the menu. Away from her, he orders eggs and bacon, and I do likewise. Waiting on the food, we sip coffee and listen to the enthusiastic conversations around us. At a long table near the front window, a group of retired gentlemen are worked up over the war in Iraq. There are plenty of opinions and little regard for who else in the café might hear them.
“I assume this is a fairly conservative town, politically,” I say to Clarence.
“Oh yes, but it’s usually split during elections. Izard County is all white, but there are a lot of your old-time Roosevelt Democrats still around. They’re known as ‘drop-cord Democrats.’ ”
“That’s a new one.”
“Rural electricity, brought in by the New Deal way back.”
“Why is the county all white?”
“It’s historic. There was never much farming around here, so no slaves. No reason for black folks to settle here. Now I guess they prefer to go elsewhere, but we’ve never had a problem with the Klan, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No, that’s not what I was thinking.”
The wall above the cash register is covered with rows of team photos—Little League, softball, high school basketball—some current, others faded with the years. In the center is a framed cover of the August 6, 1973, edition of
Sports Illustrated
. Calico Joe, the Phenom. I look at it and smile. “I remember the day it arrived in the mail,” I say.
“We all do. Probably the greatest day in the town’s history.”
“Do folks around here still talk about Joe?”
“Seldom. It’s been thirty years, you know? I can’t recall the last conversation about him.”
The eggs and bacon arrive. The war wages not far away. We eat quickly, and I pay the check, cash—no credit card. I don’t want anyone to see my name. Clarence decides we should take his car—a maroon Buick—because a strange vehicle with out-of-state license plates might stir suspicion. Not surprisingly, the Buick smells like stale pipe tobacco. Air-conditioning is not an option, and we make the short drive with the windows down.
The high school is a mile or so from Main Street, in a newer section of town. I know that Calico Rock is too smallfor a football team, so when I see lights, I know the baseball field is close. In the distance, in center field, a man is riding a turf mower. “That’s him,” Clarence says.
Fall classes have yet to begin, and the lots are empty. We park near an old rodeo arena, cross a street, and approach the backstop from behind some bleachers. We climb to the top row and settle into a spot shaded by the small press box. The field is beautiful. The Bermuda grass is lush and green. Everything else is wilting under the August sun and drought, but the turf of Joe Castle Field is thick, manicured, and well irrigated. The base paths and infield dirt are meticulously groomed. The mound looks as though it has been hand sculpted. A ten-foot-wide warning track of crushed limestone circles the entire playing surface, and there is not a weed visible. Just beyond the chain-link fence in left center is a large scoreboard with JOE CASTLE FIELD across the top and HOME OF THE PIRATES along the bottom.
Joe is on a red spiderlike mower with various cutting decks and numerous blades, a serious machine obviously built for playing surfaces. He wears a black cap with the bill pulled low and glasses. Not surprisingly, he has put on weight over the years.
“He’s here every day?” I ask.
“Five days a week.”
“It’s the middle of August. There won’t be another baseball game until, what, March?”
“Middle of March, if it’s not snowing.”
“So why does he cut the grass and prepare the field every day?”
“Because he wants to. It’s his job.”
“He’s paid?”
“Oh yes. Joe came home just before Christmas of 1973. He spent two months in a hospital in New York, then the Cubs flew him to Chicago, where he spent several weeks in another hospital. Red and Charlie drove him home in time
“I assume this is a fairly conservative town, politically,” I say to Clarence.
“Oh yes, but it’s usually split during elections. Izard County is all white, but there are a lot of your old-time Roosevelt Democrats still around. They’re known as ‘drop-cord Democrats.’ ”
“That’s a new one.”
“Rural electricity, brought in by the New Deal way back.”
“Why is the county all white?”
“It’s historic. There was never much farming around here, so no slaves. No reason for black folks to settle here. Now I guess they prefer to go elsewhere, but we’ve never had a problem with the Klan, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No, that’s not what I was thinking.”
The wall above the cash register is covered with rows of team photos—Little League, softball, high school basketball—some current, others faded with the years. In the center is a framed cover of the August 6, 1973, edition of
Sports Illustrated
. Calico Joe, the Phenom. I look at it and smile. “I remember the day it arrived in the mail,” I say.
“We all do. Probably the greatest day in the town’s history.”
“Do folks around here still talk about Joe?”
“Seldom. It’s been thirty years, you know? I can’t recall the last conversation about him.”
The eggs and bacon arrive. The war wages not far away. We eat quickly, and I pay the check, cash—no credit card. I don’t want anyone to see my name. Clarence decides we should take his car—a maroon Buick—because a strange vehicle with out-of-state license plates might stir suspicion. Not surprisingly, the Buick smells like stale pipe tobacco. Air-conditioning is not an option, and we make the short drive with the windows down.
The high school is a mile or so from Main Street, in a newer section of town. I know that Calico Rock is too smallfor a football team, so when I see lights, I know the baseball field is close. In the distance, in center field, a man is riding a turf mower. “That’s him,” Clarence says.
Fall classes have yet to begin, and the lots are empty. We park near an old rodeo arena, cross a street, and approach the backstop from behind some bleachers. We climb to the top row and settle into a spot shaded by the small press box. The field is beautiful. The Bermuda grass is lush and green. Everything else is wilting under the August sun and drought, but the turf of Joe Castle Field is thick, manicured, and well irrigated. The base paths and infield dirt are meticulously groomed. The mound looks as though it has been hand sculpted. A ten-foot-wide warning track of crushed limestone circles the entire playing surface, and there is not a weed visible. Just beyond the chain-link fence in left center is a large scoreboard with JOE CASTLE FIELD across the top and HOME OF THE PIRATES along the bottom.
Joe is on a red spiderlike mower with various cutting decks and numerous blades, a serious machine obviously built for playing surfaces. He wears a black cap with the bill pulled low and glasses. Not surprisingly, he has put on weight over the years.
“He’s here every day?” I ask.
“Five days a week.”
“It’s the middle of August. There won’t be another baseball game until, what, March?”
“Middle of March, if it’s not snowing.”
“So why does he cut the grass and prepare the field every day?”
“Because he wants to. It’s his job.”
“He’s paid?”
“Oh yes. Joe came home just before Christmas of 1973. He spent two months in a hospital in New York, then the Cubs flew him to Chicago, where he spent several weeks in another hospital. Red and Charlie drove him home in time
Similar Books
