the high school. He mows the grass every morning. He rakes the dirt, pulls weeds, lays the chalk, sweeps the dugouts, and in general putters around the field five days a week. If it snows, Joe scrapes it off the bleachers. When it’s raining, he sits in the dugout, third base side, and watches the puddles form around the infield. When it stops raining, he gently spreads the dirt around so there will be no puddles the next time. About this time of year, after summer ball is over, he’ll paint both dugouts and the press box. It’s his field.”
“Can I see him tomorrow?”
“Again, I’m not his keeper. You can do whatever you want.”
“But would he speak to me?”
“I’ve already explained that, Paul. Joe doesn’t speak to strangers.”
“Would he speak to my father, if I brought him here?”
Clarence coughed and glared at me as if I had insulted his wife. “Are you crazy?”
“Maybe. He’s dying, Clarence, and before he’s gone, I would like for the two men to have a word.”
“What kind of word?”
“I’m not sure, but ideally I would like my father to apologize.”
“Have you discussed this with your father?”
“No, not yet, and before I do, I need to know if Joe will agree to a meeting.”
“I doubt seriously if that can happen, Paul. And it would be a huge mistake for Warren Tracey to show up here in Calico Rock. That could start some serious trouble.”
10
I t took a week for the black eye to fade away, and I spent most of the time in my room, reading and looking in the mirror. My father stopped by twice with clumsy efforts at making peace, but I was not in the mood. When you get backhanded by your father, the pain lasts far longer than the bruises. Mercifully, the Mets left town for a long road trip, and I ventured out of my room and tried to enjoy the last month of my summer break.
On August 8, the Mets shut out the Astros in Houston. My father pitched seven innings, gave up only three hits, walked only two, and won his fifth game of the season. I listened to the game in the den and, as usual, recorded every pitch and play on my official Mets scorecard. I knew it was his best game in many years, and as Lindsey Nelson and Ralph Kiner said nice things about my father, I couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit of pride, although grudgingly. I was getting in bed when he called home and wanted to chat about the game. We stayedon the phone for half an hour as he recounted the highlights and patiently answered my questions, and when we eventually said good night, I was so excited I had trouble sleeping. Four days later, he pitched a complete-game four-hitter against the Padres for his second win in a row, a rare feat for Warren Tracey. Because he was on the West Coast, he did not call me after the game, but late the next morning he checked in from his hotel room, and we talked for almost an hour.
My mother was happy because I was happy, but she was also suspicious about his sudden interest in me. My bruises were gone, and the emotional scars were fading, or so I thought.
In the New York papers, the battle was still raging over Warren Tracey and whether he should get benched or sent down. His two consecutive wins cooled his critics but did little to arouse any support. The Mets were coming to life, though it looked as if no team could catch the Cubs. Joe Castle was still red-hot and front-page news in Chicago and wherever he happened to be playing.
I made the calculations a dozen times, and assuming no sudden changes in the pitching rotations, the lineups, injuries, or disruptions due to weather, the Cubs would arrive at Shea Stadium on Friday, August 24. Joe Castle would make his New York debut, and my father would be on the mound. The Cubs would be in first place in the East, and the Mets, in all likelihood, would be in second. When I considered this, and I did so at least ten times each day that August, my stomachwould tie itself in knots, and I could not swallow water. Warren Tracey
“Can I see him tomorrow?”
“Again, I’m not his keeper. You can do whatever you want.”
“But would he speak to me?”
“I’ve already explained that, Paul. Joe doesn’t speak to strangers.”
“Would he speak to my father, if I brought him here?”
Clarence coughed and glared at me as if I had insulted his wife. “Are you crazy?”
“Maybe. He’s dying, Clarence, and before he’s gone, I would like for the two men to have a word.”
“What kind of word?”
“I’m not sure, but ideally I would like my father to apologize.”
“Have you discussed this with your father?”
“No, not yet, and before I do, I need to know if Joe will agree to a meeting.”
“I doubt seriously if that can happen, Paul. And it would be a huge mistake for Warren Tracey to show up here in Calico Rock. That could start some serious trouble.”
10
I t took a week for the black eye to fade away, and I spent most of the time in my room, reading and looking in the mirror. My father stopped by twice with clumsy efforts at making peace, but I was not in the mood. When you get backhanded by your father, the pain lasts far longer than the bruises. Mercifully, the Mets left town for a long road trip, and I ventured out of my room and tried to enjoy the last month of my summer break.
On August 8, the Mets shut out the Astros in Houston. My father pitched seven innings, gave up only three hits, walked only two, and won his fifth game of the season. I listened to the game in the den and, as usual, recorded every pitch and play on my official Mets scorecard. I knew it was his best game in many years, and as Lindsey Nelson and Ralph Kiner said nice things about my father, I couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit of pride, although grudgingly. I was getting in bed when he called home and wanted to chat about the game. We stayedon the phone for half an hour as he recounted the highlights and patiently answered my questions, and when we eventually said good night, I was so excited I had trouble sleeping. Four days later, he pitched a complete-game four-hitter against the Padres for his second win in a row, a rare feat for Warren Tracey. Because he was on the West Coast, he did not call me after the game, but late the next morning he checked in from his hotel room, and we talked for almost an hour.
My mother was happy because I was happy, but she was also suspicious about his sudden interest in me. My bruises were gone, and the emotional scars were fading, or so I thought.
In the New York papers, the battle was still raging over Warren Tracey and whether he should get benched or sent down. His two consecutive wins cooled his critics but did little to arouse any support. The Mets were coming to life, though it looked as if no team could catch the Cubs. Joe Castle was still red-hot and front-page news in Chicago and wherever he happened to be playing.
I made the calculations a dozen times, and assuming no sudden changes in the pitching rotations, the lineups, injuries, or disruptions due to weather, the Cubs would arrive at Shea Stadium on Friday, August 24. Joe Castle would make his New York debut, and my father would be on the mound. The Cubs would be in first place in the East, and the Mets, in all likelihood, would be in second. When I considered this, and I did so at least ten times each day that August, my stomachwould tie itself in knots, and I could not swallow water. Warren Tracey
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