Calico Joe

Evidently, there are a lot of Cubs fans in Florida, and over the years Warren had a number of run-ins with them on golf courses. He also had fights in bars, stores, and airports, and for a long time he traded in cash and avoided credit cards. He once got screwed out of $40,000 in a condo deal by two men who were Cubs fans and deliberately suckered him into the transaction. The surname Tracey is not that common, and for years after the beaning it meant trouble for Warren.

The ancient security guard clears me through the gate. It is early evening, and couples are biking and walking for exercise along the footpaths next to the winding street. The golf course is deserted. Everything is green and well-groomed.

According to my research, the home was appraised at $650,000 and had been purchased by Warren and Agnes five years earlier. I didn’t keep records, but it must be the fifteenth place he has lived in Florida in the past thirty years. I suppose Warren is the restless type; he tires quickly of wives and homes.

I have not seen him in four years. Sara and I did the obligatory Disney World trip with the girls, and for some reason I thought it was important for the kids to at least meet their paternal grandfather. What a disaster. He did not want us in his home, nor did he want us to meet Agnes. So we met for lunch at a chain restaurant—Wink’s Waffles—not far from his gated community, and he struggled to be civil. He had not met my children before, and Warren in the role of grandfather was a pathetic sight. He was a stranger to the girls, to Sara, and to me as well, and he could not have been more uncomfortable.

Sara’s parents live in Pueblo, Colorado, and we see them several times a year. They adore their granddaughters and are as involved in their lives as possible. So the girls had a clear idea of what a grandfather should be. Warren, though, completely baffled them. He was unsure of their names, thoroughly uninterested in small talk, and showed no warmth whatsoever because he had neither the desire nor the ability, and when he glanced at his watch thirty minutes into the little family reunion, it was noticed by all of us.

Afterward, I promised Sara and the girls that they would never again be subjected to my father. I knew they approved of this decision. Later, once we were home, the girls told their mother that they felt sorry for me. They could not comprehend how a nice guy like their dad could have such a lousy father.

Parked on the cobblestoned driveway is a Mercedes that is at least fifteen years old. I ring the doorbell, and Agnes eventually answers. This is our first face-to-face meeting. It will be brief. Neither she nor I want to spend ten seconds together. She is the latest victim in a long, sad list of vulnerable and desperate women who, out of loneliness or some other unfathomable reason, agreed to marry Warren Tracey. As I follow her through the foyer, I wonder how many husbands she has been through, but I really don’t care.

Warren is in the den watching television, some breed of delicate little lapdog on the sofa next to him. He rises quickly, manages a smile, and offers a hand. As I shake it, I am impressed by his appearance. His skin is pale, his movements slow, but for a dying man he looks remarkably healthy. He mutes the television but does not turn it off. Nothing he does, regardless of how rude, surprises me. I back into a chair, while Agnes sits on the sofa next to the dog. I’ll get rid of her in a minute.

We kill some time talking about his surgery, and I feign interest. Next, it’s the chemotherapy, which will start in a week. “I’m gonna beat this thing, Paul,” he says, a well-rehearsed line delivered with no conviction. He seems to think I care. He seems to believe I have traveled from New Mexico to Florida because I am concerned about him. There is no doubt in my mind that if I were hospitalized and on my deathbed, Warren Tracey would find an excuse not to show up. Why, then, does he think I am interested in his chemo?

Why? Over the years, I’ve learned the answer. He’s special. He played the game. Maybe he didn’t put up Hall of Fame numbers, but he was still one of the elite who made it to the big stage. His entire life has been lived in his own little self-absorbed, narcissistic world where he is a cut above the rest.

I feed him quarters and keep him talking. How long will the chemotherapy last? What do the doctors really think? I know a guy whose uncle lived fifteen years with pancreatic cancer. Is more surgery a possibility?

He does not ask about my wife, my daughters, his daughter, or her children. As usual, it’s all about Warren.