Chapter Ten
It took a week for the black eye to fade away, and I spent most of the time in my room, reading and looking in the mirror. My father stopped by twice with clumsy efforts at making peace, but I was not in the mood. When you get backhanded by your father, the pain lasts far longer than the bruises. Mercifully, the Mets left town for a long road trip, and I ventured out of my room and tried to enjoy the last month of my summer break.
On August 8, the Mets shut out the Astros in Houston. My father pitched seven innings, gave up only three hits, walked only two, and won his fifth game of the season. I listened to the game in the den and, as usual, recorded every pitch and play on my official Mets scorecard. I knew it was his best game in many years, and as Lindsey Nelson and Ralph Kiner said nice things about my father, I couldn't help but feel a tiny bit of pride, although grudgingly. I was getting in bed when he called home and wanted to chat about the game. We stayed on the phone for half an hour as he recounted the highlights and patiently answered my questions, and when we eventually said good night, I was so excited I had trouble sleeping. Four days later, he pitched a complete-game four-hitter against the Padres for his second win in a row, a rare feat for Warren Tracey. Because he was on the West Coast, he did not call me after the game, but late the next morning he checked in from his hotel room, and we talked for almost an hour.
My mother was happy because I was happy, but she was also suspicious about his sudden interest in me. My bruises were gone, and the emotional scars were fading, or so I thought.
In the New York papers, the battle was still raging over Warren Tracey and whether he should get benched or sent down. His two consecutive wins cooled his critics but did little to arouse any support. The Mets were coming to life, though it looked as if no team could catch the Cubs. Joe Castle was still red-hot and front-page news in Chicago and wherever he happened to be playing.
I made the calculations a dozen times, and assuming no sudden changes in the pitching rotations, the lineups, injuries, or disruptions due to weather, the Cubs would arrive at Shea Stadium on Friday, August 24. Joe Castle would make his New York debut, and my father would be on the mound. The Cubs would be in first place in the East, and the Mets, in all likelihood, would be in second. When I considered this, and I did so at least ten times each day that August, my stomach would tie itself in knots, and I could not swallow water. Warren Tracey versus Joe Castle. My feelings for my father were hopelessly mixed and confused. For the most part, I despised him; yet he was my father, and he was a professional baseball player pitching for the New York Mets! How many eleven-year-old boys could make such a claim? We lived in the same house. We had the same ancestors, name, address. His success or failure had a direct impact on me. I adored his parents, though I rarely saw them. He was my father, damn it! I wanted him to win.
However, the world of baseball was revolving around Joe Castle. He sold out wherever he went, and the seats were often filled during pregame batting practice. He was hounded by reporters so fiercely that he was hiding from them. On the road, fans flocked to the Cubs' hotels hoping for an autograph or a glimpse. Young women were sending all types of proposals, marriage and otherwise. His teammates and coaches were devising schemes to protect his privacy. Insanity ruled off the field, but between the chalk lines Joe Castle continued to play like a kid on a sandlot. He sprinted after foul balls, lunged into the stands, turned lazy singles into doubles, bunted with two strikes, violently broke up double plays, tagged up on every fly ball to the outfield, usually had the dirtiest uniform when the game was over, and through it all ripped baseballs to all corners of the field.
The thought of Joe digging in against my father was overwhelming, but as the long hot days of August moved along, I found myself thinking of nothing else. My buddies were hounding me for tickets. The four games against the Cubs were sold out. New York was waiting.
His five-game suspension for punching out Dutch Patton ended on August 17, and with a talent for the dramatic Joe returned to a raucous Wrigley Field for an afternoon game against the Dodgers. He singled in the first, doubled in the fourth, tripled in the seventh, and when he stepped to the plate in the bottom of the ninth, he only needed a home run to complete the cycle. The Cubs needed a home run to win the game. Batting right-handed, he poked a blooper down the right field line, and as it rolled slowly to the wall, the race was on. Ron Santo scored easily from second with the tying run, and when Joe sprinted to third, he ignored the coach's signal to stop. He never slowed down. The shortstop took the relay, looked at third, where Joe would have an easy triple, then hesitated at the sight of him streaking home. The throw was perfect, and the catcher, Joe Ferguson, snatched it and blocked the plate. Ferguson was six feet two, 200 pounds. Joe was six feet two, 185 pounds. In a split-second decision, neither chose to yield an inch. Joe lowered his head, left his feet, and crashed into Ferguson. The collision was thunderous and spun both players in violent circles in the dirt. Joe would've been out by three feet, but the ball was loose and rolling in the grass.
It was an inside-the-park home run, his first, and it was a miracle that both he and Ferguson walked away from the collision, though both did so rather slowly.
After thirty-one games, he had sixty-two hits in 119 at bats, with eighteen home runs and twenty-five stolen bases. He had made one error at first and had struck out only six times. His batting average of .521 was easily the highest in the majors, though he had not had enough at bats to qualify for the official ranking. As expected, his average was slowly declining.
Ty Cobb, the greatest hitter of all time, had a career average of .367. Ted Williams - .344. Joe DiMaggio - .325. Joe Castle was not yet being compared to the great ones, but no rookie had ever hit .521 after 119 at bats.
On August 20, the Mets were at home against the Cardinals, and my father was starting. After winning two in a row, he had lost a one-run game to the Dodgers and got roughed up by the Giants but avoided taking the loss. His record was six and seven, and he was feeling good about his game. After his banana milk shake, he 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 around the 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?"