Calico Joe (8 page)

Charlie Castle was eight years older than Joe. He was married with two small children and lived in a new home on the edge of town. The family and many friends gathered there late Tuesday afternoon for hot dogs and ice cream. The real purpose, though, was to see Joe, to touch him, to make sure he
was real, and to somehow and in some dignified way convey the immense pride they felt. He made it easy. At home, far away from Chicago, far away from anywhere really, the past twelve days seemed surreal, and at times he seemed as dazed as his admirers. He signed autographs, posed for photos, even kissed a few babies. The All-Star Game was on in the den, but everyone was outside.

They had Joe to themselves, but only for a moment. The world was clawing for him. Greatness was waiting, and Joe would soon return to center stage.

I watched the All-Star Game at home with my mother. The Sabbatinis invited me over, but I had a black eye and refused to leave the house. My parents were at war, and eventually my father had fled to the city, where he would no doubt go to a bar and start more trouble. Before he left, he apologized for hitting me, but the apology meant absolutely nothing. I hated the man. I think my mother did too. Jill had long since given up on him.

The game was in Kansas City, and it turned into a celebration of Willie Mays, who was the greatest All-Star performer ever. In a remarkable twenty-four games, he had twenty-three hits, including three home runs, three triples, two doubles, and a highlight reel full of great defensive plays. Now he was forty-two years old, sitting on the bench for the Mets, and planning to retire at the end of the season.

I was the only kid I knew who had actually met Willie Mays. Early in the season, the Mets had their annual family day at Shea Stadium. Most of the players’ wives and kids were there to meet each other and pose for photographs. There was ice cream, autographs, tours of the stadium and locker room, and lots of souvenirs. My father had reluctantly allowed me to take part in this wonderful event. I had my picture taken with Willie Mays, Tom Seaver, Rusty Staub, and most of the Mets. My mother had these enlarged to eight by ten, and they were neatly filed away in my scrapbooks. I had thick ones for Tom Seaver and Willie Mays, the only two Mets to make the All-Star team.

As I watched the game, I wondered what they really thought of Warren Tracey. Sure, they were teammates, but I doubted if they cared much for my father. As much as I tried to loosen him up, he rarely talked about the other Mets. He ran around with a couple of relievers from the bull pen, and he would occasionally tell a funny story about something that happened around the clubhouse or on the road—stories that were suitable for our ears. His manager, Yogi Berra, was good for an occasional laugh. But the big Mets—Tom Seaver, Willie Mays, Jerry Koosman, Rusty Staub—were off-limits. Looking back, I think he resented their success.

For the American League, the fans had selected such greats as Brooks Robinson, Reggie Jackson, and Rod Carew. Catfish Hunter started on the mound. In the National League, the Reds had three starters—Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, and Johnny
Bench. The Cubs had two—Ron Santo and Billy Williams. Hank Aaron was at first base. A record fifty-four players made it into the game, and I had the Topps baseball card for every one. I knew their ages, birthplaces, heights, weights, and all their stats. I did not deliberately memorize all this data. I simply absorbed it. The game was my world; the players, my idols.

The game, though, had just delivered a nasty blow, and I was a wounded boy. The right side of my face was swollen, and the eye was closed. I was so happy my father was not playing in the All-Star Game, because I would not have been able to endure it. He never came close, though with his twisted ego he felt slighted. It was such a relief to have him out of the house.

My mother sat nearby, reading a paperback, paying no attention to the game, but staying close to me. After he stormed out and things calmed down, she told me that he would never hit me again. I took this to mean she was about to leave him, or he would leave us, or there would be some manner of a breakup. I whispered this to Jill, and we were delighted at first. Then we began to wonder where we would live. What would happen to him? How could Mom survive without his income? As the scenarios unfolded, we had more and more questions, troubling ones. I suppose every kid wants his parents to stay together, but as the day wore on, I found myself torn between the uncertainties of a divorce and the pleasant thoughts of life without my father. I leaned toward the latter.

When Ron Santo walked to the plate in the second inning,
Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek couldn’t wait to launch into the Joe Castle story. They had been at Wrigley just ten days earlier for that historic event and recapped it as Santo worked the count off Catfish Hunter. After eleven games, Joe had forty at bats, twenty-nine hits, twelve home runs, and fourteen stolen bases. He had hit safely in every game, and, more important, the Cubs had won nine of the eleven and were in first place in the National League East. Wrigley Field had sold out not only for each of the six games Joe had played there but for every game until after Labor Day.

Kubek offered the same speculation that was making the rounds. The wise men of baseball, including my father, were predicting that the pitchers would soon catch on to Joe and find his weaknesses. His current batting average of .725 was ridiculous and certain to plummet as he made his way around the league.

Gowdy was not so sure. “I didn’t notice any holes in his swing,” he said.

“Nor did I,” Kubek quickly agreed.

“He’s struck out only twice.”

“Great balance; he stays back, incredible bat speed.”

Poor Ron Santo was overshadowed by his rookie teammate who, at that moment, was eating his aunt Rachel’s homemade strawberry ice cream in Calico Rock, Arkansas, and oblivious to the game.

When play resumed on July 26, the Cubs opened a four-game series in Cincinnati against the Big Red Machine, the most dominant team of the 1970s. With a lineup that included Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Joe Morgan, and Tony Perez, the Reds narrowly lost the 1972 World Series in seven games to the A’s, then won it all in 1975 and 1976.

They were leading the Dodgers by two games in the National League West. As usual, a large crowd was on hand, and most were curious to see if the bat of Joe Castle had cooled off during the All-Star break.

It had not. Joe hit a solo home run in his first at bat and barely missed another one in the fourth inning. He was three for four in game one; two for five in game two; two for four in game three; and one for three in game four. The teams split the series, and the Reds would go on to win ninety-nine games and take the National League West. For the series, Joe went eight for sixteen, and his average dropped to .661.

Another obscure record was suddenly in sight. In 1941, a Red rookie by the name of Chuck Aleno made a dazzling debut by hitting safely in his first seventeen games, a modern-day record that stood until 1973. Aleno cooled off considerably and left baseball three years later after playing in only 118 games and hitting .209. The experts, of course, were still predicting such a collapse for Joe Castle.

Joe’s sixteenth game was in Pittsburgh, and he got things started in the top of the first with a stand-up triple. The crowd, and the Cubs were drawing well on the road,
applauded politely. Pirates fans had been spoiled with the likes of Roberto Clemente, Willie Stargell, and Al Oliver, and they knew their baseball. They were watching history, and though they wanted a win, they were also pulling for this new kid. The second game went fourteen innings; Joe got five hits in seven at bats. He tied Aleno’s record with a home run in his seventeenth game, then broke it with two doubles in his eighteenth.

When the Cubs left Pittsburgh for a three-game series in Montreal, Joe had played in nineteen games, had hit safely in each, and was sporting a gaudy batting average of .601, with fourteen home runs and seventeen stolen bases. Records were still falling; baseball had never seen such a furious start by a rookie.

The Cubs were the hottest team in baseball and led the Pirates in the East by six games.

The August 6 issue of
Sports Illustrated
had on its cover the smiling face of Joe Castle. The photo was shot from the waist up. A baseball bat ran the length of his broad shoulders, and he held both ends tightly with his hands. His biceps were sufficiently flexed—it was the look of raw power. The bold caption above his head read: “Calico Joe.” And below his chest—“The Phenom.”

The writer spent time in Calico Rock. He interviewed
Joe’s family, friends, and former coaches and teammates. The article was thorough, fair, and balanced and provided the first in-depth look at Joe’s background. A valuable source was Clarence Rook, sports editor of the
Calico Rock Record
and unofficial baseball historian for Izard County, Arkansas.

M
r. Clarence Rook asks me to leave the newspaper’s offices on Main Street, and I do so. I have two scoops of vanilla at an ice cream shop two doors down and listen to some casual town gossip as I watch the languid foot traffic on the sidewalk. After killing an hour, I drive three blocks west and higher up the bluff to a house at 130 South Street where Mr. Rook has lived for the past forty-one years. He is waiting, standing on the front porch, already in his drinking clothes.

The house is a rambling old Victorian, with wide, sweeping covered porches, high arching windows, painted gables, all different colors, the most dominant being a soft pastel maize. The small lawn and flower beds are as neat and colorful as the house.

“A beautiful place,” I say as I walk through the swinging gate of a white picket fence.

“It’s a hand-me-down. My wife’s family. Welcome.”

He is wearing a white linen shirt with a tail that falls
almost to his knees, a pair of bulky white britches that bunch around his bare ankles, and a pair of well-worn and scuffed espadrilles. He is holding a tall, slender beverage glass with a straw in his right hand, and with his left he waves at the side porch and says, “Follow me. Fay’s back there somewhere.” I follow him over the creaking boards and under the whirling ceiling fans. The porch is crowded with white wicker furniture—rockers, stools, drink tables, a long swing covered with pillows.