The Loneliest Hero

You'd think--when the landstarts to shudder and roar, and splits apart to swallow bridges and cars... when the rocks of the earth smash together, heaving houses like toddlers' toys... you'd think all the people would be the same. An earthquake must send a shudder through every helpless heart. What is any man in the face of ineluctable tectonic force? You'd have to think--when every man must fear, with a wakening reptile-brain jolt of panic... that must overwhelm, at least for the moment, our small distinctions of self and style.

And people did think so--or at least said so--when the avid news crews of the western world started filming, after the San Francisco earthquake in October 1989. The city was packed with crews already, for the Bay Bridge World Series--the Giants against the local rival Oakland A's--first time in history, the town was in its glory... and then, just as Game Three was to start, the quake hit and the newsies jumped to it. Almost instantly, there were horrific aerial shots of highways crumpled, whole blocks afire; there were death counts, pleas and pronouncements from the mayor, the governor; live shots of firemen, police, emergency room personnel; but mostly interviews--scores of witnesses, victims, helpers, neighbors... and all, or mostly all, expressing the same oddly ennobling thought: they had run out to the street, all the citizens together; they had fled with, huddled among, and clung to perfect strangers; and now everybody was helping everybody, because... they were all in the same boat.

But they didn't know Joe DiMaggio--though he was a neighbor, too. They might have seen him, that famous, dapper seventy-four-year-old who took his walks on the Marina streets. They knew his house. They probably thought they knew him, or knew things about him:

They couldn't have known much. Joe had seen to that. No one really knew what it meant to have spent a half-century being precisely and distinctly DiMaggio--what we required Joe DiMaggio to be. No one knew, as he did, what it cost to live the hero's life. And no one knew, as he did, precisely what it was worth.

If the neighbors had known, they would have understood: DiMaggio had his own boat--his alone. No matter the emergency, he'd steer his own course--for him alone. They would have known--even in an earthquake--DiMaggio would have his own destiny, apparently blessed from above.

To understand you had to see him, first, where he sat as the quake struck--to be precise, on the field of Candlestick Park, in one of the special seats installed for the Series in front of the normal box seat railing. This was appropriate because, if he'd been sitting in the stands--anywhere in the stands--he would have been in company with sixty-two thousand others in the stands. Or, more likely, he would not have come. To put DiMaggio among fans would have ignored his standing in the Great Game--to be precise, as Baseball's Greatest Living Player--which was the epithet he insisted upon, when he was publicly introduced. (But this was better: Joe had the Greatest Living Player's seat, and he wasn't introduced.)

He was sitting next to the Oakland A's dugout, which was proper because he was, as ever, an American Leaguer. Besides, the A's were one of his teams, the only big league club he'd worked for--apart from the Yankees, of course. In '68 and '69 he'd served as a coach (with vice president's rank) for Charlie Finley's Oakland A's. It was a not-quite-ready-for-prime-time ball club--and looked even worse in Kelly green uniforms. But DiMaggio needed two more years of employment to qualify for baseball's maximum pension (which pension he began to receive some five years later, and which he never touched, but piled up in a satisfying stack). Even thereafter, through the 1980s, the A's would call DiMaggio for special events, to come to their park, to be introduced, to be cheered by the fans as he threw out the first pitch--for a decent fee. More than decent, actually, because the A's did not cavil when DiMaggio asked for transcontinental first-class airfare back and forth from New York or Miami--when Joe was actually in San Francisco, which was a twenty-dollar cab ride or would have been, if Joe hadn't brought along some pal, who'd ride him to Oakland for free.

He was sitting in company with Bobby Brown, third baseman for the Yanks in the 1940s, when Joe was the eminence in the old Bronx clubhouse. Normally, DiMag would not have sat with another player--he still wouldn't be "part of the gang." (He wouldn't even go to Cooperstown, where the players who gathered could be described as his peers.) But Bobby Brown was an exception. He had become a successful cardiologist, and now served as president of the American League. You could say he and Joe were friends. And Joe had his seat at Dr. Brown's invitation--Bobby gave him the ticket.

Of course, DiMaggio got tickets, too, all the baseball tickets he wanted, any game he wanted--All-Star games, playoff games, World Series--but he sold those. Like all his SuperBowl tickets: Joe could make a stack with the tickets he got from the NFL, from the clubs, from companies or the rich guys who owned them. Joe gave them to Ben Langella, who was a banker in a suburb south of San Francisco--and Ben would turn those tickets into cash. Ben took care of a lot of little things for Joe, and the Clipper would come to Langella's savings-and-loan, down near the airport, almost every day to give Ben some new job. Or he'd ask: "How you doin' with the tickets?" And Ben would say: "Good, Joe. Eighteen thousand dollars. I got 'em all sold." Joe would say, "Not so fast. I can get more." Tickets were a fat five figures for DiMaggio every year. And you couldn't say Joe wasn't grateful. Ben Langella had a seat on the Candlestick field, too--same row as Joe.

That was still how Joe paid off: his company was currency, sufficient to any cost. Now, in Joe's seventy-fifth year, that had become his modus operandi--as close as he came to an article of faith. One time, at Joe's house, a pal and business associate was needling DiMag about the money he'd made for him, checks he'd written to him, all the stuff he'd paid for--and what had Joe ever paid? Joe turned his poker face on him, and replied: "You're here, aren't you?"... In the old days there had been occasional moments when it pleased Joe to give away that currency--especially to people who didn't ask, or weren't in position to expect anything--like kids, or guys minding their own business in a bar or a restaurant. Joe would hang around, and even talk, so he wouldn't be alone--unless they asked for something, or called attention to themselves with Joe... then he'd get his back up and walk out. But lately, the marketplace kept pushing the value of Joe's company higher. By 1989, he was commanding forty to fifty thousand dollars a day for autograph shows and memorabilia sales. And for the most part, he'd stopped doing anything for free. As for friendship--well, the old pals he'd hung around with for fun were gone. New pals were in the business of taking care of Joe, somehow.

That day, in the special seats at Candlestick, there was Sam Spear, the PR guy at Bay Meadows Race Track, where Joe would spend some days. Sam would make sure Joe was comfortable in the press box or the Directors' Room, with a table to himself, so he could look at his mail or think about placing a two-dollar bet, and none of the fans could get near him. That was how Sam earned his World Series ticket--and, of course, he called himself Joe's pal. But DiMaggio had his doubts about Spear: he was getting to be like all the rest--presumptuous about the palship. (And Joe's doubts were borne out within a couple of months, when Sam threw a birthday party for Joe at the track. It was up in the Directors' Room; Sam had the place full--must have cost him a bundle--but Joe didn't like the crowd Sam invited. Then Sam put up on the big tote board that Joe D. was at the track, celebrating his birthday... DiMaggio threw a twenty on his table and walked out.)

Ben Langella had met Joe at the track, too. That was more than ten years ago, in the press box--Joe was going through his brown paper sack of mail. Someone told Joe that Ben ran a bank in Millbrae, and Joe got an idea. He turned to Ben: "Do you have anyone at your bank who could type some letters for me?" Ben smiled sweetly. "I can type, Joe." Joe was at the bank, nine a.m. the next day. Ben had been writing Joe's letters ever since. And Joe had been good for Ben. People came to Ben's office of Continental Savings Bank just to see DiMaggio napping in the armchair near Ben's desk. When Joe was in a good mood, Langella would slip him three or four balls to sign--Ben would hand those out to good customers. Langella got his branch up to $130 million in deposits that way and that didn't count Joe's money in there. You couldn't really count on Joe's money. He favored hundred-dollar bills, in safe deposit boxes--like an old Papa who'd tuck cash in the mattress. Of course, Joe's pals blamed that on the Great Depression--when Joe grew up there was never enough cash. But now he had piles of dough, and what was it for? In San Francisco, they called Joe "Fishhooks"--because he must have hooks in his pocket, he'd never put his hand in there. Joe stuffed so many hundreds in his box that Ben told him, "Joe, don't put any more in there. We'll have to get 'em out with dynamite." (Like most jokes in those days, Joe didn't get it--or didn't choose to get it: "No," he said. "There's room for more.")

Langella had become a man of all work for Joe--chief of the San Francisco branch of the network--it wasn't just letters, now. Ben would field his calls, screen his offers, put him in deals, take him to lunch, ride him around. Langella would drive Joe's car--his Acura--to San Jose every six months, take Joe to the dealership, where Joe would sign balls for everybody who'd bought cars since his last visit. Then the dealer would give Joe a brand-new Acura. Joe would move his tape of Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea (it was Spencer Tracy's voice: "I would like to fish with the Great DiMaggio. They say his father was a fisherman...") from the six-month-old Acura into the new Acura. Then Ben would drive Joe home again. And they'd always stop at a fishmonger Ben knew--a Greek named Manaidas, a beautiful fish place--where they were so honored by DiMaggio's visit that they'd load him up with fish, whatever he wanted. They'd pack the new Acura's trunk, and put some extra in the back seat--until one day Manaidas asked Joe to sign something, and Joe wouldn't do that--so Manaidas told him, no more fish. Now Ben was looking for a new fish guy. That sort of service had earned Ben his Series ticket.

Actually, Ben had half-a-ticket, once they got in the park--they rip everybody's ticket at the turnstile... everybody but Joe. DiMaggio wouldn't let them rip his ticket. A whole ticket was worth more in the memorabilia business. (And it would not escape Joe's notice--after the quake hit--that he had a pretty good item: the Only Series Game in History Canceled on Account of Earthquake... and he's got the only mint ticket. Not bad.)

Anyway, it was just after five p.m., a half-hour till game time, and DiMag was talking idly with Bobby Brown--baseball chat--but staring straight ahead, with a look of doleful concentration, like he had to watch all the pregame stuff. Joe knew if he sat back, or smiled, or turned and looked around, that would give fans license to approach and ask him to sign things. If even one guy got to him, there'd be a million fans on his neck all day. So everything in Joe's countenance advertised that he was unavailable. He had his legs crossed with his arms across his knees--a bit of self-protection from his arms, on both sides. His shoulders were hunched--he was hunched all the time, now, with the scoliosis in his back. He had his great nose pointed out to center field, his dark eyes focused at a distance, as if he meant to descry the stitching on the color guard uniforms. "Look at that power alley," Joe said, shifting his stare to the left center field wall. "What's it say?" Brown grinned at the memory of four hundred sixty-one feet to left center in the grand old Yankee Stadium. Then he read out the number from the Candlestick fence: "Three eighty-five, Joe."

DiMaggio snorted. "That's a bunt."

But when everything stopped, what was Joe supposed to stare at? At first, he didn't know it was an earthquake. He didn't feel the stands sway: he was on the field--didn't feel a thing. What's the hold-up?... Then he was annoyed. He'd got a limo to take him to the ballpark. Now they're gonna cancel the game?

But word from radios was sweeping the stands--this was a bad one: the Bay Bridge was out! People started leaving, and DiMaggio relaxed. It was bad enough, no one was looking at him. Then, the announcement--please file out of the stands, onto the field. That got DiMaggio up in a hurry: Sixty thousand fans, on the field with him?... And then, from the radios: fires raging in the Marina. That was Joe's house!... Ben Langella had hustled off to call his family. So Sam Spear walked DiMag out to the Giants players' parking lot, where the limo waited. And Joe was on his way home before most of the fans even got to firm ground.

There was actually a vote, in 1969, for baseball's Greatest Living Player. It was for a dinner to celebrate baseball's centennial--baseball writers, mostly, and mostly New Yorkers. It wasn't official. There wasn't any nationwide poll. Of course, Ruth, Cobb, and Gehrig were (as Stengel used to say) "dead at the present time." But Ted Williams, the last man to hit .400, was very much alive in memory and person. The voters all had fresher visions of the modern greats--Musial and Mantle had recently retired; Mays and Clemente were present-day All-Stars.... Still, it wasn't even close. Even dimmed by two decades' distance, one name, one man stood out alone. DiMaggio walked away with the honor, as he'd won every other accolade in baseball--without apparent strain.

Why? What was it about DiMag?

Well, you could keep it simple--call it the destiny of talent. Of the five things a ballplayer must do--run, field, throw, hit, and hit for power--DiMaggio was the first man in history who was brilliant at five out of five. (One time, when Joe complained about the fuss people made--"I don't understand all this limelight!"--his pal Eddie Liberatore said: "Look, Joe. God made Mozart and He said, 'You're gonna be a genius for music.' He made Michelangelo, He said, 'You're gonna be a genius for art.' He made you--'You're gonna be a genius for baseball.' "... Joe thought that over, and conceded: "You might be right.")

Or you could talk about the only attribute that Joe would bring up: DiMaggio-as-Winner. In his thirteen years, his Yankees won ten pennants, and nine world championships. That was a record unmatched by any player in history. (As his teammate the shortstop Phil Rizzuto recalled: "You'd just turn around and see him out there--and you knew you had a pretty good chance to win.")

Or you could talk--as the voters did, at that dinner--about what DiMaggio couldn't do. He couldn't misjudge a fly ball in that vast Stadium center field; couldn't look bad on a low, slow curveball; couldn't ever rile an umpire against him, or act in an unbecoming way toward opponents. He never seemed to throw to the wrong base, never ran the basepaths stupidly--he just couldn't. For it wasn't that DiMaggio was often good, he was almost never bad. (All through the thirties and forties--every time he came to the plate, through six thousand at bats--fans were two and a half times more likely to see him smash an extra-base hit than they were to see him strike out.)

It was often said--for want of better--that Joe D. was "a natural." In fact, he was the un-natural: over a span of sixteen years, he'd stood against the humbling nature of the game. He excelled and continued to excel, against the mounting "natural" odds. He exceeded, withal, the cruelest expectations: He was expected to lead and to win--and he did. He was expected to be the best--and he was. He was expected to be the exemplar of dignity, class, grace--expected even to look the best.... And he looked perfect.

And, of course, that didn't stop with the forties, or with retirement--that wasn't about what he did on the field, but who he was--that was why he won that vote in a walk. You could also say that was where destiny ended, and gave way to a lifetime of doing. DiMaggio did for us--for the sake of our good opinion--through every decade, every day. He was, at every turn, one man we could look at who made us feel good. For it was always about how we felt... with Joe. No wonder we strove for sixty years to give him the hero's life. It was always about us. Alas, it was his destiny to know that, as well.

The old house on beach street was the only home Joe had ever bought. What griped him was he had to buy it twice: first time was for his parents, after his second year in the bigs. But when Giuseppe and Rosalie died they left the house to all the kids--Joe had to buy out his siblings... and the second purchase cost more than the first. (After forty years, Joe was still grumbling about that deal.) Of course, now he could sell it for a million--but he wouldn't. That would bring publicity--and taxes.

Taxes had driven him out of San Francisco. He wasn't a resident anymore--not officially. He got a bug up his nose about the state income tax. They had the nerve to come after him for all the cash he took for ads, appearances, autographs... they wanted him to pay a million dollars. So, Joe screwed them down to fourhundred thousand, and changed his residence to Hollywood, Florida. Of course, it was kind of a dump, but there was no income tax, no estate tax--and Joe wasn't sentimental about hometowns.

But the house in the Marina was different. That was about who he was. He'd put the house in his sister Marie's name--she still lived downstairs. Now, she was more than eighty years old, with one heart attack behind her--but she still kept that place pin-neat, mowed the grass in back, dragged the hose around to water the garden. (Joe wouldn't spring for a sprinkler system, or a power mower.) And still, Marie took care of Joe's mail--kept the letters with names she recognized in brown grocery sacks, and marked the ones from autograph seekers or anybody else: "No longer lives here." (She had a deal with the postman, so Joe wouldn't have to buy stamps to send those back.)

When the earthquake hit, Marie had run out the door--didn't even stop to grab clothes. She found her neighbor, Rose, amid the crowd on Beach Street. The dust, the smell, the noise was awful. Things were crashing in the houses. The house two doors away was coming apart, tumbling down. So Marie and Rose got out as fast as they could. (They would end up at Rose's friend's house, where they'd sleep for the next few days--politely declining the Red Cross food--till it was safe to stay home again.)

By the time Joe got to the Marina, the streets were a horror show: buckled pavement, crumbling houses, broken concrete, glass, wires, fires. Military police in cammo gear had been mobilized to cordon off the area. The firemen had rushed through and broken into houses to shut off the gas. Rescue workers were already hunting for survivors who might be trapped under rubble. Any extra men were pinned down fighting, or trying to contain, the fires. No one was allowed to go in there, except for firefighters, cops, the water main guys, gas and electric... and Joe. A fire captain and police officer broke away to walk the Jolter in. On his block of Beach Street, there were three houses down in ruin, an apartment building was cockeyed, menacing the rest of the buildings. And amid the chaotic destruction, Joe's house was... fine.

The front gate was twisted and the door was open where the firemen had to break in, but the building looked solid, the grounds were undisturbed. And inside there was, well... a bit of dust. Maybe there were new plaster cracks. But nothing crumbled. Nothing burned. Nothing fell. Not one dish was broken. There was his portrait of Marilyn on the wall of the living room. And the larger-than-life painting of himself in a shoulder-padded 1950s suit. There, in its place of honor on the TV, was his proudest new possession: the baseball signed by Ronnie Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev, when Joe was at the White House a couple of years before. And there, in its accustomed place on the fridge, was his proudest old possession: the silver humidor engraved with the names of his Yankee teammates, who gave that gift to Joe after The Streak, in 1941. Joe took a minute to go upstairs, to his private quarters, and came back with his big right hand around the neck of a garbage bag. No, no, he said, he'd carry his own. He left the house without another glance around.

He could see, everything was in its place, except his sister. Marie was gone, and he had no way to find her. He wasn't seized with fear for her. Panic was never Joe's style. It was more like the last egg in the carton--he couldn't close the lid until he knew where his sister was. The police and fire brass walked Joe out to the yacht harbor--the open space that the neighborhood folks called Marina Green. That's where the emergency management teams had set up shop, where residents had gathered--and the news crews, of course--who flocked to DiMaggio. And for once, he didn't duck.

There he was, full-frame in their cameras, standing so humbly, like all the other dispossessed. And look! The Great DiMaggio was dragging out a garbage bag. Uncomplaining--no, he didn't want help.

He was fine, he said to the cameras. He'd been at the ballgame. He'd find a place to stay. His house was not a worry.... But he'd like to get in touch with his sister.

Within minutes, the news was everywhere in San Francisco--TV, radio, police and fire scanners, the National Guard, the mayor's command post: Joe DiMaggio is looking for his sister!

That was classic Joe: grace is just another word for no wasted motion. Of course, Marie got the news, she called in, to say she was all right. Before full darkness fell upon the shaken city, Joe DiMaggio's world was back in place.

And Joe would be comfortable that night, too--at the Presidio Club. He was an honorary member--didn't have to pay dues. But he knew they kept a few quiet guest rooms upstairs. And he'd sleep well there--with the garbage bag, which held six hundred thousand dollars, cash.

The day after the earthquake, Henry Bracco drove Joe to Ben Langella's bank. Henry lived north of the city, in Marin--the trip to Millbrae, in the south, was a trek. But Bracco was one of those guys who'd do anything for DiMaggio. He was a pharmacist and got Joe his pills: vitamins, arthritis stuff, heart pills, plenty--expensive ones, too--though Joe never paid a dime. Bracco used to drive Joe anywhere he needed to go, then stay in the car, have a nap--content just to wait for the Clipper.

DiMaggio wanted Langella to find a contractor--right now--get him over to the house. "It's gotta be a guy we can trust," Joe said. But Ben knew that: dealings with DiMaggio were, by nature, confidential.

Ben got a builder named Wally Baldwin--convinced him to get on the case right away. Wally was a rising commercial builder. Houses weren't really his business. (And his commercial clients were all calling in--they wanted their buildings checked out for quake damage, cracks, or cosmetics.)... "But we gotta take care of Joe first," Ben said. Baldwin said he'd look at Joe's house, that day.

But lunch came first--for the Clipper, anyway. Anytime Joe came to Ben's bank, Ben would take him next door to the deli--Leonardo's. When Continental Savings built Ben's branch in Millbrae, they created a strip mall around the bank. Lenny Baranti's deli was a tenant. He'd make Joe a nice fresh sandwich--maybe turkey, with a touch of olive oil. Joe didn't want anything fat, like salami--and no garlic: it made your breath smell. Joe didn't want to smell like a Dago. (He was punctilious about that, as he was about his hair--no hair oil. He'd tell you, even if you didn't ask: nothing but water on his hair. Of course, now he was also using a special shampoo that made his hair whiter. But that was a secret.)... Anyway, Joe's taste in food had grown simpler with age. What hadn't changed was his method of payment: Baranti's walls were studded with signed pics of the Jolter--to enhance the glory of Leonardo's Deli. Even so, after a few hundred lunches, Lenny had protested to Ben--they never paid a nickel! So that day, Ben had to pay for Joe and Henry Bracco.

They got to the Marina in the early afternoon--Bracco drove, Ben had the back seat. Joe sat shotgun, as he always did--so he got to run the heater. Joe liked his cars warm. They were nice and toasty by the time Bracco parked, as near as he could, and prepared for a nap. Joe and Ben Langella walked in toward Beach Street. Marie was at the house. She had a yellow card from the Fire Department that permitted residents to visit their houses for an hour--in case there was medicine, or some other crucial thing to pick up. The unlucky residents got red cards: meant their houses weren't safe even to visit. Green cards allowed full access--they were hard to get. Joe flashed his green card.

Joe sat Ben in the front room, across from the giant oil of DiMaggio in the double-breasted suit. There was a striking opulence to that portrait--it wasn't just the size of the canvas. There was something about the half-smile on Joe's face and the look in his eye--a look at nothing in particular, nothing to give rise to that smile... so the look of pleasure was for Joe, in himself. And there was the suit, so richly built up at the shoulder, so generous about Joe's slender midriff. It was more than a 1950s fullness, it was regal, that ratio of raiment to man--like the fabulous garments borne by dead Sun Kings in the (similarly sized) portraits at Versailles. But there was nothing else palatial in the place--just the old stuff. And the old king couldn't sit still to regard the painting. He was pacing, full of projects for the house.

"This place hasn't been fixed up in a long time. We gotta get everything fixed up. We'll get these carpets cleaned..." There was wall-to-wall in the front room, the old sculpted wool, original to '37--that carpet wore like iron. "And we get this all painted..."

Joe walked past the little table with the phone for the house. There was the Pac-Tel bill--he checked that over. "Eighteen dollars! Marie! What are we spending money on?"

"It's all yours," Marie said instantly. She knew all his moods--knew that bill would cause an eruption. "I only make local calls."

The Clipper scowled, and set the bill down. He had to check downstairs. He hadn't had time, day before, to inspect all his stuff there. "Come on," he said to Ben.

There wasn't any car in Joe's garage. There wasn't room. He parked on the street. For a while, he'd kept the Cadillac in there--the free Cadillac. That was classic Joe, too. He knew this guy named Cappy Harada--Japanese guy, kind of an operator--used to be an executive with the Yomiuri Giants in Japan. Later, Cappy was hustling in the U.S.A., on his own, promoting this and that. So, one time, Cappy got a contract for some ratty town in California--Santa Maria, or Margaret-Santa Something... they were going to have their sesquicentennial, and Cappy wanted Joe to show up. Big deal. Joe didn't even know where the town was. But Cappy was on him like a cheap hooker, and finally, Joe said okay. So he did go, he did hang around, and even talked for a minute after the big dinner. That was that. But two days later, into the bank, here came Cappy.

"Where's Joe?..." Joe was in his armchair, half-asleep. "Joe!" said Cappy. "Hold out your hand!" Cappy dropped a set of keys into Joe's palm.

"What is it?" Joe said.

"It's your brand-new Cadillac! I got it parked for you, right outside."

Joe looked from the keys to Cappy without sitting up, without a smile, without moving his head an extra inch. Joe said: "Did you fill it up with gas?"

So, Joe kept the Cadillac for a while, but then it was his tank to fill, so he gave it to his granddaughter--actually, her husband. As Joe liked to say in those days, everything was for the grandkids. Anyway, the car was taking up his garage. Joe needed the room.

Now, the garage was lined with golf bags--neat, against the walls--must have been fifty golf bags. They were all new, each with a new set of clubs inside. A lot of famous tournaments, like the Dinah Shore, always gave the celebs a new set of clubs (and a bag, shirt, and shoes) automatically--with the tournament name--as a memento. Joe liked those. One time, Dinah herself called up to invite him--and Joe said, sure, he'd come. But he was going to bring a friend--so he'd need two sets of stuff, and all... and the friend was exactly the same size as him. When it wasn't automatic, Joe didn't like that. He didn't like to ask. He played for something like fifteen years straight in the American Airlines tourney, and every time, he'd have to tell the girl in the office that his bag was in Florida, or his sister screwed up, and it never got shipped--so he'd need some clubs, and shoes... but that was over, now. They stopped inviting him. Crandall, the airline president, got pissed off because if Joe didn't win and wasn't going to get a check he wouldn't even stay for the big Sunday dinner.

So Joe had his bags all lined up, with the shoes on shelves above, and on the floor, in front of the golf bags, he had the shirts--hundreds of shirts!--still in plastic bags. They had things like "Buick Open" or "Pebble Beach" embroidered on the chest where the pocket would have been. But you couldn't see what was what anymore. They were dusty before the quake--but now, Jesus! It was a quarter-inch of grime over everything.

And Joe was in a state--who was going to clean all this s--- up? (He was going to pay someone to clean up dust?)... And then he saw the window. It wasn't in the garage, but behind, in a small room that led to the backyard patch of grass. There was a door back there--the old wooden kind, with six panes of glass. And the firemen had broken a pane, so they could reach in and open the lock, to check the house. There was glass on the floor.

"C---sucker firemen! Lookit what they did here!"

Joe was stomping around the back room, looking at the glass like it was shards of Ming vase. And cursing the firemen up and down, back and forth...

"SONOFABITCH A--holes..."

Langella was picking up shirts, blowing dust off. He came to look. He couldn't get upset. "It's okay, Joe."

"OKAY MY A--..." Joe was inspecting a cliff-wall of baseballs, brand-new baseballs, American Leaguers, in boxes of a dozen. People sent Joe balls--sometimes he forgot to sign. Plus, any time he went to a locker room, they'd load up his car. Joe had at least a hundred dozen new balls in his stack.

"LOOKIT! I knew it! Those c---suckers stole a half a dozen balls!"

"You can't tell, Joe. How can you tell?"

"I CAN TELL, GODDAMMIT! THEY STOLE HALF A DOZEN F---ING BALLS!"

Silent, Ben went back to the shirts. He knew Joe would subside. Ben blew dust for a couple of minutes, then held up a Buick Open shirt. "Hey, Joe! This one's my size. Can I have it?"

Joe didn't yell. He was tired, hunched over. He tilted his head on his bent neck, but he couldn't really see the shirt...

"Put it back," he said. "I'll get you another one."

Looking back, Langella never did get the shirt. But it didn't matter--Ben was soon gone from Joe's life. They were all gone, sooner or later, the way Joe figured. Everybody he was close to, gone--and he was still here. A lot of 'em were dead--a hell of a lot. But some fellows who were still around were out of Joe's life just as wholly, and finally, as if they, too, had been planted six feet under. Somewhere along the line Joe had decided, they weren't true pals, or they'd done something wrong... and he walked away. And when Joe walked away, that was it, you were gone. You could try to call, you wanted to explain--he'd hang up. Or you could wait: he'd think it over, he was bound to call, right? What about all those years of friendship?... But it didn't pay to hold your breath. Joe wouldn't call.

See, the way Joe looked at it, you were in it for your own reasons. Even if you just loved the guy, the man was your hero... well, then, that was your reason. You might've gotten along for years that way--did everything for Joe, put your life on call for Joe--and then one day, maybe you decided you had to get back some money you'd laid out--not a profit, just expenses. Whack! You were gone.... Or say you got a call from another friend--all he wanted in the world was to meet Joe DiMaggio. And you said, "Sure, come on over. He's coming here today." And DiMaggio walked in and saw someone extra there. So, he was gone, for good.... Or maybe you did something really stupid, and talked to a writer--you said you knew Joe. You should have said you used to know, because he'd never know you again. Writers were the worst--but it was the same logic. Joe looked at a writer, interviewer, biographer (they were all the same), and thought: Why should this guy make a buck off my life?

As a matter of fact, it was the same for everyone--family was not excepted. Now, Joe and Dom were the only two brothers left. But they didn't talk. Why? Who knew why, with that family? They were DiMaggios. Neither one would say. But the silence went on for years. Dom didn't even like to show up at baseball dinners, or All-Star Games--places where Joe was going to be. Joe would figure that Dom was trying to steal his spotlight--and that would set the Big Guy off, for sure. Money might have started the trouble. Dom ended up with the building where the family restaurant used to be--he made a fortune with that. (Dom made a fortune with everything, which always pissed Joe off.) Or sometimes, the brothers would fight about the sisters. There weren't so many of them left, either. When one of the older ones, Mamie, got too sick to care for herself, Joe was sitting in San Francisco, and he didn't lift a finger. So Dominic had to fly across the country, to put her into a nursing home. Dom wasn't happy about that episode. And neither was Joe. Because Dom flying all that way to take care of Mamie--that shamed Joe. And shame was what he hated worst.

In the end, it was shame that finished Joe and his son. Shame and money--a deadly combination with DiMag. Joe Jr. never did stop drifting, or drinking. One night--late 1960s (he was out of the Marines)--Joey was hanging around Miami Beach, and wandered onto a houseboat from which a nighttime radio show was being broadcast. It was a popular show--made a big name for the host, a guy named Larry King--who, of course, put Joe Jr. on the air, straightaway. As King told the story in his memoir, years later, he was shocked when Junior started to speak about growing up a DiMaggio:

" 'I never knew my father,' he said. 'My parents were divorced when I was little, and I was sent away to private school, and my father was totally missing from my childhood. When they needed a picture of father and son, I'd get picked up in a limo and have my picture taken. We were on the cover of the first issue of Sport magazine when it came out in 1949, my father and I, me wearing a little number 5 jersey. I was driven to the photo session, we had the picture taken, and I was driven back. My father and I didn't say two words.

" 'I cursed the name Joe DiMaggio, Jr. At Yale, I played football--I deliberately avoided baseball--but when I ran out on the field and they announced my name, you could hear the crowd murmur.... When I decided to leave college and join the Marines, I called my father to tell him. You call your father when you make that sort of decision. So I told him, and he said, "The Marines are a good thing." And there was nothing more for us to say to each other.'

"DiMaggio, Jr. said that the closest he'd ever been to his father was in the car on the way to Marilyn Monroe's funeral. He said his father had always gone on loving Monroe, and that he loved her too...."

Of course, Big Joe was furious after Junior told the world all that crap. What right did the kid have to talk about him that way?

As Joe saw it, whatever he gave, Junior pissed away. In 1970, Joe put the kid in a business making polyurethane foam. But the other guys who'd put money in yanked the rug--and forced both DiMaggios out. Joe always said Junior lost that business. Joe bought the kid a long-haul truck--a beauty, Peterbilt, seventy-five grand. Junior wrecked it (and screwed up his trucker's license, too). Big Joe told Ben Langella to give the boy a job. So Ben brought Joey into his bank, and asked him, what did he want to do? "Nothin'," Junior said. "I want to be a bum." By that time--the 1980s--Joey was doing drugs, on top of the drink. And he didn't want a damn thing from his dad. Back east, in New Jersey, Big Joe had a meeting with a man named Bob Boffa--friend of a friend, you could say--Boffa was very big with the Teamsters. And Big Joe asked Boffa to get the kid a job, in a quiet way--which Boffa did, as a favor to the hero. He got Joey signed on to drive a cement truck in Las Vegas. But it didn't last. Anyway, Junior had no place to stay in Vegas. So, while his dad was signing autographs for fifty G's a day, Junior was sleeping in an empty cement-mixer drum... and telling his friends--if his father called, they were to say they didn't know where Joey was.

By that time, all the Clipper's pals knew, Joe Jr. was like Marilyn--a name you couldn't bring up. Junior was a loss, and DiMaggio did not talk about loss. By that time, he had cut away everything that did not fit the picture--our picture of the Great DiMag. If that didn't leave much that we would call a normal life--well, he wouldn't say that. And we didn't really want to know.

By the late 1980s people always seemed shocked if they saw Joe in real life--toting his garment bag off a plane at LAX... licking an ice cream cone on Central Park South in New York... or walking down a South Florida street with an armful of dirty laundry (the machines in his apartment house took half a buck, but at the wash-a-teria it was only thirty-five cents). And when folks talked about those sightings (as they always did), the amazing part was, he was just... alone.

You could call that his bargain with the hero's life. Day to day, that was surely his doing. Or you could conclude it was just part of the package, from the start--Joe was sufficient to Joe. And no matter what else was going on--for one night, one vote of sportswriters, or through decades, twenty thousand days and nights--or in an earthquake... it was his destiny to stand alone.

Uncommon Knowledge

Newsweek is committed to challenging conventional wisdom and finding connections in the search for common ground.

Newsweek is committed to challenging conventional wisdom and finding connections in the search for common ground.

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