Calico Joe

Lou Brock was in the cage for the Cardinals, spraying baseballs everywhere. We watched him take a dozen swings, then Willie spoke to another player who walked in front of us. When we were alone again, he said, “You know, I never wanted to pitch. You gotta rely on too many other players to succeed. You can be having a great day on the mound, then, just like that, somebody makes an error and you lose the game, you know?”

“Yes sir.” I would agree with anything Mr. Mays had to say.

“Or you strike out twenty, give up two hits, and lose the game one to nothing, you know what I’m saying, Paul?”

“Yes sir.”

“Plus, I could never throw strikes, which is tough when you’re trying to pitch.”

“I’ve had that problem occasionally,” I said, and Willie Mays laughed out loud. He tapped me on the knee and said, “Good luck to you, Paul.”

“Thanks, Mr. Mays.”

He jumped to his feet and was yelling at one of the Cardinals. I looked at my knee for a long time and vowed to never wash that pair of jeans. A few minutes later, Wayne Garrett and Ed Kranepool sat nearby and began watching batting practice. I inched a bit closer so I could eavesdrop.

“You hear what Castle did today?” Garrett asked as he chomped on bubble gum.

“No,” Kranepool replied.

“Four for four with two doubles, off Don Sutton.”

“Off Sutton?” Kranepool asked in disbelief.

“Yep. I thought the kid was cooling off.”

“Guess not. Should be a wild weekend around here. You got any spare tickets?”

“Are you kidding?”

I sat alone eight rows from the field and close to the Mets dugout. My father gave up a home run to Joe Torre in the first inning, then settled down and pitched well. He ran out of gas in the top of the seventh, with the Mets leading 5–2, and when Yogi Berra pulled him, he received an impressive ovation from the crowd. I was on my feet, clapping and yelling as loud as possible. He tipped his cap to me, and at that moment I realized how much I wanted to adore him.

His record was seven and seven. His next start would be against the Cubs.

11

After two lemon gins, I am sufficiently mellow and want no more. Clarence seems unfazed by the booze, and when he goes for his third, I decline and ask for water. Fay is buzzing about, cooking and setting the table on the back porch. The sun is falling, and its last rays glisten across the White River below us. Clarence and I sit under a maple tree next to the vegetable garden and talk about the Castle boys.

Their grandfather, Vick Castle, signed with the Cleveland Indians in 1906 and five years later made it to the big leagues, but for less than a month. He played in ten games before being sent down. After the season he was traded, then broke an ankle, and his career fizzled. He returned to Izard County and ran a sawmill before dying at the age of forty-four. Bobby, his only son and Joe’s father, signed with Pittsburgh in 1938, and in 1941 he led the AAA International League in hitting and RBIs. He was destined to start at third base for the Pirates in 1942, but the war got in the way. He joined the Navy and was shipped to the Pacific, where he lost half a leg to a land mine.

His oldest son, Charlie, signed out of high school with the Washington Senators and bounced around the minors for six years before he called it quits. Red, the middle brother, signed with the Phillies in 1966 but couldn’t get out of single A. He quit, joined the Marines, and volunteered for two tours of duty in Vietnam.

Clarence enjoys his narrative and does not need notes. I am amazed at his ability to recall, though I have no way of knowing his level of accuracy. There is something about his twinkling eyes and bushy eyebrows that leads me to believe that this guy is not beyond embellishment. But it doesn’t matter; he loves to talk and tell stories, and the Castle family is obviously a favorite topic. I am delighted to be here and happy to listen.