Calico Joe

There were at least forty-one thousand rowdy Cubs fans packed into Wrigley at 2:00 p.m. Countless others watched from the rooftops beyond the left field wall. When Joe Castle’s name was called in the bottom of the first, a deafening ovation shook the old place and buried the voices of Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek.

Hiller was a junk dealer whose fastball rarely topped eighty. He lobbed up a couple of harmless curveballs, and Joe resisted the urge to flail away. His third pitch was some knuckle-curve combo that fluttered high and outside, and with the count 3 and 0, Joe got the signal to hit away. Hiller came in with a slider that didn’t move much, and Joe swung with a vengeance. The ball lifted high and lazy at first, then it seemed to gain speed. Soon, there was no doubt it was gone; the question was, where would it land? Gary Matthews, the left fielder, took two steps back, then stopped, turned around, put his hands on his hips, and watched to see where it was going. The ball eventually bounced off the fifth-floor facade of a building, some 470 feet from home plate. Perhaps he was fatigued from all the home-run trots, or maybe he was learning to savor the moment, but whatever the reason, Joe rounded the bases at a slower pace, but not slow enough to aggravate the pitcher. “Never show up the pitcher,” Red and Charlie had drilled into him since the age of ten.

Wrigley Field had never been louder. The standing ovation roared until Joe took a step out of the dugout, tipped his cap, and acknowledged the adoring crowd. Then he blew a kiss at his mother, who was in the owner’s seats in the second row.

Ten for ten, with six home runs.

Joe led off in the bottom of the third with the score tied 1–1. On the first pitch, he faked a bunt, and the entire Giant infield reacted in spasms. Ed Goodson at third and Chris Speier at short were on their heels before the pitch, expecting a line shot from an astonishingly quick bat. They eventually shot forward. Tito Fuentes did the same, while McCovey stutter-stepped around first base. After Hiller recovered from the pitch, he bolted upright, as if terrified of a bunt. Evidently, the Giants scouts had been alerted to Joe’s bunting skills. Ball one. Hiller kept his fastball off the center of the plate, opting instead to pick at the corners and hope for the best. His second pitch was a fastball, five inches outside. Joe waited and waited, then went with the pitch and slapped it to right field for a single.

Eleven for eleven.

It may have been the thrill of watching history in the making, or it could have been the clearing skies and sunshine and cold beer, or perhaps even the excitement that a full house always provided, or probably all of the above, but the atmosphere at Wrigley was electric. By now, Joe was receiving a standing ovation when he stepped into the on-deck circle, another when he stepped to the plate, and of course an even rowdier one with each hit.

He tipped his cap and helmet to the crowd, then took a lead off first.

His twelfth at bat came in the bottom of the sixth with the Cubs up 3–2. When the forty-one thousand faithful stood to applaud, they remained standing. On television, Curt Gowdy admitted to having a knot in his stomach. On the radio, Vince Lloyd described it as the most dramatic moment he could remember. Lou Boudreau went silent.

Hiller had abandoned his fastball altogether and was surviving on long, looping curves, changeups, and a nasty combo of a slider and curve known as a slurve. Joe fouled off the first two pitches, both balls, and cursed himself for swinging at bad pitches. He shortened his stance, choked up, and took a ball high. The fourth pitch was a slow, dropping curve, a pitch that might cross the plate at the knees or six inches lower, and Joe took no chances. He chopped down on the pitch, and it slammed hard into home plate—a fair ball. It ricocheted high into the air toward third, where Goodson charged and waited, and waited. When he finally caught the ball, Joe was past first base for his twelfth consecutive hit. Move over Moose Dropo.

Again, he tipped his hat to the screaming crowd. Willie McCovey, a fierce competitor, tapped him on the rear with his glove and said, “Congratulations, kid.” Joe could only smile and nod. He was dreaming and in another world. Not too many years earlier, his baseball card collection included a double “All-Star” selection featuring both Willie McCovey and Willie Mays.

In the top of the eighth, McCovey hit a two-run bomb that sailed over the right field bleachers and was probably never found. The Giants led 5–3 when the Cubs came to bat in the bottom of the inning.