Read Online Summer of '49: The Yankees and the Red Sox in Postwar America by David Halberstam - Free Book Online
Authors: David Halberstam
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DiMaggio answered. “I know that,” said the man, “but what do you think of him as a ballplayer ?” “Greatest left-handed hitter I’ve ever seen,” repeated DiMaggio.
Unsure of his social skills and uncomfortable in any conversation that strayed far from baseball, DiMaggio was wary of moving into a situation in which he might feel or reveal his limitations. He did not push against certain New York doors that would have readily opened for him in those years. Some of his close friends thought the reason for his behavior was his sensitivity about being an Italian immigrant’s son in an age when ethnic prejudice was far more powerful than it is today. It 1939, Life magazine did a piece on him that its editors thought sympathetic but which said, among other things, “Italians, bad at war, are well suited for milder competition, and the number of top-notch Italian prize fighters, golfers and baseball players is out of all proportion to the population.” Life found the young DiMaggio to be better groomed than expected for someone who was not a Wasp:“Instead of olive oil or smelly bear grease, he keeps his hair slick with water. He never reeks of garlic and prefers chicken chow mein to spaghetti ...” In fact, he was meticulous about his appearance, and unlike most of his teammates, who dressed casually in sports clothes, he almost always came to the ball park in a custom-tailored dark-blue suit, with a white shirt and tie. His overcoats were tailored as well, and he even took his army uniforms to be tailored during World War II.
He was spared the normal, crude byplay of the locker room. The other players were aware that he did not like it, and they did not dare risk displeasing him. (About the only person who could tease DiMaggio was Pete Sheehy, the clubhouse man, who seemed to be as much a part of the Yankee scene as the Stadium itself. Once when DiMaggio had been examining a red mark on his butt, he yelled over to Sheehy, “Hey, Pete, take a look at this. Is there a bruise there?” “Sure there is, Joe, it’s from all those people kissing your ass,” Sheehy answered.)
DiMaggio’s sensitivity to being embarrassed never diminished. He carried for no short length of time a grudge against Casey Stengel because Stengel, during the 1950 season, dropped him in the batting order from the cleanup position to the number-five slot, and told him to play first base, a position where he was not comfortable. His teammate Tommy Henrich noticed that when DiMaggio came into the dugout from first base near the end of the game, his uniform was soaked with sweat. Henrich knew immediately that it was not the physical exhaustion that had caused the sweat—it was caused by tension from the fear of embarrassing himself.
After a game he would always linger in the locker room for two or three hours, in order to avoid the crowd of fans who waited outside the players’ entrance. He simply needed to sit in front of his locker, catch his breath, drink a beer, and relax. Once he was sure there were no outsiders around,he would conduct an informal seminar on the game just played. In those moments he was absolutely relaxed and unthreatened. He might turn to Shea. “Spec,” he would say to the young pitcher, “you have to stay with the game plan when you go after the hitters. If you say you’re going outside, stay outside, don’t cross us up. Otherwise we’re going to end up with a big gap out there. The other thing you were doing today is you were goosing the ball. Not really throwing it. Pushing it. Just throw it next time.” “Phil,” he might tell Rizzuto, “you didn’t get over quite quickly enough on that grounder in the third inning. I know you made the play, but that isn’t what worries me. What worries me is you getting hurt. If you get hurt, this team is in trouble. We can’t afford it.”
When he was sure that most of the crowd at the players’ entrance was gone, he would get ready to leave. The call would come
Unsure of his social skills and uncomfortable in any conversation that strayed far from baseball, DiMaggio was wary of moving into a situation in which he might feel or reveal his limitations. He did not push against certain New York doors that would have readily opened for him in those years. Some of his close friends thought the reason for his behavior was his sensitivity about being an Italian immigrant’s son in an age when ethnic prejudice was far more powerful than it is today. It 1939, Life magazine did a piece on him that its editors thought sympathetic but which said, among other things, “Italians, bad at war, are well suited for milder competition, and the number of top-notch Italian prize fighters, golfers and baseball players is out of all proportion to the population.” Life found the young DiMaggio to be better groomed than expected for someone who was not a Wasp:“Instead of olive oil or smelly bear grease, he keeps his hair slick with water. He never reeks of garlic and prefers chicken chow mein to spaghetti ...” In fact, he was meticulous about his appearance, and unlike most of his teammates, who dressed casually in sports clothes, he almost always came to the ball park in a custom-tailored dark-blue suit, with a white shirt and tie. His overcoats were tailored as well, and he even took his army uniforms to be tailored during World War II.
He was spared the normal, crude byplay of the locker room. The other players were aware that he did not like it, and they did not dare risk displeasing him. (About the only person who could tease DiMaggio was Pete Sheehy, the clubhouse man, who seemed to be as much a part of the Yankee scene as the Stadium itself. Once when DiMaggio had been examining a red mark on his butt, he yelled over to Sheehy, “Hey, Pete, take a look at this. Is there a bruise there?” “Sure there is, Joe, it’s from all those people kissing your ass,” Sheehy answered.)
DiMaggio’s sensitivity to being embarrassed never diminished. He carried for no short length of time a grudge against Casey Stengel because Stengel, during the 1950 season, dropped him in the batting order from the cleanup position to the number-five slot, and told him to play first base, a position where he was not comfortable. His teammate Tommy Henrich noticed that when DiMaggio came into the dugout from first base near the end of the game, his uniform was soaked with sweat. Henrich knew immediately that it was not the physical exhaustion that had caused the sweat—it was caused by tension from the fear of embarrassing himself.
After a game he would always linger in the locker room for two or three hours, in order to avoid the crowd of fans who waited outside the players’ entrance. He simply needed to sit in front of his locker, catch his breath, drink a beer, and relax. Once he was sure there were no outsiders around,he would conduct an informal seminar on the game just played. In those moments he was absolutely relaxed and unthreatened. He might turn to Shea. “Spec,” he would say to the young pitcher, “you have to stay with the game plan when you go after the hitters. If you say you’re going outside, stay outside, don’t cross us up. Otherwise we’re going to end up with a big gap out there. The other thing you were doing today is you were goosing the ball. Not really throwing it. Pushing it. Just throw it next time.” “Phil,” he might tell Rizzuto, “you didn’t get over quite quickly enough on that grounder in the third inning. I know you made the play, but that isn’t what worries me. What worries me is you getting hurt. If you get hurt, this team is in trouble. We can’t afford it.”
When he was sure that most of the crowd at the players’ entrance was gone, he would get ready to leave. The call would come
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