settled, called time. Slowly, he walked past the mound to second base, where he ceremoniously handed it to Joe Castle. The crowd roared even louder with this memorable act of sportsmanship.

Joe removed his helmet and acknowledged the adulation. The umpires were in no hurry to resume play. They were witnessing history, and the game is played without a clock. Finally, Joe walked to the seats beside the Cubs dugout and tossed the ball to his father. Then he went back to second base and put on his helmet. He looked deep into center field and quickly wiped a tear from his cheek. A camera caught it, and Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek made sure the world saw that Joe Castle, standing alone on second base and alone in the record book, now a legend, was human enough to show emotion.

A
fter an hour on the flat, two-lane highways of northeastern Arkansas, I realize I am quite hungry. Outside the town of Parkin, I pull in to the gravel lot of a barbecue shack and hope for the best. To avoid potential conversation, I take a portion of my scrapbook to read during lunch. Over a pulled pork sandwich and a root beer, I flip through pages of press clippings I have not seen in decades.

As soon as Joe arrived in the majors, I began visiting the library in White Plains to collect stories from the Chicago newspapers. Using a massive Xerox machine near the periodicals section, I made copies at five cents each. The July 15 Sunday editions of both the
Sun-Times
and the
Tribune
were packed with stories and photos of Saturday’s historic game. Joe was interviewed at length about the game, and it was obvious he was thoroughly enjoying the moment. Among many memorable quotes, he said such things as:

“Well, if they keep me in the lineup, I’ll probably hit .750 for the season.”

And, “Oh, sure, we have seventy-four games left. One home run per game is not out of the question.”

And, “They’ll get me out eventually.”

And, “The pennant? That’s already in the bag, man. We’re thinking about the World Series. I want to play the A’s.”

In spite of these comments, it was clear he liked bantering with the press and much of what he said was tongue-in-cheek. The Chicago baseball reporters, a notoriously tough bunch, were in awe and described him as “cocky but not the least bit arrogant” and “at times obviously overwhelmed by what he had done.” His teammates were stunned but also realistic. One said, “He’ll cool off, but let’s hope it takes a few weeks. Right now we’ve won four in a row, and that’s all that matters.” Whitey Lockman, when asked if Joe would remain in the lineup, retorted, “What, are you crazy?”

The postgame photos revealed a fresh-faced kid who looked all of twenty-one and was on top of the world. He was handsome, with deep-set blue eyes and curly, sandy hair, the kinds of looks that would soon attract women everywhere he went. He was single and had no significant female in his life, according to one story.

Everyone was falling in love with Joe Castle.

I had watched the Game of the Week with my mother in our den and afterward met Tom Sabbatini and Jamie Brooks at a sandlot where we tossed the ball around and talked nonstop about Joe. We took turns reenacting each of his at bats. On that glorious summer afternoon, there was no doubt that each of us would one day do something as dramatic as Joe Castle. We would play professional baseball, no question about that, the only unknown was for which team. Not surprisingly, the three of us decided that we would play for the Cubs, together, and for a long time.

I was having dinner with my mother and Jill when the phone rang. It was my coach, and he began by explaining that the All-Star voting had taken place that morning. I had been selected for the twelve-player roster, the only eleven-year-old to make the team. I was dreaming of this, of course, but I figured it was a long shot. I was stunned and elated, and after squealing this news to Mom and Jill, I wanted desperately to tell my father. But he was in Atlanta with the Mets, at the ballpark for a 7:00 p.m. game, and I knew he would not call afterward. Mom suggested I wait until late Sunday morning and call his hotel.

The sandwich is gone. I gather my scrapbook, pay the check, and continue my journey. Before long, I leave the rice and bean fields and enter hill country, then the Ozark Mountains,
which are not really mountains but more like slightly larger hills. At Batesville, birthplace of Rick Monday, I cross the White River and follow it north, through Mountain View and into the Ozark National Forest. It is a beautiful drive along Highway 5, a narrow winding road that is probably worthy of a postcard in October, but it is August and the grass is brown.

As far as I could tell, Joe Castle still lives in Calico Rock. After his brief career ended, he returned home and dropped out of sight. There had been stories about him, but with time, and with virtually no access, the journalists and reporters had forgotten about him. One of the last efforts had been a visit by a writer for
Sports Illustrated
in 1977, but the town had quickly closed ranks, and almost no information was exchanged. The reporter could not find Joe and was asked to leave by his brother Red.

As I enter Calico Rock, I tell myself for the hundredth time that I am being foolish. Not only would I fail in my little mission, but there is also an element of danger.

It is a lovely village, on a bluff above the White River. Trout docks are bunched near the bridge; fishing is important along the river. I park in front of the shops on Main Street, and for a moment I wonder what it must have been like thirty years earlier when Joe’s friends and family gathered in crowds to listen to Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau call the games
during that magical summer. I can almost feel the heartbreak when Joe went down.

I am looking for a man named Clarence Rook, the owner of the
Calico Rock Record
, the small weekly newspaper that has been reporting the town’s business for half a century. Mr. Rook has been with the paper for almost that long, and if he chooses not to cooperate, I really have no alternative plan. The office is on Main Street, three doors down from Evans Drug Store. I take a deep breath and walk inside. A young secretary in blue jeans greets me with a big smile and friendly hello.

“I’m looking for Mr. Clarence Rook,” I say in a well-rehearsed line.

“He’s pretty busy,” she says, still smiling. “Can I help you?”

“No, but thanks. I really need to see him.”

“Okay. Can I have a name?”

“Paul Casey. I’m a reporter with
Baseball Monthly
.” These lies will not last long, but the truth simply will not work right now.

“Interesting,” she says. “And what brings you to Calico Rock?”

“I’m working on a story,” I reply, well aware of how vague I sound.

“Okay,” she says, retreating. “Let me see what he’s doing.”

She disappears into the back. I can hear voices. The walls are lined with framed copies of old editions, and it doesn’t take long to find one from July 1973. The bold headline read: “Joe Castle in Stunning Debut with Cubs.” I take a step closer
and begin reading. The story was written by Clarence Rook, as were most of the front-page articles, and it was filled with unabashed pride.

I have a copy of it in my scrapbook.

“Mr. Rook will see you,” she reports, nodding to a narrow hallway. “First door on the right.”

“Thanks,” I say with a smile and head for the rear.

Clarence Rook is a colorful sight—red cheeks, white shirt, red bow tie, red suspenders, probably seventy years old, with a thick gray beard and a mop of Mark Twain–style white hair. He is chewing on the stem of a pipe, one that rarely leaves his mouth, and he is behind an old wooden desk covered with stacks of assorted files and papers. To one side is a battered Royal typewriter, circa 1950, still being used.