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 air is 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.
Chapter Four
On 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 took one 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 double, and a home run, and many in the crowd and legions of those watching and listening were praying for a triple. Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau were openly begging for one on the radio. Hitting for the cycle - single, double, triple, home run - was a rare event in baseball. It happened, on average, three times each season, and since Joe seemed intent on crushing all records, why not hit for the cycle? Instead, he fouled off ten straight pitches, worked the count full, then hit one of the longest home runs in the history of Veterans Stadium. As he rounded third, Mike Schmidt said, "Not a bad game, kid."
Nine for nine, with five home runs.
Unbridled mania swept the streets of the North Side of Chicago.
After the Scrappers game, our last of the regular season, the team met for a party in Tom Sabbatini's backyard. Mr. Sabbatini had the grill going - hot dogs and cheeseburgers - and most of the parents were there, including my mother. My father was pitching that night in Atlanta, but we were not interested in that game. Instead, Mr. Sabbatini rigged up an impressive radio, and we listened to WCAU out of Philadelphia. It was not unusual in those days to scan the dial with a small transistor radio and pick up games from New York, Philadelphia, Boston, even Montreal and Baltimore. I often spent hours in my room at night keeping track of several games.
Each time Joe Castle stepped to the plate, the party came to a halt as we crowded closer to the radio. Harry Kalas was the Phillies announcer, and his voice grew more excited as the game went on, even though his team was getting drubbed. With each of Joe's hits, and especially with the two home runs, we yelled and jumped around as if we were lifelong Cubs fans. At one point, Harry said, "I suspect there are a lot of Cubs fans out there tonight, especially in the little town of Calico Rock, Arkansas."
When Joe came up in the ninth, we were so nervous we were bouncing on our tiptoes. After each foul ball, we took a deep breath, then leaned in closer to the radio. Harry said, "Two strikes on Castle." We heard the crack of the bat, and Harry, in his patented home-run call, described what was happening: "The pitch ... there's a drive ... this ball is ... outta here! In the upper deck ... Mike Schmidt territory ... Greg Luzinski territory. Five for five ... Nine for nine. Unbelievable, baseball fans, simply unbelievable."
History was happening, and though we were only eleven years old and far away from the game, we felt as if we were a part of it. We had already checked the schedule and knew that it would be late August before the Cubs arrived at Shea Stadium. My buddies were already dropping hints about needing tickets.
After three games in Philadelphia, and ten for the road trip, the Cubs were going home. As Harry Kalas signed off, he said, "I cannot imagine the reception Joe Castle will get tomorrow afternoon at Wrigley Field. I wouldn't mind being there myself."
The Cubs left Philadelphia at midnight and arrived two hours later at O'Hare. As the team boarded a bus to leave the airport, Joe Castle got his first taste of fame. Several dozen Cubs fans were waiting behind a chain-link fence for a glimpse of their new star. He walked over, shook a few hands, thanked them for coming out at such an hour, then hustled back to the bus, where his teammates were waiting, eager to leave but also enjoying the moment. The front office arranged a hotel room under an alias, and Joe finally fell asleep at 3:00 a.m.
Not long afterward, his parents and two brothers left Calico Rock for the long drive to Chicago. The Cubs played the Giants at 2:00 p.m. Saturday, and only a sudden death would keep them away from Wrigley.
Cable television was still a few years in the future, and the only games televised nationally were the World Series, the All-Star Game, and the NBC Game of the Week on Saturday afternoon with Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek. The July 14 game was scheduled to be televised from Tiger Stadium in Detroit, where the A's were in town. At dawn, NBC, along with the rest of the baseball world, awakened to the irresistible story of Joe Castle and his stunning debut in Philadelphia. Suddenly the biggest game of the day was the Cubs versus the Giants; indeed, no other game was even close. Every baseball fan in America would be itching for news out of Wrigley.