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here. If they don’t
question them soon, these people will send their butlers and maids
up from Atherton and down from Pacific Heights to stand in for
’em.” We came up to the man near the trees. “Hey, Joe, know any
good forts?”
    The man stepped out from the
shadows.
    “ Forts, huh? Well, there’s Fort
Funston, out on the Army base.”
    It was him. Joe DiMaggio! He nodded
toward me.
    “ Nice cap, kid.”
    “ It’s the Seals.”
    “ I know.”
    “ Kid”— this time it was Caen
talking — “meet Joe DiMaggio.”
    DiMaggio nodded again. “I don’t
like to give autographs, though. Just so you know.”
    I had my hand sticking out to shake
his, but then put it back in my pocket.
    “ What does your ma do?” Caen
asks.
    How much should I tell them? I
don’t want to keep lying about a situation I haven’t fig- ured out
yet myself.
    “ She’s ... she’s a scientist,” I
said.
    “ She working on the war effort?”
Caen asked. “I think so.”
    DiMaggio shrugged. “Maybe she’s out
at Fort Point.”
    “ Where’s that?” I thought maybe I
could walk.
    “ Right under the Golden Gate
Bridge, kid, but it’s sealed off. A lot of crazy rumors about
top-secret war stuff going on there. I think you’ll just have to
wait for your mom to get home.”
    “ I’d like to try and get in
anyway.”
    “ Well, kid, you’ll still need to
take a cab. Here.” Caen handed me a five-dollar bill. “Buy yourself
a milk shake later on, too. I’d tell Joe to take ya, but he never
brings his car anywhere.” DiMaggio gave us a kind of panicked look
as Caen continued. “Sorry I can’t stay. Gotta talk to a couple
folks here and buzz down to the paper to write this up before the Call Bulletin scoops us. Merry Christmas, kid!” He tipped
his hat and was gone. DiMaggio stood there, smoking, and nodded at
me but didn’t say anything else. I realized I was get- ting pretty
hungry. I’d only eaten a couple of those crepe things. So I asked
him about his restaurant. I read once that he had one.
    “ You own a spaghetti place,
right?”
    His look wasn’t panic this time,
but more like puzzlement, like why the heck was I bothering him
about noodles at a time like this. “A fish place. Joe DiMaggio’s
Grotto. Down in North Beach. But you can get a good plate of pasta
there.”
    “ Do you eat there all the
time?”
    “ It’s too crowded for me. To tell
you the truth, kid, in the off-season, I try to avoid
crowds.”
    He goes silent again, and it’s kind
of weird that I have to keep the conversation going, since I’m the
one they all keep calling “kid.”
    “ Well, you had a really great year,
right?” I ask. In the ’41 season, he had a record hitting
streak.
    “ Yeah, they’re celebrating it over
at the Grotto,” he answers. “Put on a party for me. I hit in
fifty-six consecutive games this past season. Helluva thing. It’s a
record.”
    “ Yeah, and it’s never —” I catch
myself. I’ve really got to watch it. “I bet it’ll never be broken.
You must be proud of yourself.”
    “ Yeah, sure, but like I said, it’s
almost like someone else did it. I can’t just play baseball
anymore. I can’t just play . I have to be him . It’s
just not fun anymore.”
    Wow, if playing baseball for a
living isn’t fun, grownups must have really depressing lives. “I
should tell you about Barnstormers.”
    “ What’s that?”
    “ A game. Like —” I don’t want to
mess up another detail here and seem any more po -like than I
have to. Let’s see, before games were electronic they were mostly
—“a board game. Where you manage your own baseball team. The
whole squad is made up of these really messed-up monsters who go
around from town to town, playing exhibition games, pickup games,
whatever they can. Because they love it. Of course, after
each game, they get chased away and have to go somewhere
else.”
    “ Messed-up monsters? Sounds like
some Red Sox fans I’ve seen.”
    “ On my team, Wolfman plays