11
After two lemon gins, I am sufficiently mellow and want no more. Clarence seems unfazed by the booze, and when he goes for his third, I decline and ask for water. Fay is buzzing about, cooking and setting the table on the back porch. The sun is falling, and its last rays glisten across the White River below us. Clarence and I sit under a maple tree next to the vegetable garden and talk about the Castle boys.
Their grandfather, Vick Castle, signed with the Cleveland Indians in 1906 and five years later made it to the big leagues, but for less than a month. He played in ten games before being sent down. After the season he was traded, then broke an ankle, and his career fizzled. He returned to Izard County and ran a sawmill before dying at the age of forty-four. Bobby, his only son and Joe’s father, signed with Pittsburgh in 1938, and in 1941 he led the AAA International League in hitting and RBIs. He was destined to start at third base for the Pirates in 1942, but the war got in the way. He joined the Navy and was shipped to the Pacific, where he lost half a leg to a land mine.
His oldest son, Charlie, signed out of high school with the Washington Senators and bounced around the minors for six years before he called it quits. Red, the middle brother, signed with the Phillies in 1966 but couldn’t get out of single A. He quit, joined the Marines, and volunteered for two tours of duty in Vietnam.
Clarence enjoys his narrative and does not need notes. I am amazed at his ability to recall, though I have no way of knowing his level of accuracy. There is something about his twinkling eyes and bushy eyebrows that leads me to believe that this guy is not beyond embellishment. But it doesn’t matter; he loves to talk and tell stories, and the Castle family is obviously a favorite topic. I am delighted to be here and happy to listen.
“Even when Charlie and Red were playing,” he is saying, “everyone was talking about Joe. When he was ten or so, a little fellow, he hit four home runs in a game against Mountain Home. That was the first time he got his name in the newspaper. I went to the archives and pulled it out. In 1973, I got flooded with folks wanting all sorts of background on Joe Castle. I spent half the summer digging through back copies. When he was twelve, he led our All-Stars to a third-place finish in Little Rock, and I ran this huge front-page story about the team, big photo and all. When he was thirteen, he stopped playing with the kids and spent all summer with a men’s team. Joe played first, Red at second, three and four in the lineup, and they must’ve played a hundred games. That’s when we realized he might be special. The scouts began showing up when he was fifteen. Charlie was in the minors. Red was in the minors. But everybody was talking about Joe. I was covering a state play-off game in May 1968, down in Searcy, and he hit a baseball that bounced off a school bus in a parking lot, 420 feet from home plate. Can you imagine? A sixteen-year-old kid hitting a 420-foot home run, with wood, not aluminum. The scouts were drooling, shaking their heads in disbelief. Pretty amazing.”
“Clarence, dinner is ready,” Fay yells from the porch, and we do not waste time. That barbecue pork sandwich for lunch was now at least eight hours in the past. Directly under a ceiling fan, Fay has set a beautiful table, small and round, with fresh-cut flowers in a small vase in the center. There is a large bowl of tomato, cucumber, and onion salad and another of grilled squash and eggplant over brown rice. She waves at the food and says, “Two hours ago, it was still on the vine.”
We pass the bowls and begin eating. I feel compelled to at least make an effort to discuss her art but decide against it. A visit like this will never be repeated, and I want to hear and talk about Joe Castle. After some chatter about my wife, daughters, and job, I manage to get things back on track.
“What was it like in 1970 when the draft was approaching?” I ask.
Clarence chews, swallows, takes a sip of water, and says, “Pretty crazy. We thought he would be the number one pick in the draft, at least that’s what the scouts had been saying for two years.”
“The town thought he was about to get rich,” Fay adds.
“Top money back then was $100,000 for the early picks. In case you haven’t noticed, this is a small town. Folks were openly discussing what Joe might do with all his money. Then something weird happened. In late May, Calico Rock was playing in the finals of the state tournament, over at Jonesboro, and Joe had two bad games. He had not had a bad game in ten years, then bam, two in a row. Some of the scouts got spooked, I guess. The Cubs took him in the second round, offered him $50,000, and away he went.”
“What happened to the money?” I ask.
“He gave $5,000 to his church,” Fay says, “and $5,000 to the high school, right, Clarence?”
“That sounds right. Another $5,000 went to dress up the Little League park where he had played so many games. Seems like he paid off the mortgage on his parents’ home, which wasn’t that much.”
“No shiny new Corvette?” I ask.
“Oh no. He paid $2,000 for Hank Thatcher’s Ford pickup. Hank had just died, and his wife was selling some of his stuff. She didn’t want the truck, so Joe bought it.”
I remind myself, again, of why I do not want to live in a small town. Such personal details would never be discussed, or even known, in a city.
I cannot remember the last time I have eaten vegetables as fresh as Fay’s. Sara cooks healthy meals, but I have never tasted squash and eggplant like this. “Delicious,” I say for the second or third time.
“Thank you,” Fay replies graciously. I notice that she eats very little. Clarence washes his food down with water, but the lemon gin is still close. Two fishing boats float quietly by on the river and head for the docks below the bridge in the distance. Our conversation drifts to Fay’s sister, who is dying of cancer in Missouri and wants them to visit her over the weekend. The cancer talk brings things around to my father. “When was he diagnosed?” Fay asks.
“Last week. It’s terminal, just a few months, maybe weeks.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
“Have you seen him?” Clarence asks.
“No, I’m going down tomorrow. As I said, we’re not close, not close at all. Never have been. He left the family when his baseball career flamed out and soon remarried. He’s not a nice person, Clarence, not the kind of guy you’d want to spend time with.”
“I believe that. I read a story about him years ago. After baseball, he tried to make it as a golfer, but that went nowhere. Seems like he was selling real estate in the Orlando area and not doing very well. He was still adamant that he did not throw at Joe, but the writer was skeptical. I guess we’re all skeptical.”
“You should be,” I say.
“Why is that?”
I wipe my mouth with a linen napkin. “Because he threw at Joe. I know he did. He’s denied it for thirty years, but I know the truth.”
There is a long pause as we pick at our food and listen to the whirling of the old ceiling fan just above us. Finally, Clarence lifts his lemon gin and gulps down an ounce. He licks his lips, smacks them, and says, “You have no idea how excited we were, how much it meant to this town and especially to the family. After producing so many great players, a Castle had finally hit the big time.”
“I wish I could say I’m sorry.”
“You can’t. Besides, it was thirty years ago.”
“A long time,” Fay observes as she looks down at the river. A long time, maybe, but never to be forgotten.
“I don’t suppose you were there,” Clarence says.
“Indeed I was. August 24, 1973. Shea Stadium.”