Friday Joe would be out early to ring the bell at the Chicago Board of Trade, an honor often accorded to visiting kings and presidents, rescued POW’s, moon-walking astronauts, and that sort of national pride-and-joy. Friday evening he’d be hosted to a party for Chicago’s top paesani. George Randazzo had mentioned to Mel Bechina, a big-time trucking nabob, that DiMaggio was coming, maybe he’d like dinner. “You got,” Bechina replied, “whatever you want.” That meant Carmichael’s Steak House (which Bechina operated as a sort of hobby) would serve prime beef, pasta, Chianti, and all the trimmings for two hundred movers and shakers, including the mayor and governor—black tie, of course.
Saturday would mark the rededication of the Italian American Sports Hall of Fame in a new made-to-measure two-million-dollar facility—and at a new downtown location. The state of Illinois and city of Chicago had completely remade the corner of Bishop and Taylor streets, the heart of Little Italy—where, amid classical Roman columns, plashing fountains, pedestrian benches, tilework, greenery, ornamental lighting, an elaborate plinth would now support an eight-foot-tall bronze sculpture of Joe, with his bat in graceful and eternal follow-through . . . to mark the Hall of Fame’s new address—Piazza DiMaggio. Saturday night would feature another dinner, this one strictly for big givers to the Hall . . . after which DiMaggio could doze again—until he had to rise at four A.M., to make the first plane out to New York, and Joe DiMaggio Day.
It was all more or less normal, because the city, the state, the Hilton, the Hall of Fame, its officers and givers . . . were all showing off for Joe. The black tie banquet, the Mussolini Suite, and the long limo parked outside (twenty-four hours a day) had nothing to do with Joe’s needs—they were about what the other guys needed to show. On Saturday, Mayor Daley would change his schedule to be with Joe, for the same reason that Sunday would be DiMaggio Day not just at Yankee Stadium but (by mayoral proclamation) in New York City as a whole. It was the same reason the commodity jockeys at the Board of Trade watched Joe whack their bell with his special bat, and they started to cheer. And unlike every other day (with anyone else ringing), the traders didn’t lower their gaze to their screens and start yelling orders, but stood looking up at the bell and that man, yelling, “JOE D., JOE D., JOE D.” . . . and the pork bellies, wheat futures, and carloads of copper went untraded—had to be ten minutes or more—for that same reason: he was the hero; and they wanted him to know who they were.
That was the way it had gone for sixty-five years . . . and to that weekend, which would be the last. Because from the moment he got to Chicago, it was evident that something was not normal with Joe. He was two months shy of his eighty-fourth birthday, and suddenly, he looked it. He was pasty and small, shrunken around a pain in himself—and couldn’t manage the quiet equanimity and politesse with strangers that were the hallmarks of his public persona. When the president of the Board of Trade revealed Joe’s Friday schedule—a tour, a luncheon, meetings—DiMaggio fixed him with the evil eye, and snapped: “Don’t you know the difference between forty-eight and eighty-four?” When a big giver’s wife came to flirt at Joe’s table, and sat, with coy self-invitation: “You don’t mind, Joe—do you?” Joe said he did.
“You wouldn’t mind if it was Marilyn Monroe.”
“You’re not Marilyn.”
JOE DIMAGGIO DAY was a one-thirty start with the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. The ’98 Yanks had long since clinched—they were on cruise control, and waiting for the playoffs. The action for New Yorkers was on TV—where fans could watch the crosstown Mets scrambling for (and losing) a wildcard spot . . . or they could look in on St. Louis, where Mark McGwire would mash his sixty-ninth and seventieth homers of the year . . . . Still, fifty thousand faithful filled the grandstand and most of the bleachers in the Bronx.
But at one-fifteen, most of those fans were still walking in, or finding their seats, or getting food, when the big black scoreboard in center field came to light and life with three words: “Joltin’ Joe Dimaggio.” And the loudspeakers filled the Stadium with a strangely familiar sound—the voices of two young men, singing:
Doot do do do doot doo,
Doot doot do do do d’doooo . . .
And here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson.
Jesus loves you more than you will know (wo wo woh).
The big TV screen in right center frizzled to life, and there were video and film clips of Joe hitting, Joe sliding, Joe running, Joe waving. . . . And then, the gate at the old bullpen swung open—and there he was—riding a white ’56 T-bird convertible around the outfield track and down the third base line . . . both hands lifted in the Pope wave, to acknowledge the cheers that swelled to a roar, as the fans caught on to what was happening. Joe DiMaggio Day had begun.
With the cheers and the music and the sunshine glinting off the car, it looked fine—a happy day at the ballpark. And you could count on one hand the people in the Stadium who knew enough to see how quickly this had been thrown together—and how it failed to live up to the standard. There was the car: the only person Joe knew with a T-bird convertible was Marilyn—Joe never liked that car . . . . Those three words on the scoreboard: no capitalization for the M in DiMaggio . . . . The film clips on the big TV: there was the newsreel footage from the day Joe got put out of Marilyn’s house on North Palm Drive . . . . And the big problem: that bent old man, who looked frail and ill, as the T-bird drew to a stop at the Yankee dugout. Joe could barely get out of the car—and almost killed himself when he stumbled on the dugout steps.
But not many people could see how bad Joe looked—only the ones who got close, like Joe Torre, the Yankee skipper, who walked Joe out from the dugout, to the microphone behind home plate, where the big interlocking NY was limed onto the Stadium grass.
“He has been called baseball’s greatest living player . . .” said the voice of the public address man, Bob Sheppard. “Please welcome . . .”
Joe was carrying a sheet of paper—a speech that Morris had written for him. Torre had come along to the mike to read Mayor Giuliani’s proclamation for Joe DiMaggio Day in New York. But there would be no reading of the proclamation—and no speech. The microphone didn’t work. So, all that was left was to bring out an officer of Major League Baseball, Paul Beeston, who presented Joe with a boxy frame, inside which was mounted one authorized and genuine American League baseball, with a blue number 5 printed on, with a picture of Joe swinging his bat in front of the NY logo, and with Yankee-blue stitching—the official Joe DiMaggio ball, to be used in that day’s game. Joe took his ball and started back to the dugout . . . .
But wait! Bob Sheppard’s voice on the PA introduced the Scooter, Phil Rizzuto, on whom the crowd rained cheers as he climbed out of the dugout, and stopped Joe—brought him back to home plate. And while the scoreboard flashed, one after the other, Joe’s World Series wins—1936, 1937, 1938, 1939, 1941, 1947, 1949, 1950, 1951 . . . Phil handed Joe the box of replica rings. And Joe lifted it, as if to show it to the crowd. He would never wear any of them. He had his ring—from ’36—but the great-grandchildren might enjoy seeing these. And then, Joe tottered off the field for good. DiMaggio’s Day was done.
BY THE TIME Rock Positano arrived in the fourth inning of the game with Tampa Bay, he could see it wasn’t the normal hearty party around the table in Steinbrenner’s suite. There was Joe, sitting in silence, with the Scooter, Steinbrenner, Barry Halper (still trying to mend his fences), and the opera singer Robert Merrill (who always did the anthem on big days). That wasn’t an unusual crowd—but the air was unusually solemn. (Joe had been so furious about the dead microphone he’d cursed out a girl in the Yankee office till she was in tears—Steinbrenner had to send her home.)
And as soon as Positano walked in, Joe said: “You ready, Doc?” . . . which meant they were leaving without delay. They would drop off Engelberg in the city for his luggage. (His deal was done—he was flying home.) Joe wouldn’t fly till the following day. So he and Rock would have one more night in New York . . . . But on that night,
there would be no eager calls to gather the friends. Joe was exhausted, slumped in the back of Rock’s limo.
“What do you want to do, Joe?” Dr. Rock asked. “Where d’you want to go to dinner?”
Joe wanted Bravo Gianni—he said he didn’t know when he’d be back for another meal there. So they got Joe his farfalle—and Joe ate, but he was terribly quiet. When they got back to the car he said he didn’t want to turn in. Couldn’t they just drive around? . . .
So Dr. Rock told his driver to put on Joe’s CDs. (Rock always kept them in the car—Pavarotti, Ella Fitzgerald, Glenn Miller, Simon and Garfunkel . . . along with a copy of the book, The Old Man and the Sea, with the pages that mentioned the Great DiMaggio dog-eared at the corners, so Joe could find them.) . . . And in the quiet of the Sunday night streets, Joe and Rock rode across town to the West Side, and then up Broadway.
Dr. Rock knew something serious was wrong. Because the town Joe was pointing out was the shadow New York. And Joe never did that.
There was the Mayflower, Joe said. He had a good suite there. (But Joe hadn’t stayed there for the past thirty years.)
And there was 400 West End Avenue. “Lotta good times in that place,” Joe said. That was Joe and Dorothy’s penthouse. (But Dorothy had died in Mexico, almost ten years before.)
On the CD player, it was Ella Fitzgerald, singing Gershwin songs.
Embrace me,
My sweet embraceable you . . .
“That’s our song,” Joe said. “Marilyn’s favorite.” He closed his eyes. And he was fading out . . . . And then, suddenly, he had his hands to his chest. And he was gasping to Positano. “Doc, I don’t know what’s wrong. I never felt this bad.”
Positano stretched Joe out on the limo’s back seat and told the driver to go east, across the park—and don’t lose any time. Rock was heading for the hospital—New York Presbyterian—and praying silently that Joe would pass out . . . so Rock could have him admitted, right now—without argument. He’d get a pulmonologist and a heart guy on the case right away.
“Just lie back, Joe. Just take it easy . . . .” And in his head, Rock was screaming: C’mon you stubborn bastard—give it up! Pass out! . . . They were only ten blocks from the emergency door.
But Joe was too tough to give it up. He sat up. He said he’d better get to bed.
“Whyn’cha let me get you a bed, right here,” Rock said, as lightly as he could. “We’re near the hospital. It’ll be no trouble.”
But Joe didn’t want that. No, he’d just get some sleep. He’d see a doctor he knew down in Florida, when he got back. Sure, some time this week . . .
BY THURSDAY OF that following week, Joe had seen that doctor he knew—and the news wasn’t good. He would have to put up with more docs, and more tests. Joe said he wanted it done, right away—he had to be back in New York for the Series—when the Yanks got through the playoffs. (And he had a dinner date with Woody and Soon-Yi.) . . . Joe was snappish with the specialists—with everyone. He hated doctors. And he didn’t want to be in Florida.
But Engelberg, Esq. couldn’t have been in better humor. That Thursday, October 1, he was on the phone again to his partner, DiStefano. To be sure, Morris still complained about the rigors of DiMaggio Day. (“You don’t know the aggravation I had . . .”) But that beautiful ball was going to sell itself.
And that was only the start! Now, Morris wanted Scott to sell replica jerseys. Of course, Morris already had done a deal with Jerry Romolt for jerseys—but that deal ran into problems. So, now Morris could cut Romolt out—do the deal himself, with Scott—and he was eagerly instructing his pupil:
“I know we can do four hundred jerseys, right?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Scott, “eventually.”
“You can do three hundred roughly at two hundred dollars, right—that’s sixty thousand. All right?”
“Right.”
“And you do a hundred at three hundred dollars—am I right? So you do another thirty thousand dollars,” said Morris.
“You got ninety thousand dollars there.”
“That’s perfect,” said DiStefano. “I could take off for the year.”
“No no no—I get half!”
“No—I know that!”
“That’s forty-five thousand dollars . . . ,” said Morris. “That’s what I get.”
“Now, I put in the contract between Joe and you, our legal fee is fifteen. I offset that against my forty-five. See what I’m doing?”
“Yes. So then I would owe you thirty.”
“Thaaat’s it. Now that’s a way of getting money to me.”
And the beauty part was (as Morris often explained), when Scott paid those legal fees, that was deductible—it wouldn’t cost anything.
(Of course—as Morris also explained—the best was cash: “When you give me green, there’s no taxes.” But Morris didn’t like to discuss cash on the phone. “It might be tapped.”)
The point was, they were going great guns, now, with the Rawlings Yankee Clipper ball and the jerseys . . . and Morris had a fortune in articles stashed in his house—two thousand balls, as he estimated, and bins full of other stuff—a huge closet under his stairs, chock-full! . . .
“Scott, I have, in canceled checks, millions of dollars.”
“That’s the key,” said DiStefano.
“I have five hundred signed baseball cards—‘Yankee Clipper.’ ”
“Whoa!”
“You know those plastics you have? The plastics we did? Mine are all signed ‘Yankee Clipper.’ ”
“Wow.”
“I’ll have sixty—fifty . . .”
“That’s okay, I know right where to go with them things.”
“You think Paula knows there’s twenty-three LeRoy Neimans there?”
“Probably not.”
“ . . . Joe’s memory is going, big-time. Big-time!”
Morris told Scott to get busy on the selling—the Rawlings ball and the jerseys. They had to get Joe signing on those jerseys, right away.
“I’m gonna tell him,” Morris said. “I’m gonna take him to the doctor—four doctors tomorrow . . .”
TEN DAYS LATER, Joe was in the hospital—Memorial Hospital in Hollywood, Florida—though the Baseball Nation didn’t find out for almost a week, till the World Series began, and Joe wasn’t there to throw out the first ball.
“Joe DiMaggio has walking pneumonia,” the Associated Press quoted Morris Engelberg (“attorney and longtime friend”) . . . “He’s had it three or four months. He’s fine. He’s eating like a horse.”
In the days that followed there were further bulletins. DiMaggio was up, watching the Series on TV. He’d ordered in pizza. “He’ll eventually be out . . . maybe three or four days,” said (“close friend and personal attorney”) Morris Engelberg. “He has six doctors. They aren’t going to discharge this guy unless he’s perfect.”
The hospital refused all requests for information. “All inquiries regarding Mr. DiMaggio, at Mr. Engelberg’s request, must be directed to Mr. Engelberg,” said Lisa Kronhaus, director of public relations.
“ ‘He was sitting in a chair watching the news on television when I walked in,’ Morris Engelberg, the Hall of Famer’s lawyer and confidant told the Associated Press after visiting DiMaggio today . . . . The lawyer said DiMaggio would be hospitalized at least three more weeks. ‘Then I hope to have him to dinner at my house for his 84th birthday, November 25.’ . . .”
But Joe wouldn’t be out for his birthday. He wasn’t up to watching news, ordering pizza—and pneumonia wasn’t his big problem. Except for the date of Joe’s birthday, it was all lies. Two days after Joe was admitted, doctors operated to remove a cancerous tumor in his right lung. And Joe had never recovered. Infection set in. Then pneumonia beset Joe’s other lung. X-rays showed Joe’s lungs all whited out. He couldn’t breathe on his own. A respirator pushed air into him through a tube in the base of his neck. He was fed through a tube in his stomach. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t talk. And
he often didn’t know who else was in the room.
George Steinbrenner wanted to come for a visit. He was told to stay away. Joe wouldn’t know him.
Dominic DiMaggio arrived to see his brother. But Morris lied to Dominic, too—and when he was called on the lies, he wouldn’t tell Dom anything. Then he tried to keep Dom out of Joe’s room. The fifty-nine-year-old Morris and eighty-one-year-old Dominic had a push-and-shove fight in the hospital hallway.
Still, the lies kept coming:
“DiMaggio’s Health Improving . . .”
“Yankee Clipper Battling Back . . .”
“DiMaggio Gave Millions to Hospital.”
“I’m being misquoted,” Engelberg protested to the AP. The strain of being a name in the news was almost too much for Morris. “My [telephone] lines are being tied up. My practice has been hurt daily by what’s happened.” (Only later would Morris claim that he’d dropped his practice—to stay at the bedside—from the moment Joe got sick.) For a while, one of Joe’s doctors (and Morris’s pal), Earl Barron, took over the bulletins. Then, the news was different:
Joe DiMaggio: The Hero's Life (Touchstone Book) Page 62
