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

by Cramer, Richard Ben

  By that time, all the Clipper’s pals knew, Joe Jr. was like Marilyn—a name you couldn’t bring up. Junior was a loss, and DiMaggio did not talk about loss. By that time, he had cut away everything that did not fit the picture—our picture of the Great DiMag. If that didn’t leave much that we would call a normal life—well, he wouldn’t say that. And we didn’t really want to know.

  By the late 1980s people always seemed shocked if they saw Joe in real life—toting his garment bag off a plane at LAX . . . licking an ice cream cone on Central Park South in New York . . . or walking down a South Florida street with an armful of dirty laundry (the machines in his apartment house took half a buck, but at the wash-a-teria it was only thirty-five cents). And when folks talked about those sightings (as they always did), the amazing part was, he was just . . . alone.

  You could call that his bargain with the hero’s life. Day to day, that was surely his doing. Or you could conclude it was just part of the package, from the start—Joe was sufficient to Joe. And no matter what else was going on—for one night, one vote of sportswriters, or through decades, twenty thousand days and nights—or in an earthquake . . . it was his destiny to stand alone.

  IT TURNED OUT Wally Baldwin was as good as his word: he got to the house even before PG&E could turn the power back on—and took the whole thing in hand. He got a laundry list of everything Joe wanted: the walls fixed, and that place on the roof . . . check the plumbing, plaster, paint, clean the carpets, clean up the garage—and that glass! . . . the front gate straightened, the locks, the service door, the stucco outside, bolts to the foundation . . . it came to a lot of work, a score of picky jobs.

  But Wally was doing three million dollars that year—ran a good union shop, knew everybody in the business—subcontractors weren’t going to tell him no. And Wally called in his friends—the roofer, the concrete man, the painter, drywall guys. He got the best old-line German plasterers, Meiswinkle—used to do every good job in the city, when real plaster was the way to go—like when Joe’s house was built. That was Meiswinkle work. They came for Wally—for no cost, or pretty near. “Hey, Wally, just get me an autographed ball outa the deal . . .” Wally would say: “No problem.” And he’d schedule them in.

  A lot of small things, he just did himself—like the tradesman’s door, the side entrance on the front of the house. He took the door off, threw it in his own truck and took it down to San Francisco Door . . . that was an old guy named Vic, and his son, Mike—Santini, or something, was the last name. It turned out they were cousins of Joe—or somebody married someone’s cousin—anyway, one of those old Dago fishing families. They made the door brand-new—of course for free. It was Joe’s door. “Just get me a ball.”

  Wally was at the house a million times—to meet the sheetrocker, glass guy, painter . . . to let ’em in, so Joe wouldn’t have to be there. Wally would call Marie and clear the times with her, to make sure he wouldn’t be disturbing Joe. Bolts in the concrete every four feet—he brought his own crew with hammer-drills for that—steel bolts with epoxy, eight or nine inches down. The front gate—he got an iron man, at cost. Then the door release with the buzzer upstairs—electrical was a whole ’nother thing. The work went on for a couple of months. The crews all talked about the same thing: how simple the place was, unfancy, low-profile . . . there had to be people in the neighborhood who didn’t even know DiMaggio was there. And no Jacuzzis with gold-plated fixtures. Nothing like that inside. Wally made sure no one poked around too much. He knew DiMaggio had his private stuff upstairs, on the third floor. Wally never even went up there. And if Joe did happen to show up, it was always, “Hello, Joe,” and that was it. Wally didn’t try to make himself a big deal with the man. If he needed to talk to Joe, he’d ask Marie. Or Ben Langella would call from the bank, with new instructions. One time Wally went to the bank—Ben took him and Joe out to lunch at that deli next door. And they talked about the job. Wally told Joe how everyone was doing the work at cost, or free—all for an autograph. Joe liked that. He smiled.

  See, Joe had insurance—no problem. They’d worked all that out at the beginning. But Wally didn’t have to deal with the insurance. He just gave Joe an estimate at the start. It came to about sixty thousand dollars’ worth of work. Joe sent that right in to the insurance company. (They sent a check for sixty grand.) And in the end, Wally just billed Joe at cost—basically materials—and whatever the subs sent in for their costs. It wasn’t that bad, as Wally remembers—about twelve thousand. Joe liked the work. And Wally was proud: tens of thousands he saved for Joe. Wally felt good about the job, all around—even with the hassle at the end, about the balls.

  That was later, when the work was done. Wally bought a box of new baseballs—perfect, American Leaguers. (Ben said Joe wouldn’t sign any other kind.) Wally bought enough for the men who worked on the house with him, and sent them to Joe at Langella’s bank. But Joe wouldn’t sign them—and that put Wally into a bind with his subs.

  So, Ben said he’d talk to Joe. And when Ben called back, he said, okay, Joe would sign—but he wanted the names, a name for each ball. Wally listed all the names he remembered. But he was worried. What if he forgot someone? (And sure enough, he did forget—Mike, Vic’s son, at San Francisco Door!) So in the end, just to be safe, Wally asked for a few more balls, without “Best wishes to . . .” and just the autograph.

  And Joe complied, finally. But it just confirmed for him what he’d suspected all along: that sonofabitch was gonna sell those balls . . . and make a buck off Joe.

  As for the money Joe made—say, forty-five G’s of insurance money that wound up in Joe’s pocket—well, no one had to know about Joe in the earthquake. That was Joe’s business, strictly for Joe.

  JOE AND BARRY HALPER AT SUPPER IN COOPERSTOWN.

  THE MERCHANDISE.

  JOE’S BATS SOLD ON TV FOR $3,995.

  JOE REGARDS HIS OWN MEMORABILIA FOR PHOTOGRAPHER DAVID SPINDEL.

  CHAPTER 18

  IT WAS ONLY A FEW MONTHS AFTER THE EARTHQUAKE, turn of the year, 1990, when Joe pulled a sweet little holdout—on a baseball card company called Score. That was a deal like many others in his life: an admirer put him in. Barry Halper, one of the guys who’d do anything for Joe, was a founding partner of Score. So, DiMaggio signed their baseball cards—two thousand five hundred signatures—took him a day, maybe day and a half, and fetched a nice check: a hundred grand.

  Halper was famous, in his own quiet way. He was a Jersey guy who’d done well, had a paper goods business worth a lot of money. But his life was baseball. He had a tiny minority stake in the Yankees—but that brought no fame. (There’s nothing more silent than Steinbrenner’s silent partners.) No, Halper was famous as the King of Collectors.

  Plenty of guys had baseball cards. But Halper had thirty thousand cards, going back to the famous Honus Wagner card of 1909—that was a half-million-dollar item, right there—there were only four of those cards. Baseballs, everybody collected baseballs; but Halper had thousands of signed balls, home run balls and game balls—going back to a grungy brown spheroid said to be from the first organized ballgame (Hoboken, 1846). Bats: Halper had Ruth’s last bat, which the Bambino signed as memento for Al Capone and the boys in Chicago. Uniforms: only big-time collectors had a signed uniform. But Halper had a secret wall in his house that swung open like a prop from a James Bond movie, and behind it whirred one of those automated dry-cleaner carousels bearing hundreds of historic uniforms.

  The whole house was a stash of baseball treasure: equipment, photographs, programs, advertisements, magazines, diaries, player contracts—there was no end. When the house was packed, Halper filled warehouses. Everybody in baseball knew, the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown was very nice and all . . . but the Hall couldn’t pay for stuff. And Barry could. What’s more he would pay, quietly and with gratitude. No haggling. He’d tell you what an item was worth, and that, like his check, you could take to the bank. In a charlatan’s business, Halper had honor; his stuff was real, and so
was he. That’s why he was King. But the jewel in his crown wasn’t listed in any price guide. The jewel was Joe.

  They’d met in the 1970s, at a Yankee Old Timers’ Day—had to be the greatest day in Halper’s life: the Yankee Clipper, talking with him! It was like everything Barry had done—all the history, all the things in his house, all of Barry’s own passion came true—came to life . . . and asked him for a ride. What a ride Barry offered. Halper took care of DiMaggio everywhere—anytime, anywhere—squired him all over the country when Joe had to make an appearance (say, at the All-Star Game, or some other tribal rite). Spring training: Joe was living in Florida, a half-hour drive from the Yankee camp. But Barry would fly to Florida and rent a car, so he could take Joe to camp. If Joe had to show up at Yankee Stadium, he’d never have to mix and mingle—he’d sit with Halper, or Halper and Steinbrenner, in the owners’ box. Meanwhile, back at the house in New Jersey, Barry’s wife, Sharon, would be working up Joe’s favorite dinner in her kitchen. Sharon went into cooking like Barry went into baseball: there was no end. One time she went to chef’s school in Italy, so she could cook better for Joe. Barry took Sharon to the cooking school—and of course, he took DiMag along, so Joe would have a European vacation. That’s how it was with Barry. He went into caring for DiMaggio—well, like Sharon went into cooking.

  And in his way, DiMag took care of Halper. If a restaurant owner asked Barry (they’d beg him) to bring the Clipper by—well, Joe would go along, sign a menu, have a meal, maybe even have a good time. . . . In the house, Barry showed Joe everything he had—like Joe’s ’51 World Series ring. Joe had traded that away to an L.A. hotelier, in exchange for lodging. Barry had bought it from that guy’s son. Now, Barry offered to give the ring back to Joe. But Joe didn’t want it. He signed a paper for Barry, affirming that was his ring. Joe signed thousands of items for Halper—stuff no one else would even show him, like the naked pinup of Marilyn—Joe signed, and Barry put it away. Joe knew Halper wouldn’t show it around—that would embarrass the Clipper—or sell it off to make a buck. What they had between them was trust.

  So, when Barry invested in that card company, it was a natural: he had to have DiMag. A hundred thousand dollars was real money to Score, but Barry and his partners thought Joe was good business. Joe’s signed cards were slipped into random packs, so buyers would think, if they bought Score cards, they might get something special. And the managing partner, a marketer named Dan Shedrick, worked in another clever twist: whenever a DiMaggio card slipped in, so did another card, with an 800 number to call—so the buyer could “register” his DiMaggio autograph. What really happened was, Score registered the buyer’s name, then publicized his lucky buy in the local papers. That way word got around, this was real.

  In a small way, they’d got to the heart of the memorabilia business: the buyer’s stubborn, clinging hope that if he spends enough, trades up, invests enough love, learning, attention, he is going to end up with something real from a hero. That’s the root impulse, the deep, unthought source of joy—whether it’s a kid pumping the air with his fist outside a dirty little card store at the strip mall, because he’s just unwrapped his third Edgar Martinez card that he knows he can trade (three-for-one!) to his friend for the Griffey Jr. rookie card . . . or whether it’s Barry Halper, buying Mickey Mantle’s first-year minor league paycheck (at a hundred times the face amount) . . . . If a packet of five picture cards representing five modern major league heroes was real enough to find a buyer, how much realer (and how many more buyers might seek) a packet with a Hall of Famer inside—and not just a picture card, but a card he himself had regarded, held in his hands, and authenticated with his pen. It came straight from him. And, of course, it didn’t hurt that Joe’s signed card could be resold (anywhere, that same day) for at least a hundred and fifty bucks—the sort of sum that, increasingly, measured America’s joy in her heroes.

  So it worked pretty well, that DiMaggio contract—well enough, alas, that the competition woke up, and started horning in. The Upper Deck company, makers of another card set, wooed and won Mickey Mantle: they were slipping his signed cards into their packs. And then, Upper Deck came after the Clipper!

  Well, the boys at Score had to keep DiMaggio. They held a financial meeting and decided to make a preemptive strike. They would resign DiMaggio with a sweetheart deal: same number of cards—for a hundred fifty thousand. That was sixty a signature! It would set the industry on its ear.

  Of course, they had Halper to make the approach—but, still, this had to be done right. There was the big New York baseball writers’ dinner coming up, January 1990, and that was perfect. Joe would be there. Barry would be taking him, of course. If it all worked out, they could do the deal and leak it—get some ink—all in the same night.

  So, the Score company went first-class. They didn’t just buy a table at the dinner. Everybody did that. No, they rented a suite atop the Manhattan hotel that was hosting the dinner—a huge apartment—for a swanky pre-dinner cocktail reception. With a whispered word that DiMaggio would be there, they were sure to draw a solid crowd. And then Barry could take Joe aside, to another room—you know, get him out of the crush . . . then, they could talk about the deal.

  Well, it all went like clockwork: place was sumptuous, no lines at the bars; splendid turnout, lotta hearty male noise . . . and Barry took Joe out of the crowd, into a bedroom. That’s when it happened. They came out, ten, twelve minutes later, and Barry looked like his mama just took sick. Shedrick sidled over through the crowd: “What happened?”

  “He won’t do it.”

  “Whadd’he say? . . .”

  “I don’t know. He just said . . .” Barry was shaking his head, and he shrugged. “He won’t do it.”

  “You want me to try?”

  “Try what? He won’t do it.”

  “I’m gonna try. Okay if I try?”

  “Go ahead. There he is.” And Barry retreated, still shaking his head.

  Five minutes later, Shedrick and Joe emerged from the bedroom—big smile on Shedrick’s kisser—had his thumb up in front of his belly, flashing the high sign at Halper, as he approached.

  “Got it!” Shedrick whispered.

  “He’ll do it?”

  “Done.”

  Barry didn’t know whether he was happy or sad. He was happy for the card business—that would be him and Joe. But how could Shedrick make the deal, and he couldn’t? What about—well, him and Joe?

  Shedrick was already moving away, eager to spread the news. Halper stopped him for a moment. “Same deal?”

  “Yeah,” Shedrick said, with a little less excitement. “Only one thing: it’s a quarter-million.”

  ONE STRANGE THING about DiMaggio in business: it drove him nuts if anybody else made money.

  Naturally, Joe’s price for an autograph had to be higher than anyone else’s. Personal appearances, endorsements, licenses to use his image or name, all had to be the highest—regardless of circumstance. For example, in the mid-1990s, Ted Williams decided to price himself out of autograph shows. For one thing, Ted had suffered a stroke, and signing was difficult.

  For another, he hated the shows—always had—like a damn meat market, and he was stuffing sausage, to sell it before it stank. So Ted opted out, with one simple rule—he set his price at $350 per signature . . . and no one called him for shows.

  Then, Joe had a problem. He was raking in plenty from autograph shows, selling thousands of signatures at $125, even one-fifty per. But he couldn’t let Ted’s price be higher. So DiMaggio made a rule, too: for a hundred and a half, he’d sign your baseball, or your picture of him (or him and Dom, or even him with Mickey Mantle) . . . . But if you had a picture of DiMaggio with Ted Williams—Joe’s signature would cost $375.

  But that was just pride—that went without saying—and went back a long way. When he and Ted were still on the ballfield, DiMaggio wanted to be paid more, too. But with Joe, it wasn’t just competition—it went much deeper than that.

 
; There was in the mix his legendary disinclination to pay. In the business of being DiMaggio, Joe preferred to obtain all requisite goods and services for free. (That dovetailed neatly with his long-standing predilection for free food, clothing, and shelter.) Even in this new high-dollar era of DiMaggio business, Joe had found himself a small-time Florida lawyer who would do his contracts, taxes, and estate work without charging Joe a fee. Joe called the lawyer “my accountant”—or sometimes, “my friend”—that ought to be payment enough. And for his part, Morris Engelberg, Esq., announced at every opportunity that he “never made a dime” from the Jolter, his hero. But he was thrilled to ride around Hollywood, Florida, in a pinstriped van with the vanity plate, DIMAG 5—and to rename his strip mall office “The Yankee Clipper Center.” Engelberg called himself not only “Joe’s friend,” but his “confidant.” And then, too: “the son Joe never had.”

  Of course, for DiMaggio, that kind of fee structure went back a long way, too—to ’36, his rookie year, when the affable Lou Gehrig offered to place Joe with his “business manager,” Christy Walsh.

  “How much?” Joe said.

  Walsh took thirty percent.

  Joe declined.

  Even so, his was not a simple cheapness: it wasn’t just paying that drove Joe nuts. It was even when he didn’t pay, when he was getting money, even when he was getting millions. That’s when he took it one step beyond.

  What would happen to the rest of the money? Joe wanted to know the whole deal, from the cost of the item he was going to sign, down to the final price the retail buyer was going to pay. And every step in between . . .

  Who else would make money in the deal?

  How much?

  Why should those guys make a buck off my life?

  See, it was the guys he was in business with: if they were making money, it ate at Joe’s stomach. That was his money—or should have been.