But on September 23, 1973, his numbers meant little to him and his fans.
My father eventually came home after being released by the Mets, and during the first family dinner he tried to appear upbeat about his future. Supposedly, several teams were interested in him for the 1974 season. Negotiations were under way, deals being offered. We listened and pretended to believe him, but we knew the truth.
In an effort to stay busy, he painted the inside of the garage, installed new gutters, worked on his car, and seemed to be making plans to live there for a long time.
My mother was playing a lot of tennis and secretly looking for a job.
I came home from school one afternoon and, as usual, planned to leave as soon as possible and hustle down the street to the Sabbatinis'. My father was in the den watching television, and when I walked through, he said, "Say, Paul, you got time for a catch? I need to keep my arm loose."
As bad as I wanted to say no, I couldn't do it. "Sure."
I had vowed to never again toss a baseball with my father.
... an open area where we had a small backstop and a wooden home plate. He grabbed me by the arm and said, "First of all, don't ever ignore me again like that. You hear me? I'm your father and I know a thousand times more baseball than those clowns who call themselves coaches." I tried to pull away, but he dug in with fingernails. He was getting angrier with each passing second. "You hear me? Don't ever ignore me again."
"Yes sir," I said, but only to keep from getting hit.
He let go and put his finger under my chin. "Look at me," he snarled. "Look me in the eyes when I'm talking to you. There's a right way and a wrong way to play this game, and you got it all wrong. Never, I repeat, never let a hitter show you up like that. At any level of the game, I don't care if you're eight years old or playing in the World Series, never let a hitter show you up like that. This is how you handle that type of an asshole. Get up there."
I took the bat and got in a stance at home plate. He backed away, maybe fifty feet. He was wearing his glove, and he had three baseballs in it. I was an eleven-year-old kid, without a batting helmet, facing a pitcher for the Mets, one who was not only angry but in the process of teaching me the crude art of hitting a batter.
"The code says he's getting hit, okay, so the next time he prances his cocky ass up to the plate, it's your job to hit him. Same as if one of your guys got plunked, then you gotta protect your team. Are you listening to me?"
"Yes sir."
"I do it with three pitches. Some guys go right at them and hit them with the first pitch. I don't do that, because most batters are looking for it on the first pitch. I set them up. My first pitch is a fastball a foot outside."
He took a windup and threw a fastball a foot outside. It wasn't full speed, but then I wasn't fully grown. The pitch looked awfully fast to me.
"Don't step out!" he growled. "Second pitch, same as the first." Another windup, another fastball a foot outside.
"Now, this is when you nail the son of a bitch. He's leaning in a little, thinking I'm picking at the outside corner, so he's not thinking about getting drilled. I'm not gonna hit you in the head, so don't step out, okay? Dig in, Paul, like a real player."
I was terrified and couldn't move. He took his windup and threw the ball at me, not high and not as hard as he could, but when the ball hit my thigh, it hurt like hell and I think I screamed. He was yelling, "See. You're gonna survive. That's how you do it. Two fastballs away, then you hit the bastard, preferably in the head." He scurried around and picked up the three baseballs while I rubbed my thigh and tried not to cry. "Give me the bat and get your glove," he said.
I was now the pitcher, and he was at the plate. "Two fastballs outside. Let's go."
I delivered the first one in the grass and three feet off the plate. "You gotta hit the catcher's mitt, Paul, come on, damn it," he snarled as he waved the bat like a real hitter. His career batting average was .159.
I threw the second pitch outside and higher.
"Now," he said, taking a step toward me. "Drill me right here." He tapped the side of his head. "Stick it in my ear, Paul." He was back at the plate in his stance. "Stick it in my ear. You can't throw hard enough to hurt me."
I was forty feet away, gripping the baseball, wanting desperately to throw a pitch that would knock out his teeth, spill blood, fracture his skull, and lay him out flat on the grass. I kicked high, delivered, and the ball went straight down the middle of the plate, a perfect strike. As it bounced off the backstop, he picked it up, threw it back to me, and said, "Come on, you little chicken-shit. Hit me with the damned baseball."
I threw another fastball, one that was higher but still over the plate. This made him even angrier, and after retrieving the ball, he fired it back. It was getting dark. He threw the ball much too hard. It glanced off the webbing of my glove and hit me in the chest. I shrieked and started crying, and before I realized it, he was in my face, yelling, "If you don't take this ball and hit me in the head, I'm gonna beat your ass, you understand?"
As he stomped to the plate, I glanced at the house. Upstairs, Jill was peeking out her bedroom window.
My third effort at beaning him was as unsuccessful as the first two. The pitch was high and inside, but not close enough to do the damage I wanted. To show his disgust, he reached out with his left hand and caught the pitch bare-handed. What an insult to a pitcher, but then I really didn't care. I just wanted to get away from this madman. He flung the bat toward the house and came after me.
"You're a coward, you know that, Paul? Nothing but a coward. It takes guts to throw at batters, but a pitcher has to do it."
"Not in Little League," I managed to say.
"In every league!"
I guess I was too small to punch, so he slapped me across the face with the back of his left hand, protecting, of course, his pitching hand. I screamed and fell down, and just as he grabbed me by the collar, I heard my mother yell, "Get away from him, Warren!"
She was standing ten feet away, holding the baseball bat, something she had probably never done before in her life, and aiming its barrel at my father. Jill was hiding behind her. For a few seconds no one moved, then, seeing the opportunity, I crawled away.
"Put the bat down," he said.
"You hit him in the face," she said. "What kind of animal are you?"
"He hit him with the baseball too," Jill added.
"Shut up," he snarled.
A few more seconds passed as everyone took a breath. We slowly made our way inside, each carefully watching the other. My parents went to the basement and fought for a long time, and when they got tired, he left.
(EXCERPT FROM "THE BEANING OF JOE CASTLE," BY PAUL TRACEY, SON OF WARREN)
Chapter Nineteen
Killing time in the Atlanta airport, I call Clarence Rook. It has been slightly more than twenty-four hours since I said good-bye to him, but it seems like a month. "You'll never guess who called me last night," he says.
"Charlie or Red?"
"Charlie. Said he got a call from Joe, who said I showed up at the field with a stranger, and he was just checking in to make sure everything's okay. That's what Charlie always says - 'Clarence, everything okay?' I said, sure, Charlie, just a nephew from Texas who wanted to see the field."
"Why didn't you tell him the truth?" I ask.
"Well, I did, later. I got to thinking about it, chatted with Fay, and so I called Charlie back, said I had something important to discuss with him and Red, and could we meet for coffee? We did, this morning, at a quieter place north of town. I told them all about you, your visit, and so on." He stops talking, and this is not a good sign.