DiMaggio Remembered

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copyright 1999 Tom Rose@Pachyderm Productions

Rocking rails of timeless speed
still frozen in my mind
Regaling tales of latest deed
and the newest Yankee signed

We bold and faithful travelers
mocking, cold and hard
Disdaining silver rings and furs
for the Bombers' line-up card

Would jostle elder spokesmen
of their Civilizing age
In hopes of fumbled coins
and closer view of the batting cage

My right hand poised for wiping grins
gloved left with horsehide thirst
Trembled as we clattered in
to Bronx One-Sixty-First 

Our early stream to Ruth's abode
had netted victory
We'd struck upon the Mother Lode
for a sight few eyes would see

The heart of Yankee order
caging, taking swings
And DiMaggio re-defining
the importance of tree-rings

When suddenly his splintered bat
went sailing toward the mound
And through the mesh of warm-up rails
its errant way had found

The weather-beaten, Third Base face
of "The Lion" Frankie C.
Whose bloodied mane induced us
into Brooklyn howls of glee 

The Clipper leapt the sixty feet
in what seemed to me three bounds
Mindless of the braying bleat 
of Red Hook's bloody hounds

Crosetti's face was streaked in blood
his expression, dazed and hurt
As he watched the anguished Yankee legend
kicking at the dirt

I could see him ache with sorrow
from the hair down to the toe
But the only words from Frankie were
"You didn't mean it Joe!"

While the Lion carried from the field
was hailed by our Bronx Cheers
The image then that seared my eyes
has stayed with me all these years 

When Frankie made it safely 
to the clubhouse on the right
The Clipper fixed a blazing gaze
upon our coterie of night

The hatred of our vicious jeers
the unsympathetic streak
Confirmed to Joe his darkest fears
"Tomorrow's hope is bleak"

His eyes grew cold regarding us
as he stepped back to the plate
Maybe he could transfer 
to the ball unspoken hate

His bat arced like a hammer
as he struck some thunderous blows
What was he really swinging at?
now only Heaven knows 

But he had learned the hard way
that to earn the future's dream
You are going nowhere 
'til you're playing for the team

And it's easy to believe the myth
that life is just a game
Until you see compassion lives
then nothing seems the same

For a moment my heart skipped some beats
when I saw we'd let Joe down
When the gang banged back to the bleacher seats
I wouldn't be around

My boisterous acts of heartlessness
and braggadocio
Forever stilled by an icy glare
from Joe DiMaggio 

by BASEBALLPARKS.COM visitor Ken Rubin

Yours was a great essay. Truly. It brings to mind the time I saw Joe DiMaggio -- how I was in absolute awe of him.

I was around 13 or so. I don't remember exactly my age. We were vacationing in San Francisco and were hungry after a walk around Fisherman's Wharf. My dad mentioned the restaurant "DiMaggio's" and, of course, The Yankee Clipper.

My father is from The Bronx and we were living in Brooklyn before coming to LA in 1953. So things Dodgers and some Yankees were big in our household. The idea of eating in Joe DiMaggio's restaurant and possibly catching a glimpse of him was too strong of a pull to resist. Too strong.

I knew quite a bit about The Yankee Clipper -- kids that are baseball fans are prone to hero worship -- so knowing what Joe DiMaggio was as a baseball player and American Hero was no secret even to a 13 year old.  In our household it was common for my parents, my mother in particular, to point out great people in our contemporary times. Jewish households like mine were prone to identify high profile world citizens, actors, comedians and athletes who were Jewish. Sandy Koufax is my absolute greatest hero of all time and I live in Studio City, the very same city he lived in while with the Dodgers. Our household was also a place where great achievements by minorities and people in general were respected and part of daily conversation, so when California accepted our family, we brought with us the love of Joe DiMaggio -- a great Italian American Citizen of the World who was a baseball God.

We went into the restaurant that day, located a bit west of the Wharf area, and were seated in the back of the establishment. I recall being disappointed because the location of our table seemed too distant from the center of the eatery to have any chance at all of seeing The Yankee Clipper. We were in the rear of the restaurant and to the right, back in the corner. If you went straight to the back there was a patio. There was someone lounging. Within a minute my father inquired as to the possibility of just seeing Joe DiMaggio. Without hesitation, the waiter pointed to the man lounging and said that he was indeed Mr. DiMaggio. No sooner than that, Joe Dimaggio got up from his rest and strolled out of the patio and into the front of the restaurant, all right in front of our eyes!!  It was the first time I had seen anything like a legend -- bigger than life. I was in the presence of someone that America cherishes and because my parents were in awe, that made it the ultimate moment for me.

I can still see his graceful walk going from my right to left. It was that unmistakable stroll that made Joltin' Joe the "complete" man or hero that he was. There is something about the confidence that certain gates or strides exude and Joe DiMaggio had one of the finest. And it was clear at age 13 and I can still see it clearly now that this man was special.

The moment was just that, a moment. Not a lingering experience. Nothing that includes confusing episodes. This was just one fleeting moment that will forever stay with me -- and so clear, too. Like a snapshot. It is easier to recall a single image than a movie.

I felt special for being able to see Joe DiMaggio and that moment has stayed with me to this day. So today is yet another day to cry. I cried when Roy Campanella died. I cried when The Mick died. I cried when my father died. I even cried when Old Blue Eyes died. What all this crying really means is better left up to social scientists and baseball folklorists. I do know that these men represented something special to me personally. Aside from my own father, these other men, and all of use
have our own list of special men and women, have touched the heart and soul of America and their passing leaves not just holes, but certain anchors that have always allowed us to feel safe and part of something special. Maybe it is just the magical fabric of baseball that these (baseball) men in particular were part of that has touched so many and kept us in touch with each other. Or to put it another way, America is a family and these men -- Joltin' Joe, Campy, The Mick and so many others -- are our Uncles. We don't need them all the time, but we sleep better knowing they are there. Tonight -- on the day of Joltin' Joe's passing -- will be yet another night to cry myself to sleep. 

When I was a kid, 3 years old, I went to my first ball game at Yankee Stadium.  My uncle, a hard-core baseball fan, always got there early for batting practice.  Sitting in the center field bleachers, we got to talk with the outfielders.  Being a cute kid, I got a lot of their attention, "they" being Charlie Keller, Tommy Henrich and Joe DiMaggio.  True, I don't remember much about these occasions, but I remember seeing Joe play at the end of his amazing career.  And, I remember my uncle, a NY Giant fan and Yankee hater, and one not given to poetic insights, telling me that Joe was, "a being of a higher species."

I would have to say, if pressed, that Willie Mays was the most gifted, joyous ball player I ever saw.  But, I was old enough to appreciate his play, and he was in his prime.  I can never forget that even Willie couldn't play the outfield with the speed and grace of Joe D.  Joe looked like he invented the position, and everyone else had to work hard to keep up.

I saw Joe at an old timers' game at RFK in Washington DC.  He didn't suit up or play, but his presence ennobled the proceedings.  My wife and I left a bit early because we had to be up for work at an ungodly hour.  As we crossed the parking lot, we saw Joe striding toward an RV he used to get around in. She said, "There's DiMaggio.  Why don't you get his autograph?"

I replied, "Because that's Joe DiMaggio, not some rock star.  I wouldn't think of it."

There is no other hero of my youth I would treat the same way.  I've bothered Snider, Johnny Podres, Mantle, many more.  If Gil Hodges were still alive, I would grovel at his feet for an autograph.

But Joe was a being of a higher species.  Good bye, Joltin' Joe.

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