Joe DiMaggio - The Yankee Clipper E-Book

Gene Schoor

• Herausgeber: Edizioni Savine
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Joe DiMaggio’s rise from the boy “least likely to succeed” to the top of the professional baseball world is truly a remarkable story. As a teenager his favorite sport was tennis, but when two of his brothers became professional baseball players, Joe realized that here was a way to fame and fortune he wanted for himself and his family. After three years with the San Francisco Seals, he was sold to the New York Yankees, where he gained everlasting fame as one of the greatest players in the history of the game.

Leseprobe

JOE DiMAGGIO

THE YANKEE CLIPPER

by Gene Schoor

New digital edition of:

Joe DiMaggio - The Yankee Clipper

by Gene Schoor

© 1956 by Gene Schoor

Fifth Printing, 1963

Copyright © 2016 - Edizioni Savine

email: [email protected]

ISBN 978-88-99914-01-1

CONTENTS

JOE DiMAGGIO - THE YANKEE CLIPPER

Preface

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Preface

When Giuseppe DiMaggio came to this country from Sicily, he never dreamed that three of his sons would become baseball players and that one, his namesake, would gain everlasting fame as The Yankee Clipper.

Papa DiMaggio was a fisherman, and he took it for granted that his four sons would take over the boats when they became of age. However Joe flatly refused to have anything to do with fish. Claiming he couldn’t take the roll of the boat and the smell of the fish, he fled to the sandlots near San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf.

Joe played baseball half-heartedly, and when he was fourteen abandoned it entirely in favor of tennis. But when his older brother Vince made good with a professional baseball team, Joe changed his mind about a baseball career.

His first league contract netted him $8.00 and a pair of baseball shoes, but his big bat soon attracted the attention of the San Francisco Seals of the Pacific Coast League. DiMaggio, with his poker face and shy grin, was an immediate sensation with the Seals and after three starring years was sold to the New York Yankees.

Side by side with such greats as Lou Gehrig, Bill Dickey, Lefty Gomez, Tony Lazzeri, Joe made a place for himself with his tremendous hitting and fielding. In later years, joined by other Yankee stars—Tommy Henrich, Phil Rizzuto, Yogi Berra, Allie Reynolds—Joe rolled up a record of achievement that included being chosen three times the American League’s Most Valuable Player . . . selected by the fans for the All-Star game every year . . . playing in nine World Series ... a fifty-six consecutive game hitting streak . . . reaching the pinnacle when he was voted among the immortals in baseball’s Hall of Fame just a short four years after his retirement. An additional honor was given him when the Yankees retired his #5, along with Babe Ruth’s #3 and Lou Gehrig’s #4.

Joe DiMaggio’s rise from the boy “least likely to succeed” to the top of the professional baseball world is truly a remarkable story. To baseball fans, The Yankee Clipper will never be forgotten.

With the San Francisco Seals, 1933

With Lou Gehrig, 1936

Playing the Washington Senators, 1941

Hitting against the Cincinnati Reds, 1936

With John Mize and Allie Reynolds

With Tommy Henrich and Phil Rizzuto

Joe visits Boys Town in Italy

Gen. William J. Flood sews on Joe's arm patch

Golden Wedding Anniversary with Dom, Joe and Tom

Joe DiMaggio Night at Yankee Stadium

Joe married Marilyn Monroe, January 14, 1954

1955 Hall of Fame Players: Joe DiMaggio, Gabby Hartnett, Ted Lyons, Dazzy Vance, Ray Schalk, Frank Baker

With his son Joe, Jr., l4½

CHAPTER 1

The fog rolled in silently off the bay, wet and cool, a dirty gray blanket that settled swiftly in thick folds over the city, dimming the street lamps to a feeble glow, hiding the approaching dawn with its density.

The city was quiet, content to sleep under its dark coverlet. For soon enough the fog would lift, and the midsummer sun would rise, hot and red, and the city would awaken, heavy lidded and weary, to start another day.

But now it was still dark. Then, on Taylor Street, above Fisherman’s Wharf, a light showed suddenly in the ground floor apartment of No. 2047, a three-story frame and stucco structure exactly like all the houses that climbed in an unbroken line up Taylor Street to the top of the hill. In the bedroom of the small apartment Giuseppe DiMaggio rose from his bed and began to dress. He listened a moment in the stillness of the room, hearing the faint, lonely clanking of the bell buoys as they rolled gently on the rhythmic tide. Then, from the kitchen, where his wife Rosalie was preparing his breakfast, there came the appetizing aroma of strong coffee, freshly brewed, and he felt hungry.

“Are the boys up, Rosa?” Giuseppe asked his wife when he entered the kitchen. He walked to the sink without waiting for her answer, splashed cold water on his face and dried himself on the towel that hung on a wooden bar on the wall at his side.

“Yes, Papa. They are up. They get dressed.”

“Giuseppe, too?” He turned from the sink and looked at her. She didn’t answer.

“Not Giuseppe, eh?” His voice, thick with the accent of his native Sicily, was filled with scorn.

“His brothers can help their papa on the boat. His sisters can help to clean—and to fix the nets. But not Giuseppe. No, to help his papa to fish for crabs he is too good, eh?”

Mrs. DiMaggio looked at her husband. She saw his face, angry now beneath the smooth black hair, the skin rough and windburned, the eyes lined deeply around the corners from long years of squinting into the glare of sun-reflecting water. He was a good man.

“No, Papa,” she said to him. “You know it is not like that with little Giuseppe. He wants to help. He is a good boy. But the boat makes him sick when the sea is bad, and even when it is not so bad. And the smell of the fish, it makes him sick, too.” She shrugged, smiling with motherly tolerance. “He is not a fisherman. Maybe when he gets big, he will fish.”

“What is he, then?” challenged her husband, and his voice was angry. “Ill tell you what he is, Rosa. He is a no-good. A loafer. To run and play with the other no-goods in the street he is never sick. To play that what-you-call-it, baseball, and tear his pants and his shoes, for this he is never sick.” He slammed his cup on the table and shook his head.

“I’m telling you, Rosa. That boy’s never gonna be no good! Never.”

Rosalie DiMaggio sighed deeply. This was an old argument between them. “Papa,” she said gently, “how do you talk that way about your own boy? He’s only ten years old. In America it’s different from Sicily. A boy likes to play with the other boys. He doesn’t like to work, work all the time. You’ll see. He’ll be a little older, he’ll work, too.”

Her husband waved his hand to deride her argument as he swallowed a mouthful of his breakfast. “Don’t make no excuses for the boy, Rosa. He’s plenty old enough to work after school like his brothers. Dominic is how old—eight?— and he’s always running home from school to help his papa. And Thomas and Michael and Vincent, when they were younger than Giuseppe they went out on the boat with me. No, he’s just a lazy boy, Rosa,” Giuseppe DiMaggio said to his wife, “and he don’t listen, he don’t talk. He just sits there and looks angry. All the time—he no talk.”

“Well, maybe you’re right, Papa,” she acknowledged. “But he says he’s sick when he goes near the fish. Who can say if it’s so or not?”

“I can say,” her husband retorted. “For two hundred, three hundred years the DiMaggios been fishermen in Sicily. My grandfather was a fisherman and his grandfather was a fisherman. I was a fisherman in Sicily. All right, when I first came here to America I worked on the railroad to make enough dollars to send for you, Rosa. But as soon as I can I went back to the boats and to the sea. All the time the DiMaggios were fishermen. Now this one, your Giuseppe, all of a sudden to be a fisherman makes him sick? It’s not possible. And I worry sick about that boy, Rosa.”

He gulped the last of his coffee and got up from his chair. “So where’s the boys?” he asked his wife.

“They’ll be in soon, Papa. I let them sleep a little extra.”

Giuseppe DiMaggio shook his head. In his day boys didn’t expect to sleep a little extra when there was work to be done. “All right. I’ll be down by the boat. Tell them to hurry up. The DiMaggios’ boat is not the only one’s gonna be out fishing today.”

He took the lunch basket his wife handed him, then he kissed her gently on the cheek. “You better have a talk with that Giuseppe, Rosa,” he said to her. “If not, he’s gonna become a no-good loafer.”

“Don’t worry, Papa, he’s gonna be all right,” she said to him.

When her husband left, Rosalie DiMaggio busied herself with preparing breakfast for her boys. She sang softly as she set out the plates and the cups and saucers on the neat checkered cloth that covered the rectangular kitchen table. She thought of her little Giuseppe Paolo DiMaggio, named for his father, because she and her husband thought he would be the last child born to them. But God had blessed them with yet another, their ninth, a son Dominic.

What, indeed, would be with Giuseppe? What else could —or should—a DiMaggio be but a fisherman? Maybe, she thought guardedly—for her husband would frown at the idea—maybe if the fish run good and there is a little money Giuseppe and Vincent could finish school and become somebody. Not that being a fisherman was not a good thing, oh, no! But in America everyone does not have to be a fisherman.

“Good morning, Ma. Papa gone down to the boat already?” She was brought back to reality by Thomas, her oldest. He sat down at the table and watched hungrily as his mother put down a steaming bowl of cereal.

“Yes, Papa has gone. Where are your brothers?”

“Be in in a minute. They gotta grab that last minute’s sleep. You know.”

Mrs. DiMaggio nodded. She knew. And she understood now—not like Papa—that the iron discipline that parents of good Italian families in the old country expected was somehow not in keeping with things here. You were strict with your children in matters of respect and obedience, naturally. But—and she had so often discussed this with the other women at the market—the children born in America seem to be born independent. She wasn’t sure this was such a good thing. Take Giuseppe, now . . .

“Hi, Mama.” It was Dominic, her baby, kissing her on the cheek before he sat down at the table.

She placed his bowl of cereal before him. “Dominic, you sure you want to go with your papa on the boat today? It’s not easy work for a little boy like you.”

“Sure, Mama,” he answered eagerly. “I’m not a fraidy-cat like Joey. Am I Vince?”

“Yeah, you’re all right, Dom,” his brother acknowledged. “Dominic,” his mother said sternly, but not too harshly, because he was her youngest and her favorite. “That’s not nice to talk like that about your brother.”

“Aw, Ma,” Dominic retorted. “So what’s he always layin’ around in bed for whenever Papa wants us to go out with him? He’s afraid he’s going to drown or something, I’ll bet.” “Lay off Joey for once, will you guys,” Tom said. “If he says he’s sick, he’s sick. You guys mind your own business. Joey’s got enough keeping out of trouble with Pop, without you wise guys starting up.” He finished his breakfast and stood up. “C’mon, let’s get going. Pop’s waiting for us down at the docks.”

The four youngsters chorused a “So long, Mom,” and scooted out the door. Their mother walked to the front window and watched them until their figures were swallowed up by the darkness and the fog. Then she turned back to the kitchen and began clearing things away.

After a while she walked into her sons’ bedroom. She leaned over and shook the small figure huddled in the big iron bed. “Giuseppe,” she called firmly. “Giuseppe. Get up. Everybody’s gone away. It’s all right now.”