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

by Cramer, Richard Ben

  In the bottom of the ninth, Page on the mound, the Red Sox scored their fourth run. And now they had the tying run on third base. And Ted Williams at the plate. Williams got hold of a Joe Page fastball and drove it, high and handsome—it soared through the night, four hundred feet, to the deepest part of the park, the triangle in right center . . . where it disappeared in the glove of the waiting Joe DiMaggio. Game over. Game one to the Yanks, 5–4.

  The next day, Joe took over in earnest. No one could stop him when he was right. And he knew he was right, now. The Red Sox were determined to avenge game one. They jumped all over Tommy Byrne—he never made it through the first inning. By the fifth, the Sox led 7–1 behind the cocky (and talented) Ellis Kinder. But in the fifth, Kinder got sloppy and walked Rizzuto and Henrich. Then DiMaggio drove the first good pitch he saw out of the park in left center field. The Yankees were back in the game, 7–4. By the seventh, McCarthy was so furious at Kinder that he yanked him in favor of the club’s top reliever, the veteran left-hander Earl Johnson. But New York’s backup outfielder, Gene Woodling, doubled off Johnson with the bases loaded. And the Yankees tied the game. That didn’t last more than one inning, till the eighth, when DiMaggio came up with a man on. Johnson tried to fool him with a low-inside curveball—at least make him hit it on the ground. But DiMaggio golfed it over the Monster—his second homer of the day, third of the series. He had now driven home six runs—and had put game two away for good. As Joe touched home plate and turned toward the dugout, Stengel emerged, hands high in the air. Then, he backed away as Joe approached, bowing and salaaming to the potentate.

  And Joe wasn’t even embarrassed. It was like after a Series. They were hugging and whooping in the locker room—kissing each other, throwing towels. Every man on the club came over to Joe to shake his hand, or slap him on the back, before they opened the doors to the press. Only Spec Shea brought up the big question: Any pain? . . . Said DiMaggio: “Nothing hurts when you play like this.” Only once did Joe’s face darken in a scowl. That was for Rizzuto, who thought he’d had a pretty good game—drove in a run himself. “What’sa matter with you?” DiMaggio snapped, and the noise in the clubhouse died. “Are you try’na steal my RBIs?” Then the hooting and cheers redoubled. Dago’s makin’ jokes!

  Only one more chance for the Red Sox remained. They would take the field for game three behind their ace, Mel Parnell. He’d already won ten games that year—and must have broken a hundred bats. He didn’t pitch like other lefties: Parnell was always on your hands with the heater, or hard slider. No one on the Yankees liked to face him. Of course, the Yankees had their ace up, too. Vic Raschi already had eleven wins that season. But he didn’t have his great stuff that day, and the Red Sox would touch him up for twelve hits. Still, Raschi battled on, holding by will to a one-run lead. The Yankees were leading 3–2 in the seventh, when Parnell fell into hot water. Stirnweiss got on first with a single. But Parnell got two outs. Then he tried to get cute with Henrich, but Ol’ Reliable made him pay with another single. Two men on, and DiMaggio up—once again with the game on the line.

  There was an ominous rumbling from the packed grandstand—as if the fans were muttering: this could not happen to them again. Parnell was going to make something happen on his own terms: he threw his heater on the outer half, and DiMaggio popped it up. The crowd roared its relief, as the first baseman, Billy Goodman, got under the ball in foul ground . . . and he dropped it. The noise sank to murmurous unease again. Strike one. Parnell squared himself and threw the same heater, same spot. This time DiMaggio squibbed it foul on the ground. Now the crowd came back to life, urging Parnell on. He had DiMag at oh-and-two, just where he wanted him—and he threw a pitcher’s pitch: a perfect fastball, inches off the outside corner. DiMaggio didn’t even flinch. He was waiting for Parnell to come in. And Parnell knew it: so he threw one just off the inside corner. DiMaggio moved not a whit. Now Fenway was filled with an unholy noise, high and plaintive: the Boston Irish were keening. There was nothing left for Parnell to do but throw DiMaggio a strike. Parnell reared back and threw his best. And DiMaggio hit it—so hard, so high, so far . . . it didn’t just clear the Monster, it didn’t just sail over the screen on top. Whanggg! It smashed, with the sound of hammered steel, off the top of the light stanchion that loomed above everything.

  Three runs. End of contest. Yankees win, 6–2.

  DiMaggio would later say the noise of that crowd built in his head until the roar was everywhere—like he was underwater—that roar was all over him. But Parnell would recall for David Halberstam: the noise he heard for the next few minutes was the clang of that ball off the steel light tower. He stood on the mound, his back to the plate, looking up at that tower and the sky behind it. It seemed like heaven itself had turned against the Red Sox—from the start, from the moment that game had begun . . . when from out of that sky, across that heaven, a little biplane had drawn into view and had flown around Fenway, trailing this message: “THE GREAT DIMAGGIO.”

  That day, the writers barely made the locker room—and barely made the train out of Boston that evening. They were still in the press box pounding on their Underwood keyboards. There wasn’t time enough, or words enough, to write that scene, that game, that series, and That Man . . . who’d lifted himself from his bed of pain, to triumph . . . no, to conquer . . . no, to vanquish! . . .

  Good Lord, it was too big to write.

  This wasn’t New York news, but world news. It wasn’t about what pitch the Clipper hit, nor his slugging percentage, nor even three games; nor about old Joe McCarthy, in fury, grabbing his pitcher and shaking him in the tunnel, screaming abuse about that lousy pitch. This wasn’t about Boston eight games back—it wasn’t about the pennant race. This wasn’t just baseball! It was the greatest comeback in the history of sport! This was—this . . . was . . . divine.

  Later, in days to come, Joe would attend to the godly overtones. (“I don’t want to pose as ‘Holy Joe’ or anything like that, but I’ll tell you, I feel that someone’s got His arm around my shoulder.”)

  Later, he would deal with Life magazine, and its offer to pay him more than a working man made in a year (six thousand dollars!) for his picture on the cover and a ghost-written story, “My Greatest Comeback.”

  There’d be time, in the interim, to work out his aw-shucks lines (“I got lucky and a few balls dropped in.”) in the aptly titled column: “Jimmy Cannon Says.”

  For the moment, Joe wasn’t worried about any of that. First time in months, he wasn’t worried. And he had nothing to say about heaven, history, or the Greatest Comeback. On that train out of Boston, he was leaning back in a corner of the dining car, half a dozen Yankee kids jabbering around him, his hand around a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon, his face around a small smile. Joe knew what was back. As one of the rookies, Jerry Coleman, remembered, all Joe said was: “Can’t beat this life, kid.”

  NOW THAT GOD had a hand in the pennant race, it had to happen: the season came down to two final games—Yanks against Boston—for all the marbles.

  The Red Sox had finally picked themselves up off the canvas, and started punching out wins. In August, Boston went 24–8.

  Still, the Yankees could not be overtaken—not while they had DiMaggio. For once, even Stengel saw nowhere to apply his genius. He’d fill out the lineup card, then sit on the bench and watch. “When I had him, Joe,” as Stengel told Maury Allen, “you didn’t have to look at center field and see he was lined up. He knew how to line up right. The others looked at him. If he moved, they moved. If he stood there, they stood there.”

  As did Stengel . . . until September 18, with the Yankees still two and a half games ahead. But God’s little viruses were already at work. Joe’s summer cold had turned into the flu, and then pneumonia. That day, he rode the bench with a temperature of 102.

  Then he was in the hospital, shot full of penicillin, while the Yankees lost the next two out of three. Boston was only two games back. Then the Yankees had two in Boston—but they
all looked sick at the plate: Kinder threw a 3–0 shutout, and the next day, Parnell mowed them down, 4–1. Now the Sox and Yankees were tied. Both teams traveled back to New York for one game, to make up a rainout. DiMaggio was still in a Manhattan hospital. Boston won in the Bronx. That put the Red Sox into first place—one game up—for the first time that year. Both teams had five games left. Boston would have three against the Senators, the Yankees three against the A’s. Both teams would win two out of three. Both would be back in New York for their last two: if the Yankees won both, they would have the pennant. If Boston could win one game, they’d scuttle the Yanks for the second straight year, and redeem ’48’s pathetic playoff.

  DiMaggio had disappeared again into the Elysee. George Solotaire and one of his pals, a press agent, Bernie Kamber, were nursing the Big Guy around the clock. DiMaggio’s face was gray and gaunt. He had lost eighteen pounds. He’d walk around the suite and then have to sit down. If he had to say more than ten words, he was out of breath. Still, Joe ordered Kamber to get him downstairs and into a cab, the day of that first game with Boston. Joe was going to the Stadium. Maybe he could play a few innings, maybe not. But he’d be there. After the Greatest Comeback, Weiss had scheduled this day, October 1, as Joe DiMaggio Day.

  Toots Shor was frantic with worry for the Dago. If Joe couldn’t play right, if he made a mistake, didn’t look right, it would kill him. As Joe and Kamber rode north to the Stadium, Toots was on the phone to the Yankees’ front office. “Don’t let anybody shake hands with him,” Shor was pleading. “He’s too sick. That’ll take all the strength away from him.”

  But there was no choice. His mother had come across the country to be there, the mayor was there, the cardinal, Jim Farley . . . and seventy thousand fans, whose donations and gifts for Joe piled up on the field one after another, as Joe stood near home plate and listened to speeches—went on forever—from all the bigwigs who’d come to shine in his light. And there were telegrams and messages to be read out—like this one, from New York’s most famous barkeep, Toots Shor: “You have given me more thrills than all the rest of the champions put together. You always won the Big Ones and never knew how to choke up. You are the biggest guy I know and the biggest thing about you is your heart. You gave us baseball fans the greatest moments we have ever had but something more than that, Joe, you gave me your friendship.” At length, Joe’s mother was introduced, and the crowd gasped as she came onto the field and walked right past Joe—to the Boston dugout. (She’d seen Joe, but she hadn’t said hello to Dommie.) Then, Dominic came out, too, and stood next to Joe. Joe put his arm on his brother’s shoulder, and Dom could feel Joe’s weight. He always worried that Joe would think he was bathing in Joe’s starlight, so he whispered: “Do you want me to leave now?” Joe rasped out one word. “No!” Dom was the only thing holding him up. And still, there were more gifts: a car, two cars, free taxi service, a Chris-Craft boat (The Yankee Clipper), a watch, two watches, three watches, a college scholarship for Joe Jr., three hundred quarts of ice cream, five hundred Joe DiMaggio T-shirts, a case of lima beans . . . They said it was fifty thousand bucks’ worth of stuff. Joe only wanted to sit down. But he had to speak. He had dreaded that speech: three or four pals wrote it, three or four times. But it turned out Joe’s remarks would be brief. He got to the line “I’d like to thank the Good Lord for making me a Yankee.” Then he burst into tears.

  He’d told Stengel he would play three innings. But he struck out the first time up against Parnell. It couldn’t end that way for Joe DiMaggio. Or for the Yanks. By the third inning, the Bostons had knocked Reynolds out, they led 4–0, and Casey had to call for Joe Page. After that inning, DiMaggio sat in the tunnel, sucking down a Chesterfield. He signaled to Stengel in the silent Yankee dugout, and held up five fingers. He would play at least through five.

  He came up in the fourth. Parnell had been unhittable. He was working DiMaggio away with hard stuff. Weak as Joe looked, Parnell knew he’d never get around fast enough to pull the ball—hit anything with power. Joe knew it, too. So he lashed a ball on the outer half on a line into right field. The ball bounced once and went over the short fence. DiMaggio jogged into second base. And the Yankees were up in their dugout, and shouting. Bauer singled DiMaggio home with a line single to left. Lindell hit another rope to left and the Yankees had first and third. Coleman hit a sacrifice fly to Dom DiMaggio, and the Yankees were back in the game 4–2.

  Next inning, Rizzuto started it with a single. Henrich followed with a ground single into right—Rizzuto to third. Then Berra singled, Rizzuto scored, and Henrich went to second. The Yanks had two men on, for Joe DiMaggio. In the Boston dugout, the fearful Joe McCarthy made another move that Boston fans would forever bemoan. Parnell was his ace. He’d won twenty-five games. But the Skipper wouldn’t let DiMaggio face the lefty again. He brought in the right-hander, Joe Dobson, to get the Clipper out. But DiMaggio greeted Dobson with a shot that almost knocked him over: a line drive right back at the mound. Dobson could barely react in time to knock the ball down—it dribbled away, and he raced after it. By the time he straightened up with the ball in his hand, the Yankees had the bases loaded. And that made all the difference: Dobson got the next man, Billy Johnson—got him good, on a grounder for a double play. But Henrich scored from third, and the Yanks had tied the game 4–4.

  And they had Joe Page, who was mowing Red Sox batters down. Page wasn’t fooling around with any breaking balls, or change of speeds. He was throwing it by ’em. He’d held the Red Sox through the fourth and fifth, while the Yankees drew even. And now he blew through the lineup again: sixth inning, seventh and eighth—not a loud foul. At that point, it was only a matter of time. Johnny Lindell hit the homer for the Yanks in the bottom of the eighth, and that was all she wrote. The Yanks won 5–4, and they were celebrating again. In the clubhouse, they were singing and splattering beer on Lindell. The writers were clustered around Page—more like fans than scribes. “You were the boss out there!” “I said in the press box, they’d never touch you!” Page had one question: “What did Dago say?”

  Joe only had one thing to say. “Let’s win tomorrow.” And that calmed down the celebration. The Yankees and Red Sox were tied again, with one game to go.

  The next day Joe looked even worse. But who could tell Dago to sit? He suited up slowly and went out to center field. Both clubs played their remaining aces: Kinder for the Red Sox, Raschi for the Yanks. And those pitchers put on a clinic. The only big hit was Rizzuto’s triple in the first inning. After that, Ol’ Reliable, Henrich (who hated to face Kinder—never could hit him), choked up on the bat and hit a twenty-six-hopper to the right side, to Doerr at second base. That was real Yankee baseball: a tiny grounder that brought the run home. The Yankees led 1–0. And that’s the way it stayed, for seven innings straight.

  DiMaggio could do nothing with Kinder. He’d come in each inning, get a smoke and a coffee, and stare at the floor of the tunnel until he had to go out there again. He felt like it took all day just to trot to his position. His legs were cramping. There was nothing in him. But the game was still 1–0. DiMaggio went to center field.

  And then, in the eighth, once again, McCarthy made a fear-filled move. He pinch-hit for the furious Kinder, and brought in the exhausted pitcher from the previous game—Mel Parnell. Henrich, who’d rather face anyone than Kinder, greeted Parnell with a home run. It was 2–0. DiMaggio came up with a man on first, and again the skittish McCarthy waved a new pitcher in. Tex Hughson got DiMaggio to hit into a double play. But then he couldn’t get anyone else. Lindell singled. Johnson singled. Cliff Mapes was walked to get to the rookie, Jerry Coleman, who fought off a high, tight fastball, and nudged a little pop fly out to right field. The second baseman, Doerr, raced back. The right fielder, Zarilla, sprinted in and dove. The ball hit inches from Zarilla’s outstretched glove . . . and bounced away for a triple. Now, it was 5–0 Yankees—with the ferocious Raschi still on the mound.

  Once again, one last time, the Red
Sox tried to come back. Raschi was tired. With one out he walked Ted Williams. Then Stephens singled to center. DiMaggio had to come in on the run to keep Williams at second base. The next man, Doerr, hit a long fly to center field. It was well hit, but there was room out there—just the kind of long fly that DiMaggio would be waiting for, as the ball dropped into his glove. But this time he turned, his legs wouldn’t go. He stumbled and the ball went by him for a triple. Boston had two runs, a man on third. DiMaggio held up a hand and called time. He waved to Stengel in the dugout. He was taking himself out of the game. He trotted in, to a standing ovation. That was Yankee baseball, too. He was not going to be the one to lose this game.

  Mapes moved into center field, and promptly caught a fly ball from Zarilla. Goodman singled for one more Boston run—5–3. Birdie Tebbetts, the catcher, was coming up for the Red Sox. From first base, Henrich walked the ball to the mound, to buck up Raschi. “You only need one more out!” Tommy said. But Raschi turned on him and snarled, “Get the hell out of here and gimme the ball.” Henrich walked back to first base, grinning. No way Tebbetts was gonna hit Raschi. Tebbetts managed only a pop-up to the right side. Henrich called everybody off, and squeezed it. The Yankees had the pennant.