tickets to the game, so we were watching on television. When Joe came up in the third inning, Patton threw at his head and almost nailed him. The Cubs dugout went berserk; the fans were ready to riot. Joe yelled something at Patton, and he yelled something back. The home plate umpire got involved. A very tense situation. Joe got back in the box, dug in, and Patton went into his windup. Just as he released the ball, Joe dropped his bat and sprinted toward the mound. He was so quick and fast he caught everybody—including Patton and the catcher, Johnny Oates—completely off guard. I’veseen the film clip a hundred times, and what happened was pretty frightening. Patton managed to swing his glove at Joe, who ducked and shot a right cross into Patton’s mouth. A left hook to the nose knocked him down and, like a jackhammer, Joe pummeled him with five more shots to the face, each one drawing blood. Patton left the field on a stretcher, didn’t wake up for six hours, and didn’t pitch for a month. Johnny Oates finally managed to pull Joe off, and by then there were forty players on the field slugging it out. The brawl lasted for ten minutes, and there were something like seven or eight ejections. Joe was suspended for five games, and the Cubs lost all five.”
As he talks, I listen intently and flip through his binder. I have a copy of the
Tribune
story, along with the photo, but my little scrapbook on Joe Castle is nothing compared with the spread before me. I know the story of Joe’s retaliation against Dutch Patton, and Clarence has not missed a detail.
“What was so funny, at least to me, was that I had seen Joe pull the same trick before,” Clarence is saying.
“When?” I ask as he pauses and waits for me to prompt him.
“When he was seventeen, in a high school game against Heber Springs. Scouts all over the place, all here to see Joe. First time up, he hit a ball over the lights in right field. The second time up, the pitcher threw at his head. He kept his cool, waited. When you charge the mound, your biggest threat is being tackled from behind by the catcher. All three ofthe Castle boys understood this rather basic part of the game. Joe waited until the pitch was thrown, then sprinted to the mound. It was pretty ugly. These were kids, and the benches did not empty as fast as they do in the big leagues …” Clarence’s words trail off as though he doesn’t want to finish the story.
“Did he hurt the pitcher?”
“Let’s just say the kid didn’t pitch for a few days, maybe weeks, maybe never, I don’t know, but I’m sure he lost his enthusiasm for throwing beanballs. Joe was not a bully, just the opposite; he was a really nice kid. But he didn’t like guys throwing at him.”
“Who broke up the fight?”
“The umpires. No player on the other team wanted to get near it.”
I flip back and forth and come across the cover of
Sports Illustrated
. “I’ll bet this caused some excitement around here.”
“Oh yes, not that there was a lack of excitement that summer. Everybody in town wanted to talk to the reporter. Let me refresh your drink there, Paul.” He takes both glasses to the back porch. I follow and peek into the kitchen, where Fay is slicing eggplant. When the drinks are ready, Clarence repacks his pipe and lights it. With fresh lemon gins in hand, we walk down the rear steps and gaze at the White River.
“Where did the nickname come from?” I ask.
Clarence chuckles and takes a sip. “
Sports Illustrated
, I guess. That’s the first time I ever heard of Calico Joe. But itstuck. The Chicago writers ran with it and never looked back. They had Shoeless Joe a half century earlier, so I guess it was irresistible.”
“It’s such a perfect nickname.”
“It is, or was.”
We watch two men in a boat cast their lines and drift with the current.
“What does Joe do around here?” I ask.
“He takes care of his baseball field.”
“His field?”
“Yes. Joe Castle Field, over at
As he talks, I listen intently and flip through his binder. I have a copy of the
Tribune
story, along with the photo, but my little scrapbook on Joe Castle is nothing compared with the spread before me. I know the story of Joe’s retaliation against Dutch Patton, and Clarence has not missed a detail.
“What was so funny, at least to me, was that I had seen Joe pull the same trick before,” Clarence is saying.
“When?” I ask as he pauses and waits for me to prompt him.
“When he was seventeen, in a high school game against Heber Springs. Scouts all over the place, all here to see Joe. First time up, he hit a ball over the lights in right field. The second time up, the pitcher threw at his head. He kept his cool, waited. When you charge the mound, your biggest threat is being tackled from behind by the catcher. All three ofthe Castle boys understood this rather basic part of the game. Joe waited until the pitch was thrown, then sprinted to the mound. It was pretty ugly. These were kids, and the benches did not empty as fast as they do in the big leagues …” Clarence’s words trail off as though he doesn’t want to finish the story.
“Did he hurt the pitcher?”
“Let’s just say the kid didn’t pitch for a few days, maybe weeks, maybe never, I don’t know, but I’m sure he lost his enthusiasm for throwing beanballs. Joe was not a bully, just the opposite; he was a really nice kid. But he didn’t like guys throwing at him.”
“Who broke up the fight?”
“The umpires. No player on the other team wanted to get near it.”
I flip back and forth and come across the cover of
Sports Illustrated
. “I’ll bet this caused some excitement around here.”
“Oh yes, not that there was a lack of excitement that summer. Everybody in town wanted to talk to the reporter. Let me refresh your drink there, Paul.” He takes both glasses to the back porch. I follow and peek into the kitchen, where Fay is slicing eggplant. When the drinks are ready, Clarence repacks his pipe and lights it. With fresh lemon gins in hand, we walk down the rear steps and gaze at the White River.
“Where did the nickname come from?” I ask.
Clarence chuckles and takes a sip. “
Sports Illustrated
, I guess. That’s the first time I ever heard of Calico Joe. But itstuck. The Chicago writers ran with it and never looked back. They had Shoeless Joe a half century earlier, so I guess it was irresistible.”
“It’s such a perfect nickname.”
“It is, or was.”
We watch two men in a boat cast their lines and drift with the current.
“What does Joe do around here?” I ask.
“He takes care of his baseball field.”
“His field?”
“Yes. Joe Castle Field, over at
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