play golf every day, to work on his tan, and to drink and catch up with old girlfriends. Jill and I didn’t care which excuse he used. We were relieved to have him back on the road.
After the year in Hagerstown, my mother informed usthat he had remarried down in Florida. Jill and I thought this was terrible news because he and his new wife might decide to start a family.
On the leg from Dallas to Memphis, I open my old scrapbook on Joe Castle. It is filled with newspaper clippings, magazine articles, the August 6 edition of
Sports Illustrated
, with Joe on the cover, and the item I had treasured most during that remarkable summer of 1973, an eight-by-ten black-and-white photo of his youthful, smiling face. Across the bottom he had printed neatly, “To Paul Tracey, with best wishes,” then scribbled his autograph. I had a whole collection of these when I was a boy. My buddies and I wrote letters to hundreds of professional players, asking for autographed photos. Occasionally one responded, and to get a photo in the mail was a reason to strut. My father got a few of these letters but was too important to grant a favor. He constantly griped about the fans who wanted autographs.
I hid my scrapbooks from my father. In his twisted opinion, he was the only player worthy of my adulation.
After I quit the game, my mother secretly stored my memorabilia in the attic. She gave it back—two cardboard boxes full—after I got married. At first I wanted to burn it, but Sara intervened, and it survives until this day.
I have never been in Memphis in August, and when I step out of the airport terminal, I have trouble breathing. The airis hot and sticky, and my shirt is wet within minutes. I ride a shuttle to Avis, get my rental car, crank up the AC, and head west, across the Mississippi River, into the flat farmlands of the Arkansas delta.
Calico Rock is four hours away.
4
O n Friday, July 13, 1973, the front page of the sports section of the
Chicago Tribune
ran the bold headline “Four for Four.” There was a large black-and-white photo of Joe Castle, and three different stories about his historic first game. The entire city was buzzing about “the kid.” For a tribe hardened by years of frustration, Cubs fans had a rare moment to gloat.
Joe slept late in his hotel room, called his parents collect and talked for an hour with them and his brothers, then had a long, late breakfast with Don Kessinger and Rick Monday. He killed some more time by calling his teammates in Midland. Reporters were looking for him, but he was already tired of their attention. At 4:00 p.m., he stepped onto the team bus for the quick ride back to Veterans Stadium. In the locker room, Whitey Lockman walked over and said, “You’re batting third tonight, kid, don’t screw it up.” Two hours before game time, Joe walked onto the field, stretched and warmed up, then tookone hundred ground balls at first base. It seemed as though time had stopped. He couldn’t wait for game time.
When he stepped to the plate with two outs in the top of the first, there were forty-five thousand Phillies fans in the stadium. There were also millions of Cubs fans glued to TVs and radios. With the count at two balls, he ripped a double into the right field corner. Five for five. In the top of the third, with the bases loaded, he singled to right and drove in two. Six for six. In the fifth, with the bases empty, two outs, and the infield back, and from the right side, he pushed a bunt toward third. When Mike Schmidt picked it up bare-handed, Joe was flying past first base, and there was no throw. Seven for seven. In the seventh inning, he bounced a fastball off the top of the scoreboard in left center field, and as he rounded the bases, at a somewhat slower pace, the Phillies fans offered subdued but prolonged applause.
Eight for eight.
With two outs in the top of the ninth, and the Cubs leading 12–2 in a blowout, Joe dug in from the left side. He had two singles, a
After the year in Hagerstown, my mother informed usthat he had remarried down in Florida. Jill and I thought this was terrible news because he and his new wife might decide to start a family.
On the leg from Dallas to Memphis, I open my old scrapbook on Joe Castle. It is filled with newspaper clippings, magazine articles, the August 6 edition of
Sports Illustrated
, with Joe on the cover, and the item I had treasured most during that remarkable summer of 1973, an eight-by-ten black-and-white photo of his youthful, smiling face. Across the bottom he had printed neatly, “To Paul Tracey, with best wishes,” then scribbled his autograph. I had a whole collection of these when I was a boy. My buddies and I wrote letters to hundreds of professional players, asking for autographed photos. Occasionally one responded, and to get a photo in the mail was a reason to strut. My father got a few of these letters but was too important to grant a favor. He constantly griped about the fans who wanted autographs.
I hid my scrapbooks from my father. In his twisted opinion, he was the only player worthy of my adulation.
After I quit the game, my mother secretly stored my memorabilia in the attic. She gave it back—two cardboard boxes full—after I got married. At first I wanted to burn it, but Sara intervened, and it survives until this day.
I have never been in Memphis in August, and when I step out of the airport terminal, I have trouble breathing. The airis hot and sticky, and my shirt is wet within minutes. I ride a shuttle to Avis, get my rental car, crank up the AC, and head west, across the Mississippi River, into the flat farmlands of the Arkansas delta.
Calico Rock is four hours away.
4
O n Friday, July 13, 1973, the front page of the sports section of the
Chicago Tribune
ran the bold headline “Four for Four.” There was a large black-and-white photo of Joe Castle, and three different stories about his historic first game. The entire city was buzzing about “the kid.” For a tribe hardened by years of frustration, Cubs fans had a rare moment to gloat.
Joe slept late in his hotel room, called his parents collect and talked for an hour with them and his brothers, then had a long, late breakfast with Don Kessinger and Rick Monday. He killed some more time by calling his teammates in Midland. Reporters were looking for him, but he was already tired of their attention. At 4:00 p.m., he stepped onto the team bus for the quick ride back to Veterans Stadium. In the locker room, Whitey Lockman walked over and said, “You’re batting third tonight, kid, don’t screw it up.” Two hours before game time, Joe walked onto the field, stretched and warmed up, then tookone hundred ground balls at first base. It seemed as though time had stopped. He couldn’t wait for game time.
When he stepped to the plate with two outs in the top of the first, there were forty-five thousand Phillies fans in the stadium. There were also millions of Cubs fans glued to TVs and radios. With the count at two balls, he ripped a double into the right field corner. Five for five. In the top of the third, with the bases loaded, he singled to right and drove in two. Six for six. In the fifth, with the bases empty, two outs, and the infield back, and from the right side, he pushed a bunt toward third. When Mike Schmidt picked it up bare-handed, Joe was flying past first base, and there was no throw. Seven for seven. In the seventh inning, he bounced a fastball off the top of the scoreboard in left center field, and as he rounded the bases, at a somewhat slower pace, the Phillies fans offered subdued but prolonged applause.
Eight for eight.
With two outs in the top of the ninth, and the Cubs leading 12–2 in a blowout, Joe dug in from the left side. He had two singles, a
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