56: Joe DiMaggio and the Last Magic Number in Sports

by Kennedy, Kostya

  More than 10,000 fans turned out to see the Seals that day, July 6th; at Yankee Stadium there was six times that—60,948 and for the second time in six days the Yankees’ largest home crowd of the year. Hours before the doubleheader against the A’s began, before the Stadium gates had opened, fans had formed lines outside. The rain of recent days had cooled the air and there were clouds mixed into the blue sky. Each ticket had on its face an image of Lou Gehrig, and it was Gehrig who would be honored this day.

  Nearly five weeks had passed since his death and in centerfield, next to the flagpole and the monument to Miller Huggins, a granite block now stood, wreathed and bearing a newly cast bronze plaque. Before the game, the Yankees and Athletics players assembled in the outfield. Gehrig’s widow, Eleanor, stood in a dark dress next to the monument. Dickey and McCarthy together lifted a draped American flag to unveil the plaque which read, below Gehrig’s name: “A man, a gentleman and a great ballplayer whose amazing record of 2,130 consecutive games should stand for all time. This memorial is a tribute from the Yankee players to their beloved captain and former teammate.”

  In the brief eulogies that followed, Mayor Fiorello La Guardia said that Gehrig “will be remembered as long as baseball remains and as long as good government exists.” Connie Mack advised “the army of youths of America to follow in his footsteps.” Dickey got out that Gehrig was “the greatest first baseman and pal in the history of the game” before he broke down and couldn’t go on. Lou’s parents were there, sitting together behind the Yankees dugout.

  A quiet settled over the crowd during these proceedings, a near silence through which the public address system crackled and the speakers’ voices rang and echoed. There was in DiMaggio and the other Yankees a return of the feelings they’d experienced in Detroit during those dark, dreary days in the beginning of June when the news came that Gehrig was gone. Back then, the hitting streak had been in its first days and DiMaggio was still dogged by his early season slump and the Indians were regarded as the favorites in the American League.

  Now, against the A’s, the Yankees would win both ends of the doubleheader and they would do so behind DiMaggio. He had four hits in the first game. In the second he had a long triple and a single; four RBIs all told. In centerfield he had never been more alive. He caught 10 balls in the doubleheader and one observer described “no less than eight” as “breathtaking.” He went deep into centerfield to steal, with a leap, a triple from Bob Johnson in the opener. Then in the ninth inning of the rain-spattered nightcap, Johnson hit another one over DiMaggio’s head and Joe, loping through the rain and slosh, covering ground out near the granite block that bore Gehrig’s name, calmly, over his shoulder and still on the run, made the catch. It was Lou Gehrig’s Day at Yankee Stadium but these Yankees were beyond a doubt Joe DiMaggio’s team. Since leaving Detroit on the heels of Lou’s death he had batted .409. He had driven in 35 runs in 27 games. He had hit 11 home runs and he had struck out only twice. The Yankees in that time had gone 23–4 and had risen from fourth place to first, 3½ games ahead of the Indians. “DiMaggio,” said McCarthy, “is the greatest ballplayer in the game.”

  After the final out the fans rushed onto the field, this time with particular zeal. Some grabbed handfuls of dirt and grass, and many went straight for DiMaggio. He had to really run for safety, feinting and dodging his way to the dugout. He would be leaving town again, bound first for the All-Star Game in Detroit with Dickey, Gordon, Keller, Ruffing and Russo, and then the Yankees would travel for two weeks more. The train for Detroit left the next day. This night DiMaggio would spend with Dorothy. They would stand together on the penthouse terrace and look out over all of New York City. The moon was low and big and nearly full.

  Chapter 23

  Ascended

  DIMAGGIO WAS HARDLY the only lure for the nearly 55,000 fans now settling in at Briggs Stadium. There were stars all over the field for this game, the most anticipated of the season. Rapid Robert Feller would pitch for the American League; lanky Ted Williams, at .405, would bat cleanup; old Double X, the Red Sox’ burly Jimmie Foxx, would come off the bench as the only player to have been chosen for every All-Star Game since it began in 1933. Little Dominic DiMaggio had made it for the first time, as a backup to big brother Joe. And the Detroit fans would see National League players that they had only read about: the Cardinals’ big Johnny Mize, who swung not two but three bats as he swaggered off the on-deck circle, and his teammate, spikes-up Enos Slaughter. The Dodgers’ sensational Pete Reiser, batting .360 and at age 22 the baby of the All-Stars, would play centerfield. For a baseball fan anything seemed possible in a game like this. The Mutual Broadcasting System would air every inning from coast to coast. The sun was high and bright, the air crisp, and even before the playing of the national anthem a marching band struck up in front of the stands. Bunting hung from the stadium facades. Joe Louis sat with an entourage behind the American League dugout. The Tigers’ own Rudy York was in the lineup at first base.

  The crowd hadn’t come only for DiMaggio, but even in this gathering of baseball’s best there was an aura around Joe. Many fans had seen the latest newsreel at the movies. After footage of the first test flight of the B-19—the pride of the U.S. military and, as the narrator assured, “the finest bomber in the world”—there appeared short segments about the FBI having rounded up some suspected spies and about Army nurses doing a gas mask drill at Fort Dix. Then came the sports recap and scenes of DiMaggio extending his hitting streak past Sisler in front of that teeming crowd at Griffith Stadium.

  In Detroit even the other All-Stars approached DiMaggio as if he were an attraction. During batting practice Williams came around with a camera and snapped pictures of Joe taking his swings. DiMaggio showed a smile and shook his head. Maybe Williams was just goofing, or maybe he was paying honest homage to old Dead Pan Joe. (“I’ve been down on myself, but I’ve never heard of Joe getting unsettled,” Williams had said.) Or maybe this was a reminder to DiMaggio, a way for Williams to say: I’m here too.

  Thought Bobby Doerr, the American League’s starting second baseman: DiMaggio’s hitting streak is a challenge to Ted. He sees it as a personal challenge.

  Before DiMaggio had arrived at the Book-Cadillac Hotel, before he had checked in beneath the chandeliers along with the other Yankee players (and with Art Fletcher who had been invited to coach third base), it had occurred to Joe that he had better get a hit in the All-Star game. It was simply a grand exhibition, of course, and the statistics of the game would not count in the regular-season record. His hitting streak, everyone agreed, would remain intact no matter what happened in Detroit. But what would people say? DiMaggio thought. If I don’t get a hit in this game, will they say that truly in spirit the streak was stopped? Will they say that I couldn’t do it against the National League?

  Even as the exhilaration from breaking Keeler’s record lay still warm inside him, DiMaggio could not help turning over such thoughts in his mind. In the stands at the All-Star game there would be people who had never seen him play, and who would measure him by what he did—or did not do—in this game. Even now there were those fans and reporters who remembered, and would expressly rehash, DiMaggio’s appearance in the 1936 All-Star game as a rookie when he had gone 0 for 5 and played poorly in the field and the American League had lost. Never would DiMaggio himself forget that game. Whatever the statistics guys had now decreed regarding the streak, people would be watching in Detroit, and listening everywhere and forming opinions of their own. To DiMaggio, it felt important that he get a base hit in the game.

  The fans cheered lustily and sustained a long applause when DiMaggio came to bat in the bottom of the first inning. The Dodgers’ righthander Whitlow Wyatt got ahead 0 and 1 and on the next pitch DiMaggio popped the ball up near third base, where the Cubs’ Stan Hack caught it in foul ground.

  He flew out deep to Reiser in the fourth and he drew a walk from Bucky Walters in the sixth. Only a handful of players had stayed in the game from
the beginning—DiMaggio, Williams, the Senators’ Cecil Travis—and in the top of the seventh inning Dominic had been put into rightfield, replacing the Indians’ Jeff Heath. Red Barber was calling the game on MBS: “We have the two American League DiMaggio brothers in the same outfield. . . .There they are shoulder to shoulder for the first time in the big show.” The White Sox’ Edgar Smith had come in to pitch for the American League.

  DiMaggio was hitless when he came to bat with one out and no one on base in the eighth inning. The National League led 5–2 after a pair of two-run homers by the Pirates shortstop Arky Vaughn. Joe dug in against the fourth National League pitcher, the Cubs’ hard-throwing Claude Passeau. “And here’s Joe DiMaggio who hasn’t had a hit today,” said Barber. Passeau wore the Cubs’ new road uniform, a bright and metallic blue. The count went to 0 and 2. “DiMaggio stands, his feet widely spaced. . . .” And then the pitch.

  Barber: “Swung on, there’s a line drive belted deep into left center, Reiser comes over, he can’t get it, it’s through for an extra base. DiMag has another hit! He’s coming into second base and holds on with a double. Of course this is unofficial but it’s his 49th consecutive game he’s hit safely. This has nothing to do with the record books or his consecutive game streak but you know and I know that this is a very important ball game, and we all know that he just sent out a line drive into leftfield for a solid double. They can’t stop him!” Behind Barber you could hear the noise of the approving and appreciative crowd.

  Williams came up next and struck out looking. Then Dominic stepped in.

  Barber: “He is the only All-Star player on either side who is wearing glasses. . . . He is not nearly as big as Joe.”

  Dominic fouled off Passeau’s first pitch.

  Barber: “Nothing and one. This is the brother act, the greatest in the major leagues today. There’s the big DiMaggio who’s the leader of the three brothers at second. There’s Dom at the plate trying to get brother Joe in. . . Passeau in position. Big, rugged righthander. There’s a drive into right center. It’s in for a base hit! Joe is scoring, Slaughter throws into second base and the brother act clicks for a run. A double by Joe and a single by Dom.”

  The score was still 5–3 when the eighth inning ended and before the ninth inning began Barber read a service announcement appealing to young men to sign up for “Army aviation cadet training.” Early in the game, the Chicago announcer Bob Elson, who called the first 4½ innings, had also read an Army recruitment ad.

  In the bottom of the ninth Passeau was still on the mound and the National League still held a two-run lead. The American League, though, had loaded the bases with one out.

  Barber: “What is the situation? The tying run at second, the winning run at first, and no less a person than Joe DiMaggio at the plate.”

  After falling behind 0 and 2 DiMaggio stepped out of the batter’s box and wiped a film of sweat off of his brow.

  Barber: “Keltner off third, Gordon off second, Travis off first. One out. DiMaggio behind now nothing and two. Passeau delivers. There’s a ground ball to short. Miller has it, the throw to second one out, the throw to first. . .not in time. And it’s a force play at second, one run is in. Billy Herman’s hurried throw was not in time and was also on the home plate side of first and McCormick had to get off. DiMaggio, who was running for dear life, beats the throw.”

  With the double play averted, the American League still had life. Herman felt lousy about his poor throw. The National League infielders all came together around Passeau. Williams was striding to the plate.

  Barber: “And how do you like this for a setting? Two outs, the tying run at third, the winning run at first, last half of the ninth inning and the .400 hitter of today at the plate, Ted Williams. Lefthand batter. Passeau ready. Delivers high outside. Danning bluffs a throw to third and Gordon ducks back. Second base is open. . . . I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.

  “Now Williams leans over the plate. 5 to 4 National League. . . .Passeau righthanded. Williams swings and fouls it back. One and one. . . . Passeau has been the anchor pitcher. He took the mound with the American League behind. Suppose you know what that means. It means they were swinging for keeps. Harder than ever if anything. Claude ready. Delivers. Williams takes high inside for ball two. Two balls, one strike. . . .Passeau standing back of the hill. Frank McCormick at first base on the corner against the great DiMaggio. . . .

  “Joe Gordon the tying run leads down off third. Passeau pitches, Williams swings. There’s a high drive going deep, deep. . . it is a home run against the tip-top of the rightfield stands!. . .”

  Loud and chaotic sounds burst abruptly onto the broadcast, and then there was near silence, only the distant rumbling of the crowd, for 22 seconds, until Barber came back: “Well I hope you could hear some of what we said before 55,000 voices rose in a wave of noise that was not to be denied, Mutual microphone or anything else. Ted Williams just missed by a couple of feet hitting the ball completely out of the park, completely over the tip-top of the rightfield stands. . . a tremendous home run that brought in three runs and turned what looked to be a National League win into an American League 7–5 win.”

  At home plate DiMaggio shook Williams’s hand and then watched him skip over to the dugout, the big red number 9 bouncing on his back. You could have lit up a night game with Williams’s grin. In the exultant clubhouse, the American League manager Del Baker wrapped both his arms around the home run hero. “I’d kiss that Williams in the public square if they’d ask me!” he said. The president of the American League, Bill Harridge, appeared and vigorously shook Williams’s hand. So did Clark Griffith. A bunch of players—York and Keller and Foxx and Dominic—good-naturedly ambushed Williams at his locker. DiMaggio went and sat beside Williams for a moment and put his right arm across Williams’s back. Then the writers came and Williams laughed and recounted. “It was a fast one, letter-high, that’s what it was,” he said. Williams seemed almost overwhelmed by all that was happening. He sat in front of his locker with his Red Sox uniform on for quite some time, even after the reporters had begun to move away.

  DiMaggio was pleased that he’d hit safely in the game, and also very pleased that the American League had won. Of the team’s seven runs he had scored three and driven in one. As the fuss around Williams continued and the players shouted in the showers—“Now the National League knows how Billy Conn felt in the 13th round!” someone called out—DiMaggio wondered, as he had wondered before, how he might feel when his hitting streak ended, whether he would miss the tension and attention that had become part of his every day, or whether he would feel grateful that it was gone. What would happen to that rare, wonderful thing: the sense of togetherness in the locker-room after each game in which he’d extended the streak? Or would he feel freer and less put-upon?

  “I will probably be relieved when someone stops me,” he had said before arriving in Detroit, only to add in the next moment, “I want to keep it going for as long as I can.” Inside DiMaggio were both of these feelings and he could not say which was the stronger one.

  He shaved and combed his hair and spent time carefully putting on his suit. He said a quick goodbye to Dominic. It was late in the afternoon and the temperature outside could not have been above 80 degrees. It felt like a day in September. Fans called out to him in the parking lot and there would be others waiting for him when he got back to the hotel. I wish Lefty was around, DiMaggio thought.

  He could remember staying close to the Benjamin Franklin Hotel with Gomez, and he could remember facing Johnny Babich in Shibe Park and then the telegram that had called him to the hospital in Philadelphia. The boy had died, DiMaggio later learned. He could remember the hot, hot day in Washington and the young people who had come to him on the field before the games.

  In New York, Henrich had taken this All-Star break to get married to a nurse. Les Brown and his Band of Renown had arrived to begin their engagement at the Log Cabin in Armonk. Soon DiMaggio and the other All-Star
Yankees would meet the team for their three games in St. Louis, and next the Yanks would go to Chicago and then to Cleveland after that. In those places, DiMaggio understood, there would not be a field full of All-Stars to disperse the incoming light. Instead in each city, only the home team, the Yankees and him.

  AND THAT NIGHT the sun went down, and the morning next it rose.

  Sensational

  JOE DIMAGGIO

  Will Seek To Hit Safely In His

  49th

  Consecutive Game.

  Thur. Nite, July 10

  AT ST. LOUIS

  Browns vs. Yankees

  Sportsman’s Park–8:30 P.M.

  Tickets Now on Sale at Browns Arcade Ticket Office—

  Phone, CHestnut 7900

  The signs hung as posters at the St. Louis train station and ran as ads in the local papers, and stood stacked as circus handbills on the counters in the lobby of the Chase Hotel. DiMaggio had become a traveling sideshow’s principal act. Instead of swallowing fire or walking barefoot on a bed of broken glass the Sensational DiMag would perform a kind of high-wire act: get a base hit or fall. Though the forecast called for a summer storm, advance ticket sales were the best they had been for a Browns game all season.

  This was George Sisler’s hometown and on the morning of the game he and DiMaggio met for breakfast. Sisler’s hairline began high upon his scalp. He wore a loose-fitting plaid sports jacket and a tie with thick stripes, and pens in the breast pocket of his shirt. He was 48 years old, working in retail and nearly two decades removed from the day he ran his hitting streak to 41 games. DiMaggio, at their breakfast table, looked as if he had stepped from a magazine advertisement; his creaseless, wide-shouldered suit fit him like he was born to wear it. In 1940, the Custom Tailors Association had named DiMaggio the eighth best-dressed man in the United States.