Calico Joe

“Even me? Come on, Joe, surely you’ve had some really evil thoughts about me over the years.”

“I … did … but … not … now … You … said … it … was … an … accident … and … I … wanted … to … believe … you.”

“But I was lying, Joe. It wasn’t an accident. I lied about it for thirty years. Now I’m telling you the truth. Does this make you hate me?”

“No … You … apologized … I … accept.”

Warren puts his right hand on Joe’s left shoulder and says, “Thank you, Joe. You’re a much bigger man than me.”

“I’m … still … batting … a … thousand … off … you.”

Warren laughs loudly, and Joe follows.

We watch and are amused at their ability to laugh. I’ve known my entire life that Warren Tracey has no sense of humor, so it’s obvious Joe has said something funny.

“I think they’re getting along,” Clarence observes.

“I suppose they have to. If a fight breaks out, Warren has no one in his corner.”

“They’re in no mood for a fight. Charlie told me yesterday they admired your father for wanting to see Joe.”

“What was their hesitation?”

“Two reasons. They were afraid it might upset Joe and bring back a lot of bad memories. And they’re afraid this little meeting might somehow get leaked and end up in a story somewhere. I assured them that would not happen. Right?”

“Of course.”

“So how did you blackmail your father into coming?”

“The blackmail didn’t work. He’s here because he wants to be here. He’s a tough guy, and it’s taken the reality of death to soften him up. He’s looking back at a sloppy life with a lot of regrets.”

“What an awful way to die.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is.”

Joe looks at the first base dugout and says, “Charlie … Red.” His brothers get to their feet and leave the dugout.

Warren stands, looks at us, and waves us down.

We meet in front of home plate, and I shake hands with Joe Castle. He wears a cap, and thick, dark sunglasses to cover his bad eye. His hair is half gray, and he looks nothing like the smiling kid on the magazine covers of thirty years ago. In all fairness, though, who does look the same after thirty years?

Charlie and Red are nice enough but would rather observe than participate.

At my request, Clarence has a camera, and I explain to the Castles that I would like some photos to record the meeting. “Will they be published?” Red asks.

“Only with your approval,” I say. He and Charlie are suspicious, but they agree.

To my surprise, Clarence has brought something else. From a small plastic bag kept somewhere inside his coat, he pulls out two baseball caps—Cubs and Mets. He hands them to Joe and Warren and says, “I thought it would be a nice touch to photograph you guys in these.”

Joe looks at his with a frown, and Warren does the same. They are hesitant, as if the caps bring back too many memories. “Just a thought,” Clarence says, retreating, as if he might have screwed up the entire meeting. Then Joe creases the bill of his cap, removes the one advertising a feed store, and puts on his Cubs cap. Like all ballplayers, he adjusts here and there until it feels right. When Warren removes his golf cap, his head is as slick as an onion, not a single hair, and for a split second we recoil at the horrors of chemotherapy. It is a reminder that he doesn’t have long.

With the caps in place, we take a step back and Clarence snaps away. The two players are standing, smiling, with Joe leaning on his cane. Clarence has a better idea. He suggests we move to right center and use the scoreboard of Joe Castle Field as a backdrop. This we do, and after a few dozen shots of Joe and Warren, I wedge myself into the frame and stand between my father and my old hero, all smiling.

The eight-by-ten will be the final entry in my Joe Castle scrapbook.

Suddenly there is nothing left to do. The two have met, said what needed to be said, and posed for photos. We say our good-byes and leave the field.

Driving back to Main Street, Clarence says that Fay would like to have an early lunch on the porch, if that’s okay. I glance at Warren in the rear seat, and he is shaking his head no. I do not want to offend Fay, or Clarence, so I say, “That’s nice, but we need to hit the road. Warren has a 4:00 p.m. flight.” I don’t feel bad about this, because I’ve seen enough of Calico Rock. And, being so hospitable, the Rooks would love nothing more than to spend the entire afternoon on the porch swapping stories and taking more photos. Then the lemon gins.

“No problem,” Clarence says. He parks and we meet at his rear bumper. I thank him again, and he offers his best wishes to Warren. I promise to call with updates.

Not far out of Calico Rock, Warren, who has gone silent, asks me to pull over. He gets into the backseat and falls asleep. The trip and the meeting with Joe have exhausted him, and he’s finally hit the wall.

He is still wearing his Mets cap.

22