Calico Joe

When Joe speaks, it is in a high-pitched, halting staccato, as if he knows precisely what the next word will be but getting it out requires some effort. “Thanks … for … coming.” They sit in the chairs at home plate, and Red goes back to the first base dugout.

With their shoulders almost touching, they sit for a moment and stare out beyond the mound, their thoughts known only to themselves.

“You have a beautiful field here, Joe.”

“Thanks.”

From where we sit, we cannot hear them. Red and Charlie are seated on the bench in the dugout, likewise too far away to hear.

“A long way from Shea Stadium,” Clarence says softly.

“A thousand miles and a thousand years. Thanks for doing this.”

“You did it, Paul, not me. I’m happy to be in the middle of it—a reporter’s dream. How many die-hard baseball fans in this country would kill to have our seats right now?”

I shake my head. “A couple of million in Chicago alone.”

Joe says, “Sorry … about … the … cancer.”

“Thanks, Joe. Just a bad break, you know. Bad luck. Sometimes you get lucky; sometimes you don’t.”

Joe nods. He is acquainted with bad luck. A minute passes as they sit and stare and ponder what to say next.

“I think we’re supposed to talk about baseball, Joe. That’s the reason I’m here.”

Joe is still nodding. “Okay.”

“How often do you think about that night at Shea Stadium, Joe, the last time we saw each other?”

“Not … much … Don’t … remember … much.”

“Well, I’m envious, because I remember too well. It was a beanball, Joe, one I threw at your head as hard as I could possibly throw a baseball. I wanted to hit you, to knock you down, to put you in your place, and all that crap. It was intentional, Joe, and I’ve regretted it ever since. I’m sorry. I apologize. It was a nasty, mean-spirited, really stupid thing to do, and it ruined what was destined to be a great career. There—I said it. I’m sorry, Joe.”

Joe nods and nods and finally says, “It’s … okay … it’s … okay.”

Warren is on a roll and wants to unload everything. “I meant to hit you, Joe, but I had no idea all the bad stuff would happen. I know that sounds crazy. You throw a fastball at a guy’s head with the clear intention of hitting him, yet you say you didn’t really mean to hurt him. It’s foolish, I know. So I guess I was a fool as well as an idiot.”

“It’s … okay … it’s … okay.”

“When I let it go, I knew it was on-target. I knew it would land somewhere above the neck. But it was too perfect, and for a split second you didn’t move. When it hit, I could hear bones break. A lot of people heard bones break that night. It was pretty scary. I knew you were hurt. When they put you on the stretcher, I thought you were dead. God, I’m sorry, Joe.”

“It’s … okay … Warren.”

There was a long gap in the conversation as both men continued to gaze into the distance. Warren says, “Do you remember your first at bat that night, the home run?”

“I … remember … every … home … run.”

Warren smiles. Typical hitter. “At one point, you fouled off eight straight pitches. I had never seen a bat that quick. I threw fastballs, sliders, curves, changeups, even a cutter, and you just waited and waited until the last possible split second, then flicked the bat and fouled them off. The home run you hit was four inches off the plate. I fooled you all right, but you recovered and hit it almost four hundred feet. That’s when I decided to hit you. I was thinking, well, if I can’t get him out, I’ll just knock him down. Intimidate him. He’s just a rookie.”

“Just … part … of … the … game.”

“Maybe. A lot of players have been hit in the head, but few got hurt. Ray Chapman was killed by a pitch in 1920. Mickey Cochrane never played again after taking one in the head. Tony Conigliaro was a certain Hall of Famer, then he got beaned in the eye. I hit him once, did you know that?”

“Tony C.?”

“Yep. In 1965, I was pitching for Cleveland. Tony crowded the plate, and he was fearless. I drilled him in the shoulder and never felt bad about it. Sometimes you gotta hit a guy, Joe, you know that. But you don’t try to hurt someone; it’s never part of the game to throw at a guy’s head. He’s got a family, a career. That was my mistake.”

“You … hit … a … lot … of … people.”

Warren takes a deep breath and readjusts his weight. He took a pain pill an hour earlier, and it’s wearing off. “True, and I have a lot of regrets, Joe. When I die, they won’t say anything about what a lousy husband and father I was. They won’t say much about my mediocre baseball career. No. What they’ll write about is that one pitch. I threw a million, but they’ll talk about the beanball that nailed Joe Castle. The one I’ll always regret.”

“Me … too.”

Both men find this funny and begin laughing softly.

“You have every right to hate me, Joe. I cost you so much. In the blink of an eye, your career was gone, and there was no one to blame but me. It would be nice, as I’m getting close to the end, to know that you don’t hate me. Is this asking too much?”

“I … hate … no … one.”