Calico Joe by John Grisham

pouch.
    “That’s a long story,” I say, trying to find my tongue.
    He smiles and spreads his arms. “We have all night. I usually read until midnight and sleep till eight.”
    I take a third sip and actually get a slight taste of peach flavoring. “He was of the old school. If a batter hits a home run, then the batter wins the duel. His reward is obvious; he gets nothing more. It’s a sin to insult the pitcher by showing off in any way. Standing at the plate and admiring the drive; flipping the bat; loafing around the bases to soak up the attention; and heaven forbid any show of self-gratification or emotion. No sir. The batter wins, and he circles the bases quicklyand gets to the dugout. Otherwise, he pays for it. If a batter does anything to show off, then the pitcher has the right to knock him down. That was straight from the old code, and my father swore by it.”
    “That might not work in today’s game,” Clarence says, blowing a cloud of smoke.
    “I wouldn’t know, Clarence. I haven’t watched a game in thirty years.”
    “So, did Joe do something to show up Warren Tracey? You were there. Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau said repeatedly that Joe did nothing wrong.”
    “Well, according to Warren’s official party line, the answer is no. No, because he soon began claiming that it was an accident, he did not throw at Joe, that it was simply a pitch up that got away from him. I suspect that once it became obvious Joe was seriously injured, Warren changed his tune and started lying.”
    “You seem awfully certain about this.”
    “When I was a little boy, five or six, I decided I wanted to be a pitcher because my father was a pitcher. I was pretty good and got better as I grew up. I didn’t get a lot of backyard coaching because he was seldom at home, but we lived in the same house, and some of his knowledge rubbed off on me, I guess. I was pitching once and a kid hit a home run, a real shot, and he danced and yelled all the way around the bases. My father was there, which was a rare occasion, and the next time this kid came up, my father yelled, ‘Knock him down,Paul.’ I was eleven years old and didn’t want to throw at anyone. The kid did not get beaned. My father was furious. After the game, we had a big fight. He slapped me around the backyard, told me I would never make it as a pitcher because I was a coward, afraid to throw at hitters. He was a nasty person, Clarence.”
    Another sip, another puff. “And you’ll see him tomorrow?”
    “That’s right, for the first time in several years.”
    “And you think you can convince him to come here, to Calico Rock?”
    “I have no idea, but I’ll try.”
    “It seems like a long shot, on both ends.”
    “I have a plan. It might not work, but I’m trying.”
    He pours some more moonshine. After a few minutes, I begin to nod off. “Does this stuff knock you out?” I ask.
    “Definitely. You’ll sleep like a baby.”
    “I’m gone. Thanks.”
    I go to bed in their guest room, beneath the hum and breeze of a ceiling fan, only three blocks away from the small house where Joe Castle lives with his mother. The last time I saw him he was on a stretcher being rushed off the field, away to a New York City hospital, leaving behind forever the brilliance of his game, the dreams of his fans, and the promising career that would never be.

    Fay is consumed with her work at her easel when I say good-bye. I thank her for the hospitality, and she says the guest room is always available. I follow Clarence back to Main Street, where we park and walk to Evans Drug Store. As we enter, he says, “You might want to stick with Paul Casey, just to be safe.”
    No problem. I have used that alias more times than he can imagine.
    The café is filled with the early morning crowd, all men, and Clarence speaks to a few as we head for a table in the rear. I manage to avoid having to introduce myself. Evidently, Clarence is a vegetarian only at home, where Fay is in charge of