Calico Joe

that is probably worthy of a postcard in October, but it is August and the grass is brown.

As far as I could tell, Joe Castle still lives in Calico Rock. After his brief career ended, he returned home and dropped out of sight. There had been stories about him, but with time, and with virtually no access, the journalists and reporters had forgotten about him. One of the last efforts had been a visit by a writer for Sports Illustrated in 1977, but the town had quickly closed ranks, and almost no information was exchanged. The reporter could not find Joe and was asked to leave by his brother Red.

As I enter Calico Rock, I tell myself for the hundredth time that I am being foolish. Not only would I fail in my little mission, but there is also an element of danger.

It is a lovely village, on a bluff above the White River. Trout docks are bunched near the bridge; fishing is important along the river. I park in front of the shops on Main Street, and for a moment I wonder what it must have been like thirty years earlier when Joe’s friends and family gathered in crowds to listen to Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau call the games during that magical summer. I can almost feel the heartbreak when Joe went down.

I am looking for a man named Clarence Rook, the owner of the Calico Rock Record, the small weekly newspaper that has been reporting the town’s business for half a century. Mr. Rook has been with the paper for almost that long, and if he chooses not to cooperate, I really have no alternative plan. The office is on Main Street, three doors down from Evans Drug Store. I take a deep breath and walk inside. A young secretary in blue jeans greets me with a big smile and friendly hello.

“I’m looking for Mr. Clarence Rook,” I say in a well-rehearsed line.

“He’s pretty busy,” she says, still smiling. “Can I help you?”

“No, but thanks. I really need to see him.”

“Okay. Can I have a name?”

“Paul Casey. I’m a reporter with Baseball Monthly.” These lies will not last long, but the truth simply will not work right now.

“Interesting,” she says. “And what brings you to Calico Rock?”

“I’m working on a story,” I reply, well aware of how vague I sound.

“Okay,” she says, retreating. “Let me see what he’s doing.”

She disappears into the back. I can hear voices. The walls are lined with framed copies of old editions, and it doesn’t take long to find one from July 1973. The bold headline read: “Joe Castle in Stunning Debut with Cubs.” I take a step closer and begin reading. The story was written by Clarence Rook, as were most of the front-page articles, and it was filled with unabashed pride.

I have a copy of it in my scrapbook.

“Mr. Rook will see you,” she reports, nodding to a narrow hallway. “First door on the right.”

“Thanks,” I say with a smile and head for the rear.

Clarence Rook is a colorful sight—red cheeks, white shirt, red bow tie, red suspenders, probably seventy years old, with a thick gray beard and a mop of Mark Twain–style white hair. He is chewing on the stem of a pipe, one that rarely leaves his mouth, and he is behind an old wooden desk covered with stacks of assorted files and papers. To one side is a battered Royal typewriter, circa 1950, still being used.

“Mr. Casey,” he says in a high-pitched, energetic voice as he thrusts forward his right hand. “Clarence Rook.”

I shake his hand and say, “Nice to meet you, sir. Thanks for seeing me like this.”

“No problem. Have a seat.”

I sit in the only chair that is not filled with assorted debris.

“Where you from?” he asks with a smile that reveals a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth.

“Santa Fe,” I say.

“Oh, beautiful country out there. Ms. Rook and I drove out west a few years ago, stopped in Santa Fe to see the O’Keeffe museum. Spectacular country, wouldn’t mind living there myself.”

“Yes sir, we enjoy it, but you have a pretty nice town here.”

“Indeed we do. I was born just up the road in Mountain Home; don’t guess I’ll ever leave.”

“How long have you owned the paper?” I ask in an effort to kill some time with preliminary chitchat. He seems perfectly willing to do the same.

“Bought it twenty years ago from Mrs. Meeks, who owned it forever. She hired me when I was a kid. Never thought I would spend my life publishing a paper, but I’ve loved every minute of it. So you write too?”

“No sir, I’m not a writer, not a reporter.”

The smile vanishes as his eyes narrow and he tries to digest this.

I continue, “And my name is not Paul Casey. It’s Paul Tracey.”

From a drawer he picks up a pouch of tobacco, slowly fills the bowl of his pipe, tamps it firm, then strikes a match. He never takes his eyes off me, and after he blows a small cloud of smoke, he asks, “Have you ever been told you favor Warren Tracey?”

“I’ve heard that before, yes.”

“Any relation?”

“He’s my father.”