see him play at Wrigley?”
A wide, nostalgic smile breaks across his face, and he begins to nod. “Twice. Fay and I drove to Chicago early inAugust of that summer. The
Sports Illustrated
piece had just been published, and the world couldn’t get enough of Joe Castle.”
“How did you get tickets?”
“Scalpers. There were a lot of folks around here who wanted desperately to get to Chicago for a game, but word was out that you couldn’t get tickets. Joe got a handful each game, and there was always a fight for those. I remember drinking coffee one morning downtown and Mr. Herbert Mangrum walked in. He had some money, and he had just flown to Pittsburgh to watch the Cubs. Said he had to pay a scalper $300 for two tickets, in Pittsburgh. Herb was a big talker, and he went on and on about seeing Joe in Pittsburgh.”
“So you drove to Chicago with no tickets?”
“That’s right, but I had a contact. We got lucky and saw two games. Spoke to Joe after the first one. The kid was on top of the world. We were so proud.”
“Which games?”
“August 9 and 10, against the Braves.”
“You missed the fun. He got ejected the next day.”
Mr. Rook licks his lips, cocks his head, and gives me a strange look. “You know your stuff, don’t you?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
“Could you please drop the ‘sirs’ and the ‘misters’? I’m Clarence, and my wife is Fay.”
“Okay, Clarence. What do you want to know about the short, happy, and tragic career of Joe Castle?”
“How many games did he play?” Clarence asks, knowing the answer.
“Thirty-eight, and I have the box score for every one. He would’ve played forty-three but for the ejection on August 11, the day after you saw him play.”
Clarence smiles, nods, takes a long sip, and says, “You’re wrong, Paul. He would’ve played three thousand games if he hadn’t been beaned.” He sets his drink on the table, stands, and says, “I’ll be right back.”
He returns with a cardboard box, which he sets on the floor next to his sofa. From it he removes four thick three-ring binders, all matched and perfectly organized. He places them on the wicker table and says, “This is the book I never wrote—the story of Joe Castle. Many years ago, I started the first chapter, then put it aside. This is not the only unfinished project, mind you, in fact there are many, and I suppose the world is a better place because of my tendency to procrastinate.”
“How can a newspaper editor procrastinate? Doesn’t your life revolve around deadlines?”
“Some deadlines, sure, but because we stare at the calendar all day long, we tend to shove aside our other projects.”
“So why didn’t you write this book?”
“Truthfully, it was the family. I talked to Red one time, and he didn’t like the idea. This town is too small to make enemies, and if the family wasn’t willing to cooperate, then the book was not worth writing.” He flips through the secondbinder and finds the tab for August 11, 1973. “Sit over here,” he says, patting a spot next to him. I move around to take a look, eager to see his research.
“This is one of my favorite stories,” he says, pointing to an article in the
Tribune
about Joe getting ejected for charging the mound. There was a large photo of a brawl. “By early August of that summer, the pitchers were throwing at Joe more and more. It’s part of the ritual of being a rookie, especially one who happens to be on a tear. But the Cubs had Ferguson Jenkins and Rick Reuschel, two tough guys who threw hard and were known to protect their hitters. There were rumors that Jenkins and Reuschel and some of the other Cubs pitchers had spread the word that if Joe got hit, the retaliation would be swift. As things turned out, Joe didn’t need any help. The Braves had a journeyman lefty named Dutch Patton, a big thick guy, six five or so, and the first time up Joe ripped a double, then stole third. We were still in Chicago but couldn’t get
A wide, nostalgic smile breaks across his face, and he begins to nod. “Twice. Fay and I drove to Chicago early inAugust of that summer. The
Sports Illustrated
piece had just been published, and the world couldn’t get enough of Joe Castle.”
“How did you get tickets?”
“Scalpers. There were a lot of folks around here who wanted desperately to get to Chicago for a game, but word was out that you couldn’t get tickets. Joe got a handful each game, and there was always a fight for those. I remember drinking coffee one morning downtown and Mr. Herbert Mangrum walked in. He had some money, and he had just flown to Pittsburgh to watch the Cubs. Said he had to pay a scalper $300 for two tickets, in Pittsburgh. Herb was a big talker, and he went on and on about seeing Joe in Pittsburgh.”
“So you drove to Chicago with no tickets?”
“That’s right, but I had a contact. We got lucky and saw two games. Spoke to Joe after the first one. The kid was on top of the world. We were so proud.”
“Which games?”
“August 9 and 10, against the Braves.”
“You missed the fun. He got ejected the next day.”
Mr. Rook licks his lips, cocks his head, and gives me a strange look. “You know your stuff, don’t you?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
“Could you please drop the ‘sirs’ and the ‘misters’? I’m Clarence, and my wife is Fay.”
“Okay, Clarence. What do you want to know about the short, happy, and tragic career of Joe Castle?”
“How many games did he play?” Clarence asks, knowing the answer.
“Thirty-eight, and I have the box score for every one. He would’ve played forty-three but for the ejection on August 11, the day after you saw him play.”
Clarence smiles, nods, takes a long sip, and says, “You’re wrong, Paul. He would’ve played three thousand games if he hadn’t been beaned.” He sets his drink on the table, stands, and says, “I’ll be right back.”
He returns with a cardboard box, which he sets on the floor next to his sofa. From it he removes four thick three-ring binders, all matched and perfectly organized. He places them on the wicker table and says, “This is the book I never wrote—the story of Joe Castle. Many years ago, I started the first chapter, then put it aside. This is not the only unfinished project, mind you, in fact there are many, and I suppose the world is a better place because of my tendency to procrastinate.”
“How can a newspaper editor procrastinate? Doesn’t your life revolve around deadlines?”
“Some deadlines, sure, but because we stare at the calendar all day long, we tend to shove aside our other projects.”
“So why didn’t you write this book?”
“Truthfully, it was the family. I talked to Red one time, and he didn’t like the idea. This town is too small to make enemies, and if the family wasn’t willing to cooperate, then the book was not worth writing.” He flips through the secondbinder and finds the tab for August 11, 1973. “Sit over here,” he says, patting a spot next to him. I move around to take a look, eager to see his research.
“This is one of my favorite stories,” he says, pointing to an article in the
Tribune
about Joe getting ejected for charging the mound. There was a large photo of a brawl. “By early August of that summer, the pitchers were throwing at Joe more and more. It’s part of the ritual of being a rookie, especially one who happens to be on a tear. But the Cubs had Ferguson Jenkins and Rick Reuschel, two tough guys who threw hard and were known to protect their hitters. There were rumors that Jenkins and Reuschel and some of the other Cubs pitchers had spread the word that if Joe got hit, the retaliation would be swift. As things turned out, Joe didn’t need any help. The Braves had a journeyman lefty named Dutch Patton, a big thick guy, six five or so, and the first time up Joe ripped a double, then stole third. We were still in Chicago but couldn’t get
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