Calico Joe

The beanball went straight at Joe’s helmet, and for a second, for a long, dreadful second that fans and writers would discuss and debate and analyze for decades to come, Joe didn’t move. He lost the ball. For a reason no one, especially Joe, would ever understand or be able to explain or re-create or reenact, he simply lost sight of the ball. He had said that he preferred to hit from the left side because he felt as though his right eye picked up the pitches faster, but at that crucial split second his eyes failed him. It could have been something beyond the center field wall. It could have been a slight shift in the lighting. He could have lost the ball as it crossed between my father’s white jersey and home plate. He could have been distracted by the movements of Felix Millan, the second baseman. No one would ever know because Joe would never remember.

The sound of a leather baseball hitting a hard plastic batting helmet is unmistakable. I had heard it several times in my games, including twice when I had unintentionally hit batters. I had heard it a month before at Shea when Bud Harrelson got beaned. I had heard it the summer before at a minor-league game I attended with Tom Sabbatini and his father. It is not a sharp bang but more like the striking of a dull object on a hard surface. It’s frightening enough, but there is also the immediate belief that the helmet has prevented a serious injury.

It was not the sound of Joe being hit. What we heard was the sickening thud of the baseball cracking into flesh and bone. For those of us in the crowd close enough to hear it, the sound would never be forgotten.

I can, and do, still hear it today.

The ball made contact at the corner of his right eye. It knocked his helmet off as he fell backward. He caught himself with his hands behind him, on the ground, and paused for a second before passing out.

There are so many scrambled images of what happened next. The crowd was stunned. There were gasps and a lot of “Oh my Gods!” The home plate umpire was waving for help. Jerry Grote was standing helplessly over Joe. The Cubs bench was ready to explode; several players were out of the dugout, screaming and cursing at Warren Tracey. The Cubs fans were booing loudly. The Mets fans were silent. My father walked slowly to a spot behind the mound, took off his glove, put both hands on his hips, and stared at home plate. I hated him.

As the trainers hovered over Joe and we waited, I closed my eyes and prayed that he would get up. Shake it off. Trot down to first. Then at some point charge the mound and bloody my father’s face, just like Dutch Patton’s. My mother stared at the field in disbelief, then looked down at me. My eyes were wet.

Minutes passed, and Joe was not getting up. We could see his cleats and uniform from the knees down, and at one point his heels appeared to be twitching, as if his body were in a seizure. The Cubs fans began throwing debris, and security guards scurried onto the field. Jerry Grote walked past the mound and stood next to his pitcher. I watched my father closely and at one point saw something that did not surprise me. With Joe flat on his back, unconscious, seriously injured, and convulsing, I saw my father smile.

A gate opened in right field, and an ambulance appeared. It stopped near home plate, a stretcher was removed, and suddenly the doctors, medics, and trainers were much more agitated. Whatever Joe’s condition was, it was getting worse. They quickly loaded him into the ambulance, and it sped away. All fifty-five thousand fans stood and applauded, though Joe heard nothing.

During the break, the Cubs had time to review their options. Warren Tracey had fanned on three straight pitches to make the final out in the bottom of the second, so he would not bat again until the fifth inning. With Ferguson Jenkins pitching for the Cubs, no one in the world of baseball doubted for a second that my father was about to get beaned. Retaliation would be swift and, hopefully, at least for the Cubs, brutal and painful. However, Yogi Berra might decide to pull Tracey for a reliever, thus preventing the payback. The Cubs could also retaliate in the bottom of the third by knocking down one or two of the Mets hitters. This would probably result in a free-for-all, which was exactly what the Cubs wanted as they watched their fallen star ride away in the ambulance. The problem with a brawl was that their target would be safely tucked away in the dugout. What the Cubs wanted was the head of Warren Tracey, and the manager, Whitey Lockman, devised the perfect solution. To pinch run for Joe, Lockman inserted a part-time player named Razor Ruffin, a tough black kid from the Memphis projects, which he escaped by playing football and baseball at Michigan State. He was built like a fireplug and could run like a deer, but as the Cubs were learning, he struggled with left-handed pitching. He entered the game and took his time stretching at first base.