Calico Joe

I am shocked, and then I am not. What a brilliant, classy thing to do.

Instinctively, I get up and walk back to where they are sitting. I ease into the pew in front of them and whisper to Red, “Thanks for coming.” All three nod. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

Charlie points to Joe and says, “Joe wanted to take a road trip.”

“Welcome,” the priest says louder, in our direction. I look at him, and he seems ready to rap our knuckles for talking during his sermon. I stay where I am, with the Castle boys, and we endure a meaningless ritual that is painfully stretched into thirty minutes. The highlight is a eulogy by Marv somebody from, of course, the golf club. Marv tells a real knee-slapper about playing golf with Warren one day. Warren was driving the golf cart. His ball was in the water. He got too close to the edge of the pond, flipped the cart, Marv almost drowned, and Warren avoided getting splashed with a single drop of water.

We laugh because we are expected to. Marv’s not much of a speaker, and I get the impression he drew the short straw. I can just see these old goats sitting around the men’s grill, playing gin rummy, arguing about who will speak at whose funeral. “Okay, Marv, you do Warren, and I’ll do yours, and Fred’ll do mine.”

The priest does a credible job of filling in the gaps. He reads some scripture, relying heavily on the book of Psalms. He hits the high points of God’s love, goodness, forgiveness, salvation, and it becomes obvious that whatever Agnes is, she is not Catholic, Jewish, or Muslim. He never mentions the fact that Warren played professional baseball. Winding down, he informs us that Warren will be interred down the hall, on Wall D of the Third Pavilion, but that this will be done privately, family only.

I decide to skip this. I have no desire to see the hole in the wall where Warren’s ashes will spend eternity. Agnes can handle it. She’s the only one who might stop by once a month for the next three months, touch his name in stone, and try to conjure up some emotion. I know I’ll never be back.

Besides, I want to talk to Joe.

24

The Meditation Room is empty, and we claim it for the next few minutes. It’s even more of a dungeon than the chapel and gives the appearance of never being used. We move four chairs into a circle and have a seat.

“I’m very touched that you guys would drive this far,” I begin.

Red says, “Joe hasn’t been to Florida since spring training of 1973. He wanted to get out of town, and so here we are.” I remind myself that all three played minor-league ball, and like most prospects they arrived in camp each spring just like the veterans. Moving up and down the ranks of the minors and riding the buses, they have seen more of the country than I have.

“Thank you for coming,” I say.

Charlie says, “And thank you for bringing your dad to Calico Rock. It meant more to Joe than you’ll ever know.” Joe is smiling, nodding, content to allow his brothers to do most of the talking.

Red adds, “It really meant a lot.”

Joe says, “Sorry … about … your … dad.”

“Thank you, Joe.” He’s still wearing the sunglasses to hide his bad eye, but just above them a slight indentation is visible at the corner of his forehead. They said he stopped breathing three times on the way to the hospital.

Red says, “Joe has something for you.”

With his good hand, Joe reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulls out an envelope. Though I have not seen it in thirty years, I recognize it immediately. It is the letter I left on the Joe Castle Wall at Mount Sinai Hospital, in September 1973. Joe hands it to me with a wide smile and says, “Here … I … want … you … to … have … it.”

I slowly open it and remove my letter. I absorb the carefully printed heartache of an eleven-year-old boy: “Dear Joe: I am Paul Tracey, Warren’s son. I am so sorry for what my father did.” As I read on, I am overcome with the emotions that ran so deep that summer and fall. For six weeks, Joe Castle was my world. I thought about him constantly. I read everything I could find about him. I followed every one of his games, knew all his statistics. I even dreamed of playing on the same team with Joe—he was only ten years older. If I broke in at twenty, he would still be in his prime. We could be teammates.

Then he was hurt. Then he was gone. Then he was history.

When I finish the letter, my eyes are moist, but I am determined to collect myself. “Thanks, Joe.”

Red says, “The Cubs did a nice job of collecting all of Joe’s stuff, including several boxes of letters and gifts left at the hospital. A few months after Joe came home, they shipped it all down, and it’s been in Mom’s attic ever since.”

Charlie takes over. “Six thousand letters from the hospital alone, over thirty thousand total. A couple of years later, Joe was going through the letters and came across yours. He put it in a special place.”

Joe says, “It’s … very … special.”

“Thank you, Joe.” I feel myself getting choked up again.