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

by Cramer, Richard Ben

  They would have to face Brooklyn in the World Series—probably the best Brooklyn team in history. It wasn’t just Robinson and Reese now, but Snider, Furillo, Hermanski in the outfield, Hodges on first, and Campanella behind the plate. It was a Dodger club without any weak spots—but an unlucky club. Because, once again, they’d have to play a Yankee team of destiny—men who knew they couldn’t lose. Joe played in that Series by force of will and nothing else. He was weak at the plate: two-for-eighteen. But he played, through five straight games—four of them wins. He managed a homer in the last game, when the Yankees had to slug it out 10–6.

  After the Series he took his mamma out to La Guardia Field, to put her on an airplane for San Francisco. And he promised her, he would follow soon. She didn’t like the way he looked. Nor did he. He’d just take care of a few business things—appearances, paid magazine stories, endorsement ads—the money was too good to ignore.

  He would spend the next two weeks in New York. But they were quiet weeks. He didn’t want to go out. He’d try to eat in a restaurant, and the minute he picked up a fork, some fan would be there. Didn’t matter if Joe was with someone. They’d hang over him while he ate. “Joe, you look great!” “You’ll kill ’em next year.” “How ’bout those Red Sox—bums, huh?”

  And Joe was tired. He didn’t have anything to say to them. He was tired of them looking at him. First time in years, he just wanted to go home. So Georgie packed Joe’s trunk and he went home, to San Francisco—where the local fans met him with a parade.

  ONE BIG HAPPY FAMILY—WITH STENGEL, AND THE ROOKIE, MANTLE.

  HANDSHAKES FOR HIS HOMER—THE WORLD SERIES, 1951.

  “I’M NEVER PUTTING ON THAT MONKEY SUIT AGAIN.”

  CHAPTER 13

  DOUBT AND DIMAGGIO HAD SELDOM KEPT COMPANY. But after that season, they were seldom apart. Joe talked to Topping about retirement. “Don’t even think about it,” the owner told him. He wanted Joe to come over for dinner—at his place, 405 Park Avenue. Topping was married to Sonja Henie, the skating star, and he liked to impress her: Dan and his hundred-thousand-dollar man. Anyway, Topping could read the numbers: with tickets, concessions, parking, radio, and TV, his World Champion Yankees probably made three million dollars that year—with one .300 hitter, a part-timer named DiMaggio, at .346. Topping wanted Joe to know he wasn’t going to lose a nickel, just because he’d played in only half the games. He could have another hundred-thousand-dollar contract right now—just say the word. Joe wouldn’t say the word. “Take some time off,” Topping insisted. “Relax, go home, rest up. You’ll feel different.”

  In San Francisco, Joe did feel different—stronger for one thing, week by week. His mamma was cooking every night, and he lost the hollows in his cheeks and ribs. But it wasn’t just bulk, the pounds he recovered. His legs came back. He could go all day—never think about his legs—like he used to when he was a kid on those hills. His old skipper (and guide to the big time), Lefty O’Doul, finally had persuaded him to try his hand at golf. Joe had always thought it was a game for rich old farts. Well, O’Doul reminded him, he was just about qualified, on all counts. Joe was thirty-five that November—the same month golf became a passion.

  They’d go out early to the city course at Salada Beach—or any one of the country clubs. Lefty never bothered with memberships. There wasn’t any golf pro in Northern California who didn’t know Lefty and want him at his club. O’Doul and DiMag? If Lefty would’ve called ahead, they’d have strewn the first tee with rose petals . . . . Most days, the boys would play thirty-six holes. Lunch in between rounds. Maybe a steam at the Olympic Club after. If they didn’t play two rounds, they’d still be out all day. They’d go to the country, and wander. Lefty called this hunting. But they never shot much. They’d tramp the brown hills in the sunshine for a couple of hours, and finish at some hick-town bar where Lefty would buy rounds for every man in the joint.

  When Joe would come home, to shower and dress for the evening, there would be Mamma in the kitchen, waiting. She’d been cooking for him all day—pasta with the sardines, roasted peppers with the olive oil—then how about a nice steak? . . . This was the life, the life he’d been raised to. Or the life that he imagined all the money would have brought him—should have brought him. His mamma was old, now. He could see her strength fading. Joe’s sister Marie lived in and helped her keep the place. But to cook for her boy—no, not a boy, but the man of the household—that was Rosalie’s pleasure. After his coffee, she would make sure his suit and tie looked perfect, before he went out for the night.

  In fact, Joe hauled the freight for two households—though in one, he wasn’t a hundred percent welcome. That November, Dorothy went back to court in New York, suing for more money. Little Joe’s private school cost a fortune, and a hundred fifty dollars a month just didn’t make ends meet. She wanted six-fifty. The lawyer Joe got steered to, a guy named Rosenblatt, called the suit “an outrageous action, without moral or legal basis.” But Joe had to hand it to the broad: she had spunk. At least they were talking again. Tell the truth, he’d missed that.

  Did Little Joe like the train he’d sent?

  She said he didn’t want toys. He wanted Big Joe to teach him how to hook-slide.

  Well . . . that was his boy! She was his, too—always would be. That December, he piled up toys to send to Little Joe anyway. He sent along a little something, in fur, for the boy’s mother. And before Christmas came, he gave them both another gift: the lawyer, Rosenblatt, informed the court, the suit had been settled. Terms were confidential of course—but mother and son shouldn’t worry about money in the years to come.

  Nighttimes, in San Francisco, Joe would have a couple of belts with his pal, the bartender Reno Barsocchini—couldn’t do enough when the Clipper came in. Joe told Reno, he might be seeing Dorothy again.

  That’s great, Joe. Beautiful girl . . .

  Pretty good, Joe would say, for an old guy like him.

  You look great, Clipper. ’Nother belt? . . .

  When George Weiss called the house in the Marina, late January, he and DiMaggio came to terms without any fuss. DiMaggio boarded a plane for New York, to appear at the Yankees’ midtown office, and pose for pictures with Topping. Joe had his signing pen in his hand, and a big grin on his mug. He looked great.

  Everything was coming back to him. He didn’t have to push for the money—or anything else. People knew who Joe DiMaggio was . . . . That off season, there was the AP story on the vote for the Comeback of the Year. Joe won in a walk. (The second-place winner was the New York Yankees.) Joe was also the Christian Athlete of the Year. The Sporting News polled all major-leaguers on the player they most admired: more than eighty-five percent named DiMaggio. The Yankees were polled on the player they most admired in the history of the game—Joe won that, too. And those were only the formal tributes. How about Louella’s Hollywood column—on all the excitement about The Joe DiMaggio Story? (“Joe is looking good enough to play himself, but I doubt if he will.”) And there was Earl Wilson’s column, It Happened Last Night. (“When he came in with his pals, Gentleman Georgie Solotaire and Bernie Kamber, the diners . . . quit eating and cheered him . . . . It remained for me to tell Joe that the NY Custom Designers will name him one of the ten Best Dressed Men of the Year.”)

  Everywhere he went it was the same: “Joe, you look great.” (That’s when Toots made his famous prediction: at Dago’s funeral, twenty thousand people are gonna file by the casket—and every one of ’em says, “Joe, you look great!”)

  That was the season Joe’s press agent pal, Bernie Kamber, was going to pick him up in the hotel lobby, when all of a sudden he saw Helen Hayes. She was the biggest name on Broadway—and she wanted to know, what’s Bernie doing there? Then, of course, she wanted to meet DiMaggio. And so did her friends, who came in to meet her—Lillian and Dorothy Gish—these were legends! So Bernie called upstairs and told Joe, “There’s some bobby-soxers down here who wanna say hello to you.” And Joe and the ladies went off
together, for coffee and a nice chat. (No, Bernie never knew what they talked about—he guessed it was about being famous.)

  That was the season Joe and Jerry Coleman flew together to spring training. Joe went back to San Francisco, where Marie and his mamma got his things together. Then the two Yankees left from San Francisco airport. Even with planes, it was still a tough trip. They would fly to L.A., then to Fort Worth, then to New Orleans, and finally to Tampa, where they’d get a cab across the Bay, to St. Pete. But Joe was in a good mood—telling Coleman: no more New York winters for him. San Francisco, every year. The way he felt now, he could play forever. Next year, maybe he’d bring, you know, the family . . . .

  But the part Coleman would remember best—remember forever—was the stop in Fort Worth. “Joe said, ‘S’gettapaper . . . . ’

  “He always talked quick, you know—sharp. He didn’t spend a lot of time communicating. So, okay, Joe. We start going through this airport. Now I don’t know how many people had television sets in those days. Not many . . . .

  “But we’re going through this airport to the newsstand and it was like, I guess, a prince or somebody. The attention. The eyes. Everybody knew who he was. And I’m thinking, ‘That’s the last time I travel with this guy.’ You just couldn’t be alone . . . . But it was like a president was walking through the airport.”

  But that was also the season of another incident with impact on Joe. He wasn’t there. It happened in Phoenix. The other owner of the Yankees, Del Webb, always wanted the Yanks to train in the western desert. He was the biggest developer out there—and he could bring his Vegas friends, and show off. But it was too hard to move the whole spring training. So the Yankees just ran a one-week rookie camp.

  Stengel showed up. He loved young players. And these bush-leaguers were the future of the Yankees. His future. His Yankees. Casey had also spent the winter hearing how great he was: the way he’d made the Yankees champs again, with all those kids—shuffling platoon players in and out of the lineup—what a genius! And he commenced to agree. That’s when he modestly reminded the New York sporting press (“my writers,” as he referred to them): “I couldn’a done it without my players.”

  Anyway, it happened late in this rookie camp, with a kid so young, so green and unknown, that no one had given him a glance at the start. Just a freckle-faced boy: he’d played only half a year—at Class D McAlester, Oklahoma. Maybe this year he’d make Class C, Joplin. In the sprints, he’d timed out the fastest in camp. But he was a shortstop who’d make you wince on every ground ball. (And his throws—Jesus, take cover!) Then, on the fourth day, there’s an intrasquad game. The boy shyly steps in, batting right-handed—and hits a ball farther than anybody’s ever seen a ball hit. Next time up—new pitcher, he turns around, left-handed—and blasts off another A-bomb, even longer. All of a sudden, Stengel’s out of the dugout, running. First time most of those rookies ever saw him. The old man runs on his bandy bow legs right onto the field, with a fungo bat in his hand, waving it and stabbing, like a picador with his sword. And he’s pokin’ the kid, chases him—what’sis name? Mantle?—from home plate past the mound, past second base. “He’s not playin’ any more infield,” Casey announces. “I’m personally gonna teach him to play center field.”

  IT WAS MOSTLY boys in St. Petersburg, too. Joe had to look around to find anybody he knew—a real Yankee, one of his guys. Stengel and Weiss had shuffled Charlie Keller off to the Tigers. They seemed to want a ball team where no one could remember past last year. (Soon, they’d shuck Snuffy Stirnweiss, too—to the Browns, for the bullpen pitcher Tom Ferrick. And Johnny Lindell they’d sell off to the Cardinals, for a pocketful of cash.) Tom Henrich was there—though Stengel now treated him like a coach. (“Mr. Hendricks, you can commence to show my outfielders how to make a throw.”) . . . The only player from before the war who still had a spot was the shortstop, Rizzuto. And then there was Joe.

  Everywhere else, there was someone new—or more than one: Casey had at least two for every spot on the diamond. Jerry Coleman, only in his second year, was suddenly splitting time with a pop-off Casey had managed in Oakland, a snot named Billy Martin. Third base, Billy Johnson was already platooned with the med student Bobby Brown. The kid first baseman, Joe Collins (only got into seven games last year), was supposed to split time with the Big Cat, Johnny Mize (who’d come over from the Giants). In the outfield, it was all fresh legs—or just fresh: Bauer, Mapes, Jensen, Woodling, Workman . . . they should have had name tags. And then there was Joe.

  Stengel had the bit in his teeth—and he was going to prove true all that stuff “his writers” put into the papers, about his uncanny handling of kids, the masterful juggling, the brilliant platoons. The truth was, he was better with kids: they were so anxious to be Yankees, and stay Yankees; they were so grateful if he gave them a chance—if he did put them in, if he’d just let them play . . . they’d overachieve, and make him look like a genius. He liked kids because they’d sit still for his manipulation—and never utter a protest. He liked kids because they didn’t care if he ever learned their names. (He’d walk down the dugout, stop in front of Hank Workman, and send him in to bat: “Jerry! Get up and hit one!”) He liked kids because he liked writers better—and no writer would spend ink commending some twenty-three-year-old for his brilliant understanding of the game. No, there would be one Great Brain in that dugout. Twenty-five moving parts—one master mechanic.

  And then there was Joe.

  Fact was, “the Big Fella” was screwing up Stengel’s act. Visiting writers would come in flocks to the spring camp of the World Champs, and the Ol’ Perfesser (as they had dubbed Stengel) would hold court all day. He’d rewritten his history, to show he’d always been a Great Brain. Those other managin’ jobs he’d had—why, they weren’t even ball teams: “They was like golf courses,” Casey would say. “One pro to a club.” . . . He was rewriting last year’s history—about that tough game with them Boston sluggers, where he seen his big Indian didn’t have it, so he commences to remove him from the mound—which Mr. Rennels is unhappy: he wants to stay in. “So I tell him, ‘I’d love to leave you in, but I got too many married men in the infield.’ ”

  Mostly, Stengel was at pains to explain how genius worked: “When a man is aged and you rest him” (as Casey was quoted by one of his writers, the noted author Roger Kahn), “he will get limber again with his muscles and he runs faster and he becomes quicker with the bat. You do this, rest him good, and then his legs is fresh for five or six days. Platoonin’ is also good for the young players, which they is the last to agree, because they get to come along at a slow pace. Now it is possible to see a young player who thinks he can hit any pitcher, which he did in the minor leagues. And he goes to the plate and gives it a great fight but those balls comin’ in have too much stuff for him to handle, too much curve, because the pitchers are more expert, which is not even talking about the change of speeds. After a while the young player don’t think he can hit any pitcher anymore. When a young player loses confidence in hisself, that is a terrible thing. I have seen them, good ones, blow up in a single season. They never make it back. They have been humiliated in professional baseball and will go somewhere else for their livelihood. You platoon the players depending on the pitcher and so forth but you also platoon them when they are gettin’ distressed. You platoon them for their mental condition . . . .”

  After hours of this, the writers would go off for a couple of minutes with DiMag—who’d tell them, this year, he planned to play every game.

  And what would they write?

  Yank Hopes

  on DiMaggio

  “ . . . The way I feel now,” he said, with an air of self-confidence, “I’m going to play a full 154 games, something I’ve been able to do only once in eleven years. Honestly, I never felt better in my life.”

  . . . The $100,000 salaried star has worked as hard as the most eager rookie in camp.

  Worse still for Stengel, his New York writers would come and tel
l him: DiMaggio wasn’t going to play today. He had a blister. Or Dago’s left shoulder popped—he was gonna sit out . . .

  (Who was runnin’ this club?)

  Roger Kahn quoted the Ol’ Perfesser in another conversation—this one with his number one (maybe only) advisor, his partner for the last twenty-five years:

  “ ‘I got this fella,’ Stengel remarked to his wife, Edna, ‘who sucks up all the glory and plays only when he feels like playing. I never had one like that before. What am I gonna do?’

  “Edna Lawson Stengel was a practical person. ‘Let him play whenever he wants to play, dear.’ ”

  But in this case Stengel would not take her advice.

  JOE STARTED IN at a lather—and the Yankees with him. Opening day, April 18, Fenway Park, was just like last year—all in one game. The Bombers spotted the rival Red Sox a 9–zip lead (with Parnell on the mound) . . . and then, the show began: DiMag blew away a runner at third base with a throw that could have come from a cannon; when he raced to the bullpen wall for an amazing over-the-shoulder catch, even writers in the press box were shouting. At the plate he smashed a triple over brother Dommie’s head, and then threw in a single and a double, as the Yankees scored nine runs in the eighth—and a win, 15–10.

  But after that, he cooled off just as fast. Twice in those early weeks, he suffered droughts of oh-fer-thirteen. He’d get it going for a game or two—he’d smash two or three over the wall, he’d be driving in runs by the handful . . . then, he’d founder through the next ten games with nothing more than a single. By the time the season was six weeks old, the Yanks were struggling for first place with the Tigers. And DiMaggio was just struggling—at an average of .243.

  For the writers, this was a mystery that required explanation. Most of them—the young ones—worked the story in the trainer’s room. Joe said he felt fine. But those Depression dinosaurs always said they were fine. What about that pulled back muscle? (Was the Clipper still wearing that girdle?) . . . What about his left arm that would pop out of his shoulder socket whenever he took a big cut? (Hadda hurt like hell, right?) . . . But the medical detectives found no satisfaction.