Calico Joe

My father waited perhaps two minutes into the drive home before he reached the point where he could no longer stay quiet. “That was a pathetic game,” he began.

My mother was ready to explode, and she snapped, “Don’t start it, Warren. Don’t even think about it. Just shut up and drive.”

I couldn’t see his face, but I knew it was bloodred. I knew his first reaction would be to stop the car, slap her across the face, then attack me in the rear seat. Passing motorists would be treated to the sight of another Tracey family brawl, postgame, on the shoulder of the road.

Truthfully, though, he only hit my mother when he was drunk. That was no excuse, but as the seconds ticked by slowly, I was comforted by that fact.

A pathetic game? At that point in his career he had won sixty-one games and lost eighty. What about that pathetic record? What about the pathetic game against the Dodgers back in May when he gave up six runs in the first inning and left with the bases loaded and only one out? What about the pathetic game three weeks ago in Pittsburgh when he took a five-run lead into the seventh inning and blew it before the Mets could warm up a reliever? Don’t get me started. I knew his stats better than he did, but if I opened my smart mouth, I knew he would punch me.

I managed to hold my tongue. So did he, and we survived the drive home. As he turned off the ignition, he said, “Let’s go to the backyard, Paul, I need to show you something.”

I looked at my mother for help, but she was hurrying to get out.

The backyard session turned ugly real fast, then violent. When it was over, I vowed to never play again as long as he was alive.

8

Joe arrived home in the early hours of Monday morning. The lights were on; his parents were waiting. As he parked at the curb, he noticed the large poster staked near the mailbox. It was a replica of the back of a Cubs game jersey with a bold blue Number 15 in the center of it. He looked around—every yard on Church Street had the same poster. Later, he would realize that every front lawn in Calico Rock displayed one too, as well as the windows of every store, office, bank, and café.

His mother’s family was from south Louisiana, and Joe had been raised on Cajun food. His favorite was red beans and rice with andouille sausage, and at three o’clock that morning he devoured a plateful. Then he slept until noon.

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.