The DiMaggios

by Tom Clavin

  The surgery had come too late to prevent the cancer from spreading, and doctors were trying to fend off various infections as well. Joe’s blood pressure sank so low on November 16 that a priest was called in to perform last rites, but Joe rallied. The day before his 84th birthday on November 25, Engelberg notified news outlets that Joe had lung cancer. “I want to get the hell out of here and go home,” Joe begged doctors on December 3, but the next day he was wracked by a fever, intensifying congestion, and an intestinal infection. A week later he slipped into a coma.

  But again, Joe didn’t die. After 18 hours, he regained consciousness. According to the New York Daily News, Angelo Sapio, a friend who had also been Joe’s barber for years, visited Joe in intensive care. He told Joe about recently meeting a man who said he was at the game in Cleveland in 1941 when “the fifty-eight-game hitting streak” came to an end. Joe tugged Sapio closer to him and rasped, “It’s fifty-six.”

  People magazine reported, “Joe Jr. has yet to visit his father since he’s been in a Florida hospital,” in a short article titled, “Where Have You Gone, Joe DiMaggio Jr.?” When Joe Jr. was asked about staying away from his father, he responded, “If he wants me to visit, he can ask me.” Joe didn’t.

  In January, the doctors conceded that his condition was terminal and allowed him to go home. A bed was set up for him on the first floor of his house where he could watch TV, and there was round-the-clock nursing care. Engelberg drew up a document making him the decision-maker on Joe’s care, and Joe signed it.

  In late January, NBC News reported that Joe DiMaggio had died. ESPN was about to go live with the news, but was wise enough to wait to get ahold of Dominic, who denied it. Something like a DiMaggio death watch was in place. Joe wouldn’t accept that this was it. He had an invitation from the Yankees to throw out the first pitch on opening day, and a sign on his bed read, APRIL 9 YANKEE STADIUM OR BUST.

  Engelberg also became the gatekeeper, deciding who could visit, which was almost no one. Steinbrenner was allowed. So were Joe’s adoptive granddaughters, Paula and Kathie, and their husbands. (Joe liked their spouses a lot more than he had liked Joe Jr.’s.) In February, Dominic showed up at Joe’s home. Engelberg didn’t want him there, but Joe had asked for him, so Dominic, who had just turned 82, drove up from his Florida home. He would appear more often as Joe became more frail.

  The two brothers reminisced—the house on Taylor Street, the Horse Lot, other kids in the neighborhood, Giuseppe and Rosalie, Marie and their other sisters and Tom and Mike who died too young, Vince with his wonderful voice and how his rebellion opened the door to baseball for the youngest DiMaggios, selling the Call-Bulletin on street corners, the Seals and Lefty O’Doul, and those glorious years of roaming center field in New York and Boston and not giving a damn thing to each other—every hit, run, game, and championship had to be earned. With every visit, Dominic watched his last link to the DiMaggios of Martinez drift away.

  “Whatever their problems were, and yes, they weren’t buddies those last years of Joe’s life, but when the chips were down, would they go to bat for each other? Absolutely,” Paul DiMaggio says. “Once my father got in to see his brother, he was there to help. He had doctors flown in from Boston to see if anything could be done. Unfortunately there wasn’t, other than be there for his brother, even with that lawyer interfering.”

  On March 1, hospice care was provided. Five days later, Engelberg made the decision to let Joe die by turning off the breathing machine. Dominic was there and exclaimed, “You’re killing him!” The machine was turned back on, and Joe breathed again. Dominic was not there the next night. Kathie was, along with Paula’s husband, Engelberg, and the nursing attendants.

  Joe DiMaggio missed opening day at Yankee Stadium by a month. He died shortly after midnight on March 8, 1999. There were published accounts, including one in Cramer’s comprehensive biography, that immediately after Joe died Engelberg pulled the 1936 World Series ring off his finger. In Engelberg’s version of events, Joe had given him the ring for safekeeping when he entered the hospital, and the lawyer was trying to return it.

  Immediately after news outlets reported Joe’s passing, the tributes came. “He was the very symbol of American grace, power, and skill,” said President Bill Clinton. In an extensive obituary, the veteran New York Times sportswriter Joseph Durso described Joe as “a figure of unequaled romance and integrity in the national mind because of his consistent professionalism on the baseball field, his marriage to the Hollywood star Marilyn Monroe, his devotion to her after her death, and the pride and courtliness with which he carried himself throughout his life.” He quoted the writer Wilfrid Sheed: “In dreams I can still see him gliding after fly balls as if he were skimming the surface of the moon.”

  Dominic took over the arrangements for his brother’s funeral. He had Joe’s body flown to San Francisco, where, as with the rest of the family, his funeral mass would be conducted at Saints Peter and Paul Church, where Joe had been baptized, received his first communion, and been married.

  There were no more than 60 people at the funeral on March 11. Dominic knew his brother wouldn’t want it to be a spectacle. He invited nieces and nephews and a few other family members. Bud Selig, the commissioner of Major League Baseball, was there, as was Gene Bundig, who had succeeded Joe’s former teammate Dr. Bobby Brown as the American League president, but there were no former players. Engelberg was there, wearing the 1936 ring. Joe Jr. was there, sporting a gray ponytail and a new suit. A cousin had staked him to a new set of teeth. Joining Joe Jr. and Engelberg as pallbearers were Joseph DiMaggio, Mike’s son; Joe Nacchio, who had known Joe for decades; and his granddaughters’ husbands, Roger Stein and James Hamra. Officiating was Rev. Armand Oliveri, who had grown up with the youngest DiMaggio brothers in the North Beach section.

  Dominic gave the eulogy. He told the mourners that his twice-divorced brother had everything in his great baseball career except the right woman to share his life. Clearly, his divorce from Marilyn and her subsequent death planted in Joe a loneliness and need for isolation that couldn’t allow him to be happy in a lasting relationship and affected his relationship with others. Dominic concluded his candid, heartfelt eulogy by praising Joe’s efforts to help children with the wing at the Florida hospital.

  Joe was buried in the Holy Cross Cemetery, joining his family. Dominic and Paula and Kathie requested that donations in his name go to the Joe DiMaggio Children’s Hospital.

  In his will, Joe left his son a trust fund that would pay him $20,000 a year. Much of the rest of the estate went to his two granddaughters. On August 7, only five months later, Joe Jr. died of a sudden heart attack. He was 57. His body was cremated and his ashes scattered in the Pacific Ocean.

  After Joe’s funeral, his niece Joanne Webber reflected on how her uncle Dominic had seen to every detail and made sure it was the kind of funeral he thought his brother would have wanted. That was what Dominic did—take care of the family. She remembered that when she had been stuck in a bad marriage for a long time and finally called Dominic to cry on his shoulder, he not only cheered her up but sent money so she could hire a top divorce attorney. Dominic had also come across the country to take care of the funeral when Madeline passed away.

  “He was always there, always taking care of people,” Joanne says. “With a problem, he listened and figured out what to do and made it happen. After Joe’s funeral, I went up to Dominic and told him, ‘You’re like the Godfather.’ He smiled and nudged Emily and said, ‘You hear that? I’m the Godfather.’ He thought it was funny, but it was true. He was the head of the family.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Though he had been businesslike in taking charge of the funeral arrangements, Joe’s death deeply hurt Dominic. “When he came home from the West Coast, he said, ‘I’ve buried all my siblings,’ ” Paul DiMaggio recalls. “And he had. He was there for every one of them, and he took care of Joe last. ‘The only
one left is me,’ he said. It affected him a lot.”

  But Dominic’s final years were not to be ones of unhappiness and grief. Quite the opposite—he savored the decade he had left to live not so much because he was a self-made man, the son of immigrants who had achieved what is thought of as the American Dream, but because in relishing his accomplishments he could try to share them with family and friends.

  All three of Dominic’s children graduated from college. “He mentioned to me on more than one occasion that when he served on corporate and charitable boards of directors, he always felt a little self-conscious that he was not educated like his fellow board members were,” says Paul DiMaggio. “It seemed to bother him that he did not have that formal degree, not realizing that he had educated himself well beyond the basic requirements for a baccalaureate. My father was determined that his kids and his kids’ kids would never feel inadequate in the area of education. He set up trusts for each of his grandchildren to have the funds to go to college. An education is revered in this family, thanks to Dad. But he also imparted to each of us that a person who lacked an education should never be looked down upon. We all learned his lesson in humanity and humility.”

  Paul and Peter went to work for the Delaware Valley Corporation, and eventually Dominic was able to turn over the running of the business to his sons. His daughter, Emily, went into the media field, working for various publications, living for a time in Manhattan. When old rival Bobby Brown was president of the American League, his office was in a building next to the one where Emily lived. “We would see each other often when he visited his daughter,” Brown remembers. “I enjoyed seeing Dominic because he was a great guy, and the pride he had in his daughter made it obvious how much family meant to him.”

  With work responsibilities much diminished, and being able to afford to do what they wanted, Dominic and Emily divided their time between two homes, the house in Marion on the water near Cape Cod and the winter home in Ocean Ridge, near Palm Beach. He played golf every Wednesday with friends, and on many weekends with his wife. He stopped in at the office once a week to check up on things, and he had a home office where he managed his real estate holdings.

  “There wasn’t a week that went by when Dom and I didn’t have lunch together,” says Dean Boylan Sr. He and Dominic met through their wives, who saw each other in the 1950s when their children attended the same school. Dominic and Boylan, whose son took over for him as owner of Boston Sand and Gravel, became very close friends. “We used to talk business, and Dom became a director in our company. He was a huge, huge help in guiding us through difficult times, making decisions. When I saw Dom during the week, not the director’s meeting, but during the week, he and I would talk about it. His advice was very valuable as well as generous.”

  In both personal and professional relationships, people were drawn to Dominic. He could be a confidant, a pillar of support, or simply a sounding board. “He had a calmness under duress, and he was strong and intelligent, he could think things out, and he was loving,” Emily explains about her husband. “I think he developed the reputation as a wise counsel because he had these gifts, and he had a kindness and feeling for others when they were hurting.”

  “He was a very sincere person,” Boylan says. “As you got to know him, you thought he was terrific. When you had something to talk about or were going through an experience, Dominic made you feel like you were the only person who counted. And when he told you something, that was his word and it was a 101 percent reliable. He would never waver from it.”

  Baseball friends remained very important to Dominic—especially Ted Williams. Ted had about the same luck as Joe in marriage. He was divorced twice and had rocky relationships with his three children—a son, John Henry, from his second marriage, and daughters Bobby-Jo and Claudia, one from each marriage. After he resigned as skipper of the Washington Senators—which had become the Texas Rangers—he stayed in Florida. There would be the occasional trips north for Red Sox events and for Dominic and Emily’s charity efforts, and to the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, where he had been inducted on the first ballot in 1965, with 93 percent of the vote. (Why not unanimous? Maybe there was still a bit of lingering press bias.)

  He especially loved the Florida Keys, where he indulged his passion for fishing. As he aged, he became more content with life. He would always have rough edges, but much of the anger was gone and there was more warmth. “Ted actually became a happy individual, his happiest years were in his sixties and seventies,” Dick Flavin says. “He mellowed out and was more appreciative of what had happened to him in life and the affection people had for him, while Dominic’s brother became more eccentric. If someone had asked me many years ago who would be the crazy, unhappy old man, Ted or Joe, I would have said Ted because he’s crazy and unhappy now. But it turned out the other way around.” He even fell in love again, with Louise, a woman he had known as a friend before and during his second marriage.

  In anticipation of the fiftieth anniversary of the 1941 season, Dominic collaborated with the sportswriter Bill Gilbert to write Real Grass, Real Heroes. Ted Williams wrote an especially warm and gracious introduction. And when the publisher and Dominic threw a book launch party at Tavern on the Green in Manhattan, Joe wasn’t there, but Ted flew up from Florida to attend.

  Ted campaigned for Dominic to join him and Bobby Doerr in the Hall of Fame. Dominic had not been elected in the 15 years following his 1953 retirement. He was not one to speak up himself about it, but Ted was less reserved. “Ted was really passionate about Dom being included in the Hall of Fame,” remembers Yogi Berra, who also served on the Veterans Committee. “He was pretty persuasive. But others didn’t see it that way.”

  Dominic’s Cooperstown credentials were viewed as borderline. Yet during the seasons he played, he was surely a Hall of Fame–caliber player. As a center fielder, he holds the American League record for most chances accepted per game (2.99), and he is one of only five outfielders in baseball history to record 500 or more putouts in a single season. On the offensive end, during his ten full seasons Dominic totaled more base hits than any other major leaguer. He was behind only Ted in runs scored. He averaged almost 105 runs scored per year; the only two other players to do so in the 20th century were his brother Joe and Lou Gehrig. He was a seven-time All-Star in ten seasons. And certainly Dominic’s character and integrity, and the time he volunteered to serve as the American League representative, merited strong consideration.

  The Veterans Committee didn’t agree. There is no doubt Dominic suffered from being overshadowed by Joe. When the center fielder Richie Ashburn was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 1995, Ted told whoever would listen that Dominic was not only a better ballplayer statistically, but “if the game was on the line and you needed a clean hit or a hard-hit ball, he was as good as anybody.”

  Dominic didn’t lose sleep over it. In a 2007 appearance on the show Red Sox Stories, when he was asked about the possibility of still being voted in, he replied, “It’s too late. I’d rather see the spot go to a younger man who would enjoy it more. I had my chance.”

  While Ted campaigned for Dominic’s entry into the Hall of Fame, Joe did not. Dominic was fine with that. “I know that when people used to ask him who was the best defensive center fielder he ever saw, he would say, ‘My brother Dom,’ ” Dominic told Sports Illustrated in 2001. “But he would never say, ‘Dom belongs in the Hall of Fame,’ because if he had said that and I had gotten in, he knew people would have said, ‘Dom’s only in because Joe pushed for him.’ We’re not that kind of people.” He also told the writer, “I’ve had a tremendously fulfilling life.”

  He had no problem being elected to the Boston Red Sox Hall of Fame in 1995. Among the others in that institution’s freshman class were Joe Cronin, Doerr, Ted, Johnny Pesky, Babe Ruth, Carl Yastrzemski, and Tom and Jean Yawkey. Teammates Jimmie Foxx and Mel Parnell made it in two years later, Boo Ferriss in 2002, Billy Goodman in 20
04, and Ellis Kinder and Vern Stephens in 2006. Jimmy Piersall got the nod in 2010.

  Ted was distraught when Louise suddenly died in 1993. But he had long-lasting friendships. Until age made travel more troublesome, he saw Pesky, Doerr, and Dominic as often as he could. When they were at their Florida home, Dominic and Emily visited with Ted. Otherwise, there were notes, cards, phone calls. As with his family members, Dominic was consistently in touch with friends by phone, including many former teammates, whether they had been stars like Doerr and Pesky or not.

  “He was the best friend I ever had in baseball,” states Babe Martin. “Both of us old guys, we must have called each other every week, one called or the other one did. Once a week, we would call one another. If Emily answered, I sure enjoyed talking to her too, she’s a sweet lady. Dominic was a marvelous guy, the kind who could make you feel like a brother.”

  Red Sox players of the 1940s and ’50s especially enjoyed the 1999 All-Star Game at Fenway Park, where the special guests were players nominated by Major League Baseball to an All-Century team. As each of the 33 living nominees came out on the field, actor Kevin (Field of Dreams) Costner introduced them: Henry Aaron, Willie Mays, Bob Feller, Sandy Koufax, Yogi Berra. Dominic and Emily were there to see Ted, four months after Joe’s death, finally be recognized as “the greatest living ballplayer.” He threw the ceremonial first pitch, a strike to Carlton Fisk, and the crowd cheered at an ear-splitting level, giving Ted the adulation and love that had often been withheld during his career.

  Ted had a keen interest in Joe’s health in the late 1990s. “[Dominic] had become closer and closer to Williams through the years, closer at the end than he was to his brother Joe,” wrote Leigh Montville in his biography of Ted. Joe was “the one man who knew the complications of Williams’s life better than any other man on the planet. Never close, friendly enough, but never friends, the two superstars had been forced to deal with the same adulation, the same attention, the same artificial sainthood. They were the two lead characters in the same myth. Could anyone else understand what that had been like? Joe and Ted, they understood best the demands of each other’s lives.”