Read Online Summer of '49: The Yankees and the Red Sox in Postwar America by David Halberstam - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Halberstam
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down to the gate people: “Joe’s ready to go.” A taxi would be called and a group of attendants would form a flying wedge so that he could get out with as little harassment as possible.
Although DiMaggio was largely suspicious of newspapermen and reserved with most of them, his relationships with them were actually rather good. The last line of the last column of the greatest sportswriter of two eras, Red Smith, concluded: “I told myself not to worry: Someday there would be another DiMaggio.” The writers were, of course, wired to DiMaggio. They treated him as the White House press corps might treat a wildly popular president: They understood the phenomenon, what caused it and what made it work, and they were delighted to be a part of it, mostly because their readers wanted to know all about DiMaggio. Besides, the writers respected DiMaggio; for many of them he was the best all-around player they had ever seen. He frequently carried the team and he always did it modestly.
If DiMaggio wanted them at a distance, they readily accepted that. For one thing, even if he might not have beenthe perfect interviewee (when he first came up, he was so unsophisticated, he liked to recall, that when the sportswriters asked him for a quote, he thought they were talking about a soft drink), he was a gent. As he took his own dignity seriously, he generally accorded the writers theirs. On questions about baseball, he was generally candid. He was also aware of the uses of good publicity, and he was, if anything, closer to some of the writers, particularly the columnists, than he was to his teammates. He understood that if he gave too little of himself, the press would rebel. He never upbraided a reporter who transgressed, as Williams did, but he was, in his own way, just as tough. If a reporter displeased him, even slightly, DiMaggio would ruthlessly cut him off.
W. C. Heinz, one of the best writers of that era, thought that his colleagues were different with DiMaggio from the way they were with other athletes. As they entered the Yankee locker room, they were cocky, brash, and filled with self-importance. Then, as they approached DiMaggio’s locker, they began to change from men to boys. They became reverential, almost apologetic for even asking questions. You could, Heinz thought, hear the rustle of the paper in their notebooks as they steeled their courage to ask him how he felt.
DiMaggio had good reason for being suspicious of the press. In his first two seasons as a Yankee, he had been nothing less than brilliant, leading New York back to the pennant after a hiatus of three years. In his second season he hit .346 and 46 home runs, and knocked in 167 runs. He had been paid only $8,000 for his first year, and for his second, $15,000 plus, of course, his World Series checks, which Yankee management viewed as part of his salary. For his third year he decided to ask for $40,000. The Yankees offered him $25,000. Ed Barrow, the general manager, told him that $40,000 was more than the great Lou Gehrig made. “Then Mr. Gehrig is a badly underpaid player,”DiMaggio answered. The Yankee management turned its full firepower on him. This was the Depression, and, typically, the ownership did not view the question in relation to how much money the Yankees had made, or to how many millions Colonel Ruppert was worth, but rather to DiMaggio’s salary as measured against the wages of the average American.
The assault was surprisingly harsh. He was privileged and spoiled. “DiMaggio is an ungrateful young man and is very unfair to his teammates to say the least,” Colonel Ruppert said. “As far as I’m concerned that’s all he’s worth to the ball club, and if he doesn’t sign we’ll win the pennant without him.” Then Ruppert added: “Is it fair for him to remain home while the other boys are training down South? No! Absolutely no!” DiMaggio himself remained adamant, which made Ruppert angrier. As the holdout progressed he added,
Although DiMaggio was largely suspicious of newspapermen and reserved with most of them, his relationships with them were actually rather good. The last line of the last column of the greatest sportswriter of two eras, Red Smith, concluded: “I told myself not to worry: Someday there would be another DiMaggio.” The writers were, of course, wired to DiMaggio. They treated him as the White House press corps might treat a wildly popular president: They understood the phenomenon, what caused it and what made it work, and they were delighted to be a part of it, mostly because their readers wanted to know all about DiMaggio. Besides, the writers respected DiMaggio; for many of them he was the best all-around player they had ever seen. He frequently carried the team and he always did it modestly.
If DiMaggio wanted them at a distance, they readily accepted that. For one thing, even if he might not have beenthe perfect interviewee (when he first came up, he was so unsophisticated, he liked to recall, that when the sportswriters asked him for a quote, he thought they were talking about a soft drink), he was a gent. As he took his own dignity seriously, he generally accorded the writers theirs. On questions about baseball, he was generally candid. He was also aware of the uses of good publicity, and he was, if anything, closer to some of the writers, particularly the columnists, than he was to his teammates. He understood that if he gave too little of himself, the press would rebel. He never upbraided a reporter who transgressed, as Williams did, but he was, in his own way, just as tough. If a reporter displeased him, even slightly, DiMaggio would ruthlessly cut him off.
W. C. Heinz, one of the best writers of that era, thought that his colleagues were different with DiMaggio from the way they were with other athletes. As they entered the Yankee locker room, they were cocky, brash, and filled with self-importance. Then, as they approached DiMaggio’s locker, they began to change from men to boys. They became reverential, almost apologetic for even asking questions. You could, Heinz thought, hear the rustle of the paper in their notebooks as they steeled their courage to ask him how he felt.
DiMaggio had good reason for being suspicious of the press. In his first two seasons as a Yankee, he had been nothing less than brilliant, leading New York back to the pennant after a hiatus of three years. In his second season he hit .346 and 46 home runs, and knocked in 167 runs. He had been paid only $8,000 for his first year, and for his second, $15,000 plus, of course, his World Series checks, which Yankee management viewed as part of his salary. For his third year he decided to ask for $40,000. The Yankees offered him $25,000. Ed Barrow, the general manager, told him that $40,000 was more than the great Lou Gehrig made. “Then Mr. Gehrig is a badly underpaid player,”DiMaggio answered. The Yankee management turned its full firepower on him. This was the Depression, and, typically, the ownership did not view the question in relation to how much money the Yankees had made, or to how many millions Colonel Ruppert was worth, but rather to DiMaggio’s salary as measured against the wages of the average American.
The assault was surprisingly harsh. He was privileged and spoiled. “DiMaggio is an ungrateful young man and is very unfair to his teammates to say the least,” Colonel Ruppert said. “As far as I’m concerned that’s all he’s worth to the ball club, and if he doesn’t sign we’ll win the pennant without him.” Then Ruppert added: “Is it fair for him to remain home while the other boys are training down South? No! Absolutely no!” DiMaggio himself remained adamant, which made Ruppert angrier. As the holdout progressed he added,
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