Joe DiMaggio: The Hero's Life (Touchstone Book)

by Cramer, Richard Ben

  Two days later, Hoag was found unconscious in his hotel room. At Harper Hospital in Detroit, doctors suspected his collision with DiMaggio had caused a blood clot in Hoag’s brain. The Yankees had to move on. Their train was rolling toward Cleveland as surgeons drilled three holes to relieve the pressure in Hoag’s skull, and then waited . . . there was nothing more they could do. Brain surgery was an infant science in 1936. Hoag might die, or might live on with brain damage—no one could predict. The Yankees learned by long-distance telephone that Hoag had survived the operation. In time he would recover fully, and play for another eight years in the bigs.

  The collision with Hoag could have made Joe one of those sad specters of baseball history—like Carl Mays, who could never live down his fatal beaning of Ray Chapman in 1920. But as it turned out, Joe was unscathed. Instead of a specter, he became a center fielder. McCarthy said he had that spot in mind from the start.

  “Finally I decided he was ready so I moved him into center field,” McCarthy told Maury Allen, in Where Have You Gone, Joe DiMaggio? “ . . . He never would have become the great outfielder he was if I hadn’t moved him. He needed that room to roam in Yankee Stadium. That’s the toughest center field in baseball and only the real great ones can play out there.

  “ . . . Once he got out there he stayed out there. He did everything so easily. That’s why they never appreciated him as much as they should. You never saw him make a great catch. You never saw him fall down or go diving for a ball. He didn’t have to. He just knew where the ball was hit and he went and got it. That’s what you’re supposed to do. The idea is to catch the ball. The idea isn’t to make exciting catches.”

  Last-ditch drama wasn’t McCarthy’s style. With the rookie DiMaggio in center field, the Yankees clinched the pennant on September 9, the earliest date in the history of major league baseball. And they finished nineteen and a half games ahead of the second-place Tigers. After that season, the baseball writers awarded Lou Gehrig (.354, 49 HRs, 152 RBIs) the title of American League MVP. In those exacting days, no rookie would be considered for that prize. But the difference in the Yanks’ performance—in every account that autumn—was credited to Joe. There was no Rookie of the Year ballot (that wasn’t invented till 1940), but in ’36, they wouldn’t have needed a vote. The only question was whether Joe D. (.323, 29 HRs, 125 RBIs) was the best rookie in history. . . . But that debate wouldn’t begin in earnest until the Yanks met the Giants for the title of titles—World Champs—in the subway Series of 1936.

  In New York, the Giants still bore the mantle of class they’d earned through the long reign (1902–1932) of John J. McGraw. Now they held sway in the National League under their player-manager (and future Hall of Famer), first baseman Bill Terry. In the outfield, they were led by another all-time great, the National League home run leader, Mel Ott. And on the mound, they had the stopper of the age (and National League MVP), “King” Carl Hubbell.

  It was a measure of the excitement that Young Joe’s Yanks had stirred that they were favored eight-to-five by the bookies. But in Game One, the Yanks were mesmerized by Hubbell’s screwball—they were beaten soundly, 6–1—and the Giants’ outfield didn’t have to make a putout all day.

  That would be the last time the Yanks could be put to sleep. They came back in Game Two with eighteen runs and won in a laugher. Game Three was squeaky-tight, a 2–1 Yankee win. And the next day, the Yanks got revenge on Hubbell, when Gehrig won the game with a two-run homer.

  The Giants were down three games to one—but they wouldn’t fold. In Game Five, they eked out a 5–4 win in the tenth inning, to send the Series back to their home park, the Polo Grounds. In Game Six, the Yanks jumped out to a commanding three-run lead, but the Giants chipped away, chipped away—single runs in the fifth, the seventh, and the eighth . . . By the ninth inning, the Yanks were clinging to a one-run lead, and facing the possibility that they’d let the Giants back into the Series—then everything would rest on Game Seven, in the Polo Grounds—perhaps with the hypnotist, Hubbell, on the mound again . . . .

  But it never got that far. In the ninth inning of Game Six, DiMaggio led off with a line single into left field. Gehrig singled and DiMaggio raced around to third. The next hitter, Dickey, bounced a sharp one-hopper to first baseman Bill Terry, who made the right play—he grabbed the ball and looked across the diamond, to freeze DiMaggio on third base . . . . But DiMaggio wasn’t on third. He’d broken for home as the ball left the bat. Now he stopped in no-man’s-land, while the crowd (and the Giants) screamed for Terry to gun him down.

  Terry fired the ball to third—but DiMaggio broke again for home. Third baseman Eddie Mayo whipped the ball past Joe to the plate, and the catcher, Harry Danning, blocked the baseline, crouched for collision.

  But DiMaggio didn’t run into Danning. Joe didn’t even slide. Instead, he launched himself into the air—head first, over the tag, completely over Danning . . . and in the air, Joe twisted his body, still falling . . . till he landed back of Danning, in the dirt, with his hand on the Polo Grounds plate.

  And that was the end of the Giants. Danning was so flustered he juggled the ball while two remaining Yankee runners each took another base. Then the rest of the Giants came unglued . . . and the Yanks poured seven runs across (the last on Joe’s second hit of the inning). The final tally was 13–5. The Yankees were the World Champions—and a new era of their dynasty was launched.

  Joe had hit .346 for the Series. In the aftermath, the Giants’ manager, Terry, could only pay homage: “I’ve always heard that one player could make the difference between a losing team and a winner, and I never believed it. Now I know, it’s true.”

  Withal, those words from Terry were not the highest accolade for Joe in that Series. The topper came after the second game, also in the vast oval Polo Grounds—in fact, at the farthest reach of that oval. It was near the end of the Yankee blowout—18–4, the scoreboard read—and as the Giants took their last at bats, many of the 43,543 fans were on their way to the exits. That’s when the public address announcer asked all present to stay at their seats, until one special fan, Franklin D. Roosevelt, could get to his open limousine and ride off the field through the center field gates.

  It was just moments thereafter that the Giants’ slugger, Hank Leiber, swung at a fastball from the weary Lefty Gomez and launched it like a mortar shell toward the fence in center field.

  DiMaggio was off before the crack of the bat could be heard in the stands. He turned his back and raced for the deepest curve of the horseshoe. He was 475 feet from the plate when he made the impossible catch—over his shoulder, still running flat out . . . in fact, he just kept running, through the notch in the fence, up the steep stairs that led to the players’ clubhouse, in deepest center field. Then, he remembered—Roosevelt!

  Near the top of the stairs, Joe stopped, turned and stood with the ball in his glove, while the car came toward him. There he was—the nation’s savior—in the back seat, with his hat cocked up, his trademark grin around the cigarette holder. Joe, without thinking, stiffened to attention as the car rounded the center field gravel track, with all eyes upon it—save for Roosevelt’s eyes. He looked to the stands, then to the stairway, until he found Joe . . . and then FDR lifted a hand in a jaunty wave from the brim of his hat. And from the crowd there was a final, rippling cheer, as the Dago boy from Fisherman’s Wharf was saluted by the President of the United States.

  LEFTY GOMEZ SHOWING JOE AROUND TOWN, 1937.

  CELEBRATING: JOE MCCARTHY AND HIS PERFECT BOY.

  AT HOME WITH THE NIECES, AND A PLATEFUL OF MAMMA’S SPAGHETTI.

  THE SHOWGIRLS TAKE GOOD CARE OF JOE ON THE SET OF MANHATTAN MERRY-GO-ROUND.

  CHAPTER 7

  BY LINGUISTIC HAPPENSTANCE, FAME IS THE ITALIAN word for hunger. And by ’36, the Italian-Americans were famished for respect.

  They were the largest immigrant group in California. They’d helped to build the New World’s new world and, by their labor, they had hauled their
families, their colony, into the economic mainstream. In San Francisco, they had good jobs, businesses, political power; they’d built churches to promote and display their faith, and schools to foster their heritage for a new generation—nine Italian language schools in San Francisco alone, and forty-seven in the state as a whole. But by 1936, those schools were under attack as instruments of fascist propaganda from Mussolini . . . and by the end of that year, all those schools were closed.

  These Italian-Americans were of two worlds, and alas, at that moment, with honor in neither. Mussolini had been their champion, the modern strongman who would make their old nation a power, a world model. (“You’re the tops: you’re Mussolini,” wrote Cole Porter, in ’34.) The matrons of North Beach proudly sent Il Duce their gold wedding bands. He would melt them down to fund the glory of La Nuova Italia and send back copies of the rings, made by Italian craftsmen in steel.

  But by ’36, to most Americans, Mussolini had become a villain and a running joke: he was the bald-headed butcher of Ethiopia, a strutting speechifier in the newsreels, Hitler’s Dago stooge. Now the North Beach ladies kept their steel rings in drawers at home; the papas put their children into the public schools; they changed the names of their businesses and clubs into English . . . after all, weren’t they good Americans?

  But whom did they have to show off in America? Sacco and Vanzetti? Frank Nitti? Capone? Those were the only Italians in the movies—anarchist bomb-tossers, or tommy-gun killers—except for character-cameos: the tricky little organ grinders, talky fruit peddlers, and hand-waving hankie-sniffing opera fops.

  To be sure, from where the immigranti stood, in the pride of Italianità, these North Beach faithful saw plenty of Italians of distinction, achievement. There were famous artists, like Joe Stella, and America’s greatest conductor, Toscanini. There were popular pols like their own Mayor Rossi, Maestri in New Orleans, and New York’s La Guardia; captains of finance like A. P. Giannini; inventors and scientists like Marconi (who’d won a Nobel Prize!) or Fermi (who’d win just two years thence). But somehow, the image of Italians in America hadn’t caught up.

  It didn’t seem fair. It was ingiusto! Even the melangian’ (the eggplants) in Harlem had their own champion, their own exemplar of strength, silent courage—one of those quiet American heroes. When Joe Louis won the heavyweight crown, every black man in the U.S.A. walked taller. So whom did the Italians have? Primo Carnera!

  Da Preem! . . . The very nickname was an incantation of sorrow—a stain on the honor of their people. Primo Carnera had been a circus strongman back in Italy, before he started boxing, and came to this country as the Great Dago Hope. He was truly a giant—six feet six, and easily an eighth of a ton. He looked indestructible, just exactly what Mussolini claimed he was—a fascist hero, the new Italian, man of steel.

  And he was going to be the champ! The papers all said so. They called him “The Ambling Alp.” They said there was no one in the ring who could stand up to him—that huge right hand! They said, all his fights, he won them easy! . . . And then he was the champ—for one shining moment. So, they said he won it with a phantom punch—no one could see it. So what? An Italian was the Champeen of the World! Coast to coast, in every town, every Italian neighborhood, there were bonfires of celebration, and Italian boys who burned with pride.

  There was only one problem: Primo’s huge right hand couldn’t really dent a sheet of tinfoil. He did win the crown with a phantom punch—arranged in advance by his secret backer, Owney “The Killer” Madden, one of the big New York mobsters, owner of the Cotton Club in Harlem. In fact, the whole thing, start to finish, was a put-up job, a wise-guy fix. Those other fights—Primo did win ’em easy . . . there wasn’t any fighting going on. And the newspaper stories, well . . . those writers took money from the Madden boys, too. What the hell, Madden would get it all back—and millions more—from the sucker Dagos, who’d put their sucker salaries on Primo Carnera, when Madden put him in the ring against a real fighter. That bout came in 1934, when Max Baer made a monkey of the man of steel. Baer knocked Carnera down twelve times—a record. And before it was over, he’d almost killed him.

  The saddest part was, everybody knew the fix was in, all the wiseguys, all the real fight fans—everybody was in on the scam—except poor Carnera, and the sucker Dagos. They only found out too late, when they’d lost their money . . . when it turned out their shining knight was a bum, a puppet, a clown act . . . when Carnera and Mussolini became interchangeable punch lines on the same jokes—those old jokes about fighting Italians. By 1936, Carnera had left the ring. The Italians were still searching for their American hero. And then, like an answered prayer to the saints, there was Joe.

  DiMaggio was everything Carnera wasn’t: young, slender, quiet, dignified—and home-grown. He wasn’t from Mussolini, or for Mussolini. Joe was everything the papers said and more. (Next year, he might break all the records!) He played that clean American game, not in nighttime smoke, sweat, and spattered blood, but in God’s own sunshine, on pristine grass. He was strong, but shy—a regular Joe—from a big family, working people, who’d made their way by honest labor. He played for the team whose very name stood for America. By his natural grace, he’d made them champions. (And whom did he invite to the World Series—brought across the country for that brilliant event? His mamma!) . . . DiMaggio was their American story. Here was the face they could show in their new world.

  So, when Joe came home from his rookie season, there were thousands of paesani waiting for his train . . . who shanghaied him off the platform and drove him in an open car, cheering his name through the downtown streets . . . all the way to City Hall, where they bore him on their shoulders to the mayor’s office, so the Honorable Angelo Rossi could present him with the key to the city.

  THERE WAS NOTHING Joe couldn’t have in San Francisco—nothing in North Beach, surely. Whatever was in the gift of its citizens was his, if he would deign to take it. And at home, well, whatever he did was fine—wonderful—he was the engine of their progress. In retrospect, these were the best times for the family. So many miracles!

  Joe had brought home an extra six thousand four hundred dollars, a winner’s World Series share. That made almost fifteen thousand dollars in one year . . . . But it wasn’t just prosperity, it was promise: vastly more to come. Tom and Joe were already talking about next year—maybe twenty-five thousand dollars in salary alone. And it wasn’t just Joe. It was promise all around.

  With the money Joe brought, Mike got his own boat—crab in the wintertime, salmon in the summer. Mike was on his own now, with a good wife who became a part of the family. Tom was still living at home, and crabbing—though his quiet good sense had now won him a second job: vice president of the Crab Fisherman’s Association. And, still, he was running the family business—much more business than there used to be: Tom and Joe were planning to open a restaurant, were looking for a partner; they’d build a big place right on Fisherman’s Wharf—Joe DiMaggio’s Grotto—how could it miss? . . . Vince was out of the household, married in Southern California, and seldom spoken of—but he wasn’t cut off from his mamma’s prayers. And now they were answered: Vince’s contract was bought by the Boston Bees. Now there’d be two DiMaggios in the big leagues . . . . And that same winter, Dommie got his chance with Mr. Graham and the Seals. He was going to have a contract—and play outfield like his brothers.

  It was like some giant, unseen hand had pushed open a door, and behind it lay a wide new world for them. No witch in the neighborhood could ever have foretold that Rosalie DiMaggio would cross the nation in a Pullman parlor car, and spend two weeks without chores of any sort, while she watched the World Series and saw the sights in New York (the great Liberty Statue that she’d glimpsed one fearful dawn, more than thirty years before) . . . while she slept in a Mayflower Hotel suite, while the restaurants of the great city strove to please her, while the newspapers begged for her picture and a few words. Who could have dreamed that up? “I don’t know what to do he
re,” said Rosalie DiMaggio. “There is no work. I wish there was some cleaning to do here, or some dishes I could wash and dry.”

  Who among the thousand poor and wary souls on Ísola delle Fémmine would ever have hoped—would ever have risked the evil eye to dream—that he and his sons would own two splendid boats (with motors!) . . . that he might be shopping for a splendid house—to own it free and clear—with a bed for every child (no, a room for every child) . . . that he wouldn’t have to fish at all, but would dress every day in a three-piece suit and tour the wharves as a statesman, an elder uncle—Zio Peppe—to the workingmen of the fleet. How could Giuseppe (even now) believe that he was invited, with Signor Crosetti, to lunch at the house of Signor Lazzeri (a Genoese), where photographers would make a picture for the nation, a picture the proud papa would hand to his daughter, to paste in her scrapbook about the famous family he made. All from playing with a ball!

  Now, in the mornings, Giuseppe would unstick the flaps of some envelope that had come to the house, and on that scrap, with an awkward hand, he would write down numbers in a system of his own devising. The grandchildren who played around the house would find these odd papers, and though it wasn’t their place to ask, they would wonder: Papa can’t write the words we use, but he’s writing numbers just like us . . . and, of course, no one knew why . . . until one of the grandkids was learning long division at school, and Giuseppe told her he would set her a problem. If a baseball player goes to bat four hundred and twenty-nine times, and he makes one hundred fifty-eight hits, how is he doing? Just as she’d learned at school, the girl worked the problem atop a long stairway of subtractions . . . three, six, eight, two, nine . . . but before she could finish, Giuseppe gleefully took his hand off his envelope: 3 6 8, it said. He’d taught himself how to track Joe’s average.