The waitress delivers the waffle, a thick dessert-like creation smothered in whipping cream. I take a bite of link sausage, something Sara would never consider buying, and dive back into our little session. "So, finally, after thirty years, you're admitting you deliberately hit Joe?"
"I'm really hesitant to say anything to you because you might add it to your little short story here. Since you're divulging family matters anyway, I don't trust you."
"Fair enough. You have my word that anything you say here today will not be included."
"Still don't trust you."
"I'm not going to argue such things as trust and responsibility, Warren. Why did you throw at Joe Castle?"
"He was a cocky kid, and I didn't like what he did to Dutch Patton. Dutch and I played together in Cleveland."
"He was not a cocky kid, no more so than any other major leaguer. And you did not play with Dutch Patton in Cleveland. Dutch never played for the Indians." I take a small bite of a large waffle, without taking my eyes off him. His mouth drops open and his eyes glow, as if he might throw a punch. Suddenly he grimaces and exhales as a jolt of pain shoots through his midsection. I forgot what he's going through.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I'll be all right. I'm thinking about playing golf tomorrow."
I appreciate the change in subjects. We talk about golf for a few minutes, and the mood lightens considerably. Then it darkens again when I realize he has played golf since he was six years old; he won the Maryland Open when he was seventeen; and he has never played a single round with me. I understand the DNA thing, but the man across the table is nothing but my biological father. Nothing more.
I make quick work of the waffle and sausage and slide the platter away. "You were trying to explain why you beaned Joe. I don't think we finished that part of the conversation."
"You're so damned smart, why don't you explain it?" he snaps angrily.
"Oh, I know, Warren. I've known for a long time. There were several reasons you wanted to hit Joe, all twisted and pretty sick, but as you say, that was your game. You resented his success and the attention he was getting. In your warped mind, he showed you up after he hit his home run in the first inning. You wanted to be the first tough guy to hit him in the head. You loved hitting people and starting trouble. And you were envious because I, along with countless other little boys in the summer of 1973, worshipped Joe Castle. You had slapped me around. You were trying to make amends, trying to be my hero, and you couldn't stand the thought of me dreaming of becoming some other player. All of the above and probably more, but that's enough. I don't have access to your thoughts, thank God."
"So it was all about you?"
"I didn't say that, Warren. Only you know why you did it. The sick part is that you can't admit it. You've lied for thirty years and never had the spine to admit what you did." This sounds much harsher than I want it to be.
His shoulders sag a little, and there are tiny beads of sweat on his forehead. He pinches his nose and almost under his breath says, "I'm sorry I slapped you around, Paul."
I roll my eyes in frustration and want to curse. "You've apologized a hundred times for that, Warren. I'm not here because of the slapping. I'm not here to dredge up your deficiencies as a father. I buried those a long time ago."
With a paper napkin, he wipes the sweat from his face. His skin has lost what little color it had. He takes a sip of coffee and stares at me. In a voice that is suddenly weak and raspy, he says, "I threw at Joe, but I swear I didn't mean to hurt him."
I was waiting for this, one of baseball's greatest lies, one of the lamest excuses in the history of sports. I shake my head in disbelief and say, "Gee, what a surprise. The same asinine cop-out pitchers have been using for a hundred years. So, let me get this straight, Warren. You deliberately throw a fastball at a batter's face, at ninety or perhaps ninety-five miles an hour, from sixty feet away, a distance that gives him less than a second to react, with the intent, the goal, the dream to see the ball hit him somewhere above the neck and knock him to the ground, preferably in a state of unconsciousness. If they carry him off, no big deal. If he misses a few games, no big deal. Yet when the beanball actually does serious damage, you can hide behind the old faithful 'Gosh, I didn't mean to hurt him.' Can't you see how utterly ridiculous this is, Warren? You sound like a fool for saying it."
Again, I am aware that this sounds too harsh, but I'm fighting anger right now.
He drops his head, nods at something, then looks through the window. There is a crowd of seniors waiting around the front door. The hostess keeps looking our way. I think she wants our table, but I'm in no hurry.
He finally mumbles, "It was just part of the game."
"Your game, maybe," I shoot back. "But then, you were a headhunter."
"I was not."
"Then why did you throw at their heads? Why didn't you throw at Joe's thigh or hip or ribs, anything below the shoulder? That's what the code says, right, Warren? The code says sometimes you have to hit a guy - I understand that. But the code also says you never throw at a guy's head. But you were a tough guy, weren't you, Warren? You wanted to hit Joe in the head."
"I'm bored with this conversation. What do you want, Paul?"
"Let's take a trip together, go to Calico Rock. You can sit down with Joe and shake hands, say what you want to say, have a long chat about the game, about life, whatever. I'll be there. Joe has a couple of brothers who take care of him, I'm sure they'll be there. It will mean a lot to Joe and his family. I promise you, Warren, you will not regret doing this. Let's close this chapter. Now."
He picks up my story and says, "And if I don't, then you'll get this published after I'm gone?"
"That's the plan," I reply, doubting now that the blackmail was a good opening strategy.
Quickly, he rips it in two, tosses it at me, and says, "Go ahead. I'll be dead." He's on his feet and working his way through the crowd at the front door, moving nicely for an old sick man. He gets in the golf cart, grips the wheel, and pauses as if he's hit with another sharp pain. He gazes into the distance, waiting, deep in thought, and for a second I think that maybe he has changed his mind.
Then he drives away, and I am certain I will never see him again.
Chapter Eighteen
On September 23, the doctors released a statement about Joe's condition. Because of the trauma to the optic nerve, Joe had lost at least 80 percent of the vision in his right eye, and the loss was permanent. The probability of Joe playing again was, in their opinion, "extremely low."
The news broke the hearts of Cubs fans. Their annual "wait till next year" suddenly lost all of its promise and excitement. The greatest prospect in their long, frustrated history would never play again.
It also crushed the spirits of the players. Joe's teammates were struggling without him, and the news from New York was devastating. Later that afternoon they were blown out by the Braves, and they would lose the next three, falling two games behind the Mets, who were winning and on the verge of clinching the National League East. The Mets would go on to beat the Reds for the pennant, and do so without a player hitting over .300 or a pitcher winning twenty games. In the second coming of the Miracle Mets, they pushed the A's to seven games before losing the World Series.
The miraculous yet tragic career of Joe Castle came to an end. His numbers were mind-boggling - in thirty-eight games he had 160 at bats, seventy-eight hits, twenty-one home runs, twenty-one doubles, eight triples, thirty-one stolen bases, and forty-one RBIs. His batting average of .488 was the highest ever, but would not be entered into the record books because he didn't play enough. Other records would stand: (1) the first rookie to hit three home runs in his first game; (2) the first rookie to hit safely in his first nineteen games; (3) the first rookie to steal a base in nine consecutive games; (4) the first rookie to steal second and third in seven different games; and, his most famous, (5) fifteen consecutive hits in fifteen at bats. He tied several other rookie records, including four hits in his first game.