Calico Joe

Fall classes have yet to begin, and the lots are empty. We park near an old rodeo arena, cross a street, and approach the backstop from behind some bleachers. We climb to the top row and settle into a spot shaded by the small press box. The field is beautiful. The Bermuda grass is lush and green. Everything else is wilting under the August sun and drought, but the turf of Joe Castle Field is thick, manicured, and well irrigated. The base paths and infield dirt are meticulously groomed. The mound looks as though it has been hand sculpted. A ten-foot-wide warning track of crushed limestone circles the entire playing surface, and there is not a weed visible. Just beyond the chain-link fence in left center is a large scoreboard with JOE CASTLE FIELD across the top and HOME OF THE PIRATES along the bottom.

Joe is on a red spiderlike mower with various cutting decks and numerous blades, a serious machine obviously built for playing surfaces. He wears a black cap with the bill pulled low and glasses. Not surprisingly, he has put on weight over the years.

“He’s here every day?” I ask.

“Five days a week.”

“It’s the middle of August. There won’t be another baseball game until, what, March?”

“Middle of March, if it’s not snowing.”

“So why does he cut the grass and prepare the field every day?”

“Because he wants to. It’s his job.”

“He’s paid?”

“Oh yes. Joe came home just before Christmas of 1973. He spent two months in a hospital in New York, then the Cubs flew him to Chicago, where he spent several weeks in another hospital. Red and Charlie drove him home in time for Christmas. He was talking about playing some more, but we knew the truth. Just after the first of the year, he had the stroke, a massive one. He was at home, by himself, and by the time they got him to the hospital in Mountain Home, there was some damage. His left side is partially paralyzed. You’ll see when he walks.”

“Does he know we’re up here?”

“Yes. He saw us park, walk over, find a seat. He knows we’re talking about him. It’s likely he will not get close enough to say hello, and before the day is over, either Red or Charlie, probably Charlie, will call me and want to know what I was doing here and who I had with me. I’ll tell him you’re my nephew from Texas, a high school baseball coach who wanted to admire our field.”

“Okay. Back to the story. Why is Joe paid to take care of the field?”

“After the stroke, it was obvious he was disabled and needed a job. So the school system hired him as a custodian, full-time with health insurance and pension, and for thirty years Joe has been taken care of. He works on the field, putters around the gymnasium, and when the baseball team has a game, he sits up here in the press box and works the scoreboard.”

“What a great idea.”

“We take care of each other here in Calico Rock, Paul. Especially Joe.”

Joe finishes a long sweeping cut, from the right field foul line to the left, then whirls around for another one. The mower is close to the outfield warning track. If the blades are actually clipping the Bermuda, I cannot detect it. The uncut portion looks as pristine as the swath he’s just finished.

“What are you thinking?” Clarence asks, firing up his pipe again.

“What could have been. Where would Joe be now had it not been for the injury. How great could he have been?”

“That’ll drive you crazy. I did it for years, then realized it’s a waste of time. The story of Joe Castle is nothing but a great tragedy. It’s difficult to accept, but after a while you try to move on.”

“Is it a good idea for Warren Tracey to come here, to meet with Joe?”

A long puff, a large cloud of smoke. The temperature has to be close to ninety already, and I wonder how a person can enjoy smoking in such heat. “You know, Paul, sitting here as we are, it seems impossible that your father would show up, shake hands with Joe, and talk about their past.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Do you really think you can convince him to come?”

“I’m going to try, Clarence. I think I can do it.”

“How?”

“Blackmail.”

Joe turns for the final swipe at the outfield grass. He has yet to look in our direction.

“I don’t suppose I want to get into that,” Clarence says.

“No, you don’t.”

We watch and listen to the mower. Finally, Clarence says, “Yes, in my worthless opinion, it would mean a lot to Joe if Warren Tracey shook his hand and offered his apology. The two have never spoken, never met since that night. It strikes me as a good idea. But how in hell can you pull it off?”

“It’s a long shot, Clarence. But I need your help. I want you to speak to his brothers and clear it on this end. Otherwise, I’m wasting my time.”

Joe parks in foul territory outside the left field line and turns off the mower. He swings his right leg over, braces himself, and hops down. He grabs a cane and shuffles toward a storage shed. He walks with a pronounced limp, with his left foot dragging behind, his right foot advancing in stutter steps, his shoulders dipping as he slowly moves forward.