Free Calico Joe by John Grisham Page A

asked me if I would like to ride with him to Shea Stadium. This, of course, meant that I would be allowed to hang around the locker room, dugout, and field for hours before the first pitch. I jumped at the chance. He promised to drive me home after the game, which, of course, meant he would not be hitting the bars. The tension aroundthe house had thawed somewhat. My parents were civil to each other, at least in the presence of Jill and me. For two uncertain kids, this only confused matters.
    I was in the Mets dugout, watching the Cardinals take batting practice, soaking in the sights and sounds, reveling in the rarest of moments, when Willie Mays walked by and said, “Hey, kid, what brings you here?”
    “My dad’s pitching,” I said, thoroughly awestruck.
    “Tracey?”
    “Yes sir.”
    And then Willie Mays sat down beside me on the bench as if time meant nothing. He said, “I can’t remember your name.”
    “Paul Tracey,” I said.
    “Nice to see you again, Paul.”
    I tried to say something but froze.
    “Your dad’s pitching well these days,” he said. “Seems like he told me you’re a pitcher too.”
    “Yes sir, but our season’s over. I’ll be twelve next year.”
    Lou Brock was in the cage for the Cardinals, spraying baseballs everywhere. We watched him take a dozen swings, then Willie spoke to another player who walked in front of us. When we were alone again, he said, “You know, I never wanted to pitch. You gotta rely on too many other players to succeed. You can be having a great day on the mound, then, just like that, somebody makes an error and you lose the game, you know?”
    “Yes sir.” I would agree with anything Mr. Mays had to say.
    “Or you strike out twenty, give up two hits, and lose the game one to nothing, you know what I’m saying, Paul?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “Plus, I could never throw strikes, which is tough when you’re trying to pitch.”
    “I’ve had that problem occasionally,” I said, and Willie Mays laughed out loud. He tapped me on the knee and said, “Good luck to you, Paul.”
    “Thanks, Mr. Mays.”
    He jumped to his feet and was yelling at one of the Cardinals. I looked at my knee for a long time and vowed to never wash that pair of jeans. A few minutes later, Wayne Garrett and Ed Kranepool sat nearby and began watching batting practice. I inched a bit closer so I could eavesdrop.
    “You hear what Castle did today?” Garrett asked as he chomped on bubble gum.
    “No,” Kranepool replied.
    “Four for four with two doubles, off Don Sutton.”
    “Off Sutton?” Kranepool asked in disbelief.
    “Yep. I thought the kid was cooling off.”
    “Guess not. Should be a wild weekend around here. You got any spare tickets?”
    “Are you kidding?”

    I sat alone eight rows from the field and close to the Mets dugout. My father gave up a home run to Joe Torre in the first inning, then settled down and pitched well. He ran out of gas in the top of the seventh, with the Mets leading 5–2, and when Yogi Berra pulled him, he received an impressive ovation from the crowd. I was on my feet, clapping and yelling as loud as possible. He tipped his cap to me, and at that moment I realized how much I wanted to adore him.
    His record was seven and seven. His next start would be against the Cubs.



11
    A fter 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