“First, there would be that loud buzz, like a squadron of queen bees descending on a cache of honey. Then, just before the ball would leave the pitcher’s hand, the buzz would stop and there would be that deathlike silence—that hush . . . .”
In the sixth, Joe waved at a knuckler that dove away from him, low and outside—strike one. Then, he took a change-up inside, to even the count. At that point, Leonard took a risk: if he could sneak in a fastball (while the Jolter was looking for the knuckler), then he’d have DiMaggio one-and-two—with three chances after that to make him chase the dancer. So Leonard threw a near-perfect fastball—knee high, over the outside corner. Just as Leonard had hoped, it froze Joe for an instant. But an instant wasn’t long enough. DiMaggio’s dark bat smacked the ball right out of catcher Jake Early’s glove. The ball shot on a line to the left center field gap, where Cramer and the left fielder, George Case, converged to cut it off. Too late again: the ball kicked off Case’s glove and rolled to the 422 mark on the bleacher wall. DiMaggio could trot to second base—now tied with Sisler as best of the modern age.
The crowd exploded in joy: He did it! He did it! It was history! They saw it! . . . But for Joe, the squeeze only got tighter. The second game would tell the tale, whether he would set his name alone, at the top of the list.
In the first inning of game two, Tom Henrich was on his way to the batter’s box to take his first licks, when he was frozen by one syllable—“TOMM!”—hurled from the on-deck circle.
As Henrich recalled the story half a century later, his head still ducked between his shoulder blades—like the voice had attacked him from behind.
“I said, ‘Jeeminee! That’s DiMaggio!’ And I turned around to him, I says, ‘What?’
“He says, ‘You got my ball bat!’ (Henrich growled out the line like an accusation.)
“ ‘Joe,’ I walked to him, and I says, ‘Joe, I got one of your ball bats . . . ’ ” Henrich was still using the bat he’d borrowed from Joe in the first days of June.
Joe almost ripped it out of Tom’s hand. “Lemme see it!”
DiMaggio glared at the bat he now held in both hands, his big fingers clenched white around the dark wood of the D-29. But he could see, right away, it wasn’t his streak bat. It turned out, someone had stolen Joe’s bat out of the dugout rack between games. Joe shoved Henrich’s bat back to him—with the bad news: “Somebody took my ball bat.”
Joe tried a brand-new bat in his first attempt against the lanky right-hander Sid Hudson. But the right fielder, Buddy Lewis, snared DiMaggio’s line drive. It was entered in the records as a sacrifice fly—Rolfe scored—but that was cold comfort for the Clipper. As he trotted out to center field, Henrich heard him muttering: “If that’d been my ball bat, it would have been in there.”
Of course, that was superstitious—but so are ballplayers. The whole Yankee club was shaken by the bat’s disappearance. Sure, they were winning the game two–zip, but they made four errors in the first three innings. Everybody had the willies.
DiMaggio took another shot in the third—and what a shot! Hudson twirled in a sidearm curveball that sat on the inside corner till Joe creamed it with the new bat. Alas, the line drive instantly disappeared into the glove of the shortstop, Cecil Travis, who didn’t even have to move. What further evidence of the evil eye did anyone need? Joe was snakebit.
By the time Joe got his third at bat, the Senators had a new pitcher, Red Anderson, another big right-hander, six foot three, who worked Joe up and in, low and away. First came the fastball under the chin. Then the sweeping curve, outside. Then, another fastball. DiMaggio swung. But he caught it on the handle and Cramer gloved the looping fly ball in short center. Joe was oh-for-three.
In the dugout, Henrich once again pressed Joe to take back his old bat, the one he’d lent Tommy. “Here, try it! This one feels good.” DiMaggio was out of ideas of his own. In the seventh inning, facing Anderson again, Joe took Henrich’s bat for what might well be his last chance. Once again, Anderson backed him off the plate with a barber shot under the chin. But then, as if God had laid hands upon the big pitcher, Anderson threw the perfect pitch—perfect for Joe: waist-high, over the middle. DiMaggio’s eyes must have grown to saucer-size. Craack! . . . The fans all leapt up yelling. There wasn’t any doubt about this liner: no fielder could touch it till it bounded two or three times in the left field grass. At first base, DiMaggio rounded the bag, for form’s sake, but his legs probably couldn’t have carried him to second. Anyway, he was trying to tip his hat to the screaming crowd. And the first base coach was slapping him on the back. And then the Senators’ first baseman, Mickey Vernon, stuck out his hand—in the middle of a game! And Joe shook it. What the hell, this was bigger than the game.
On the train back to New York that evening, everyone was talking at once about Joe and his streak, and his record and his stolen bat. Joe didn’t say much, of course, but his teammates could see he was happy—now the record was his. He was almost easy with his smile. And he bought everybody a beer.
WITH THAT TWIST, the mysterious missing bat, the story was pushed into mythic realms: fate dashed the hero’s sword from his hand, and yet—lo, even still, was the dragon slain . . . . And it wasn’t over! There was still Willie Keeler’s dusty record, and after that, who could tell? As they used to say in newspaper city rooms, here was a story with legs.
And this wasn’t a story just for newspapers, for radio bulletins, or theater newsreels. The first picture magazine, Life, had been joined by Look, Collier’s, and the Saturday Evening Post—now they all had to have Joe in words and photos. In fact, Life, which only two years ago was marveling that Joe didn’t talk with an accent, or smell like garlic, now adjudged him too classical a subject for mere silver nitrate. The editors commissioned a portrait in oil—Joe in the perfection of his follow-through—which would be reproduced in a September issue. Meanwhile, the flagship of the company, Time, humphed out the news in stentorian iambics: “The Yankee Clipper left in his wake the broken fragments of one of baseball’s immortal records.”
Some air of immortality—a whiff of All-Time-Greathood—had wafted around DiMaggio from the start of his career. But in 1941, the affect of classical perfection—and permanent importance—attached to him entirely: he would never lose it again. Joe’s story, his glorious deeds, seemed to say something wonderful about America (and just when America needed to hear it). In Hollywood, where a man could make millions just by humming at the national pitch, one well-known film nabob, Nat Goldstone, was promoting a cinematic immigrant fable, The Great DiMaggio—which would feature the baseball brothers (as themselves) in a story that revolved around Papa Giuseppe . . . who, as Louella Parsons reported, had “made great sacrifices” so his sons could play the American Game.
Everybody wanted in on this story for the ages. In the summer of ’41, so much of the world was out of control—there were new signs every day that nations, their wealth, machinery, and men were all disturbingly disposable—there was hunger for something that would endure . . . . Small wonder the producers of another (more successful) Hollywood project, Casablanca, chose for its musical centerpiece “As Time Goes By”—which was a ten-year-old song, but which, nevertheless, spoke to the lament of the moment:
It’s still the same old story,
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die . . .
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by.
By the time that movie came out, Joe’s own song had shot up the charts to number one. Les Brown and His Band of Renown recorded “Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio,” just when Streak Fever was most contagious (and the rest, as they say, was Hit Parade). The refrain—Joe, Joe DiMaggio! We want you on our side!—became a national mantra of homage. The songwriter was a New York disc jockey, Alan Courtney, who (talk about the same old story!) wrote out the lyric on a nightclub napkin. At least, that’s what he said. But he thrummed the welcome chord of permanence—immortality—just as neatly as if h
e’d worked it over for years.
He’ll live in baseball’s Hall of Fame
He got there blow by blow.
Our kids will tell their kids his name:
JOLTIN’ JOE DIMAGGIO . . .
There were plenty of New Yorkers—being New Yorkers—who didn’t care that much about our children’s children. They wanted Joe right now. They wanted him, for instance, for that billboard that blew smoke rings over Times Square, and a picture ad, with a tasty smoke asmolder in his fingers (“Camels—they’re milder!”). They wanted him to smile around a big spoon, behind a heaping bowl of Wheaties, and to pose with a grin over the wheel of a Dodge car. They wanted him to stop by their restaurant for a free meal, or to be seen around town in their brand of shoes, or to bring the wife to the jewelry shop—she can have what she likes! And come by the Lionel plant, to cheer on the crack softball team. (And how ’bout a picture, playing with these toy trains?) And stop by the boys club (“The kids are wild about you, Joe!”) or show up for a picture at the Chinese Relief Fund. He had to stop by Newark and pick up the handsome shotgun they wanted to give him—along with the key to the city. And how about that radio spot for New Jersey’s Vacation Traffic Accident Prevention Program? (“Whether at bat or on the curb, always be prepared to step back from the fast ones that may come too close!”)
And those were just a few of the outside appearances. That didn’t count the day-to-day doings at the ballpark. “Joe! Just a coupl’a shots! Could you make like you’re warmin’ up with three bats?” “Joe, who would you like to have pitching when you break the record?” “Can we get a shot of you and the postmaster general?” “Joe, do you think the streak is actually hurtin’ your average?” “How ’bout a picture in the shower, Joe?” (“Hottest Man in Baseball Cools Off!”) . . . . And no one could count the daily dozens (or hundreds) of pleas from fans—for autographs, for balls, a bat, Joe’s shirt, his shoes. One fan ran into center field and swiped the cap right off of Joe’s head . . . . Would he authorize a candy bar? . . . How ’bout Yankee Clipper Comics? . . . “Joe! Oh, Joe! JOE! HEY, JOE! Would you sign my cast? . . .”
There wasn’t any way to stop it: the business of being a hero was too big, out of control. On the road, Joe and Lefty always used to have breakfast sent up to the rooms. Now, they were penned up there for dinner, too. (Otherwise Joe would never get to eat.) They’d tell the front desk: no calls—and don’t give out the room. Never worked: people knocked on the door all night. Kids, a lot of ’em. But women, too. You wouldn’t have thought God made so many eager American women. But it seemed like every one He made had a friend on the hotel switchboard, or went to school with the bellboy’s sister, or got the room number somehow. Sometimes, they’d call from the lobby. “Yeah, come on up,” Joe would say into the phone. And any other fellows who were visiting would know, Daig was going to be tied up for a while. When she got there, Joe would take her right into the bedroom and, as he said, “give her a good pump.”
So many people wanted to get in good with Joe, take care of him, make a gesture of friendship: a broad was always a welcome gift. Big guys with interest in the business—for example, guys who made book all over town—they were making fortunes off DiMag and his streak. There wasn’t any Dago in the whole city (the whole country) who didn’t want to put a couple of bucks on Joe—either to get another hit, or this was the end, or to get his hit by the fifth inning, or it’s two hits today . . . in those days you could bet on the Jolter down to the inning, down to the pitch. A guy like Joe Adonis—he was booking millions—he wanted to show appreciation. But without a lot of fingerprints. He couldn’t throw a dinner at the Waldorf for Joe DiMaggio and a thousand bookies. That would make a bad appearance. But Adonis had broads—houses full of broads. So . . . he took care of the Slugger.
A guy like Adonis was quiet and careful. For example, Adonis was a pal of Toots. An investor you could call him: all of Shor’s money was mob. But you wouldn’t see Adonis lording it around Shor’s saloon—not with the sports guys that were Toots’s bread and butter . . . . One time, Toots was out in Louisville for the Derby. (He always rented a couple of floors of a hotel, and railroad cars to bring out the shrimp, beef, cases of booze, and all his pals.) He was at the track when he spotted Adonis. Of course, Shor rushed right over. “JOEY, YOU CRUMB BUM! WHERE YA BEEN?” And he gave him a hug. “I AIN’T SEEN YA! WHY DON’CHA COME IN MY JOINT?” Adonis pulled away and looked at Shor gravely. “Tootsie, if I come in, do I help you or hurt you?” . . . Anyway, in those days, the mob wasn’t such an issue. No less an authority than J. Edgar Hoover was insisting that there was no organized crime. Whenever he came to New York, Hoover used to come in for lunch at Shor’s—oftentimes, right across the room from Frank Costello.
Still, all the favors made DiMaggio nervous: outside New York, there were guys who couldn’t hide any better than a circus elephant. In Detroit, Cleveland, Chicago, they didn’t even try. In Chicago, during The Streak, there was a black limo, half a block long, waiting for DiMaggio. Head of the mob sent his car for Joe. So Joe said to Frenchy Bordagaray, “You come along.” They got in the Cadillac and it took them to a nightclub. More than fifty years later, Frenchy could not remember the name. But he remembered the rest: “We come in, they got all the girls in the whole place lined up. They say, ‘Joe, you pick out whoever you want.’ Then, they look at me. ‘You, too.’ So Joe picks one out. And I pick one out. Then they throw him the keys to the Cadillac. ‘Go wherever you want, Joe!’ But Joe doesn’t like to drive. He says to me, ‘You’re drivin’.’ I say, ‘All right, I can drive it.’ So I open the door, I slide in the front seat. Then I see both girls get in the back with Joe! . . . They’re taking turns . . . so he gets the girls, and I get the mirror.”
Of course, there were writers with the team in Chicago who saw Joe DiMaggio go off to play in the mob limo. For that matter, Frenchy had never been famous for keeping a good story to himself. But no writer wanted to put that kind of thing in the paper. You’d be finished—washed up with DiMag, probably non grata with the rest of the Yanks—and maybe with the mob, too. Anyway, with kids all over the country marching around, singing the song (“From coast to coast that’s all you hear—of Joe, the one-man show!”), and keeping notebooks with each page numbered for a game of The Streak (43—July 1—ground ball single to third base, line drive single to left field!) . . . with strangers talking to each other on the streets, asking anybody with a radio: “Did he do it?” (everybody knew who He was) . . . who’d want to spoil that? Who would dare to break the heart of little Tony Morella?
It seems that Little Tony Morella was a terribly sick boy, ten years old, in Philadelphia’s Jefferson Hospital—“SPLEEN REMOVED. LIFE OR DEATH,” as the telegram to Joe exclaimed. So after the last game in Philadelphia, Joe and Lefty ran over to the hospital. That’s why they’d missed that train to Washington—Joe went to cure the Morella boy, who was at death’s door until his hero appeared. “You be listening to your radio tomorrow, Tony,” DiMaggio was quoted at the bedside, “and hear me break that hitting record for you. That’s a promise, kid.” So, when the papers ran the story on Joltin’ Joe breaking that record, there was the story of the Morella boy’s hero-cure, right alongside. It was unfortunate only for the Associated Press (which had to sweep up after the exuberant New York writers left town)—and for little Tony himself—that his name was actually Norella, and he was actually, well, dead, before the record-tying game began. But the point was, everybody loved that story—that was the sort of story you wanted. The point was, our heroes were good—as were we. Even the spoilsport AP assured readers around the country that Tony died happier, because he knew his friend Joe would be a man of his word.
Whenever Joe came home, there were telegrams of entreaty, gifts for good luck, sacks of mail. Everybody knew where Joe lived; his penthouse address was printed in the New York Times, along with the rent: an astonishing three hundred dollars a month. That was part of the coverage now. Our heroes had good home lives, too. On
e time Joe got home and found the penthouse occupied by visitors from the New York Post. Their cameraman wanted Joe to pose reading his mail, keeping up with the fans’ concerns. There was another photo with Joe lying back on a daybed, in a silk robe, with Dorothy leaning in to light his cigarette. The American people wanted to see that Mrs. Joe did her part.
Dorothy was happy to show. She bloomed under the national spotlight. The truth was, DiMaggio had given up on answering his fan mail, he’d given up on reading it—never looked through the sacks. But Dorothy looked over every envelope. Who could tell? Maybe there’d be something for her. She’d already done one national ad, for Swift’s Premium Frankfurts (“As a dinner meat they’re a real winner!” says Mrs. Joe DiMaggio.) And she thought she could do a lot more, after the baby was born. She told the papers that she never talked to Joe about The Streak—didn’t want to be a jinx. Fortunately, most days, Joe didn’t want to talk. He was “even-tempered,” Dorothy said. “And all he seemed to think about when he came home from the ballpark each day was digging into the eats.” On the other hand, she was so nervous, so busy biting her nails at the ballpark, she hadn’t even found time to decorate their apartment. But in the photos, the apartment looked wonderful—and so did she. It all looked, not by happenstance, like the American dream. As the New York Post feature writer mused in print: “Upon one thing do Joe and the missus agree. When a boy from Fisherman’s Wharf, San Francisco, and a girl from Duluth, Minn., can marry and live in a penthouse because he has the crowd-pleasing ability to hit a ball with a bat—America, she is wonderful.”
Joe DiMaggio: The Hero's Life (Touchstone Book) Page 22