Calico Joe

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.