REVISED FINAL 5/17/02

# DiMaggio: Setting the Record Straight
## Foreword by Henry A. Kissinger

I had just turned sixteen and had been in this country less than a year when I first fell under the spell of Joe DiMaggio. I had arrived in New York in 1938 with my parents and younger brother, escaping the increasingly dangerous environment in Nazi Germany. We settled in Washington Heights, a haven for many other German Jewish refugees, and I enrolled in a local high school. But times were tough during the Depression, especially for those without a ready command of the language, and the next year I switched to night school in order to work at a cousin's shaving brush factory during the day.

My co-workers at the factory were mostly second-generation Italian-Americans, who seemed to have a passionate interest in a game called baseball and particularly in a player named Joe DiMaggio. Many things about America were still new and strange to me and, although I had been an avid sports fan in Germany, baseball was something about which I knew nothing. My lack of knowledge must have seemed equally strange to my new Italian friends, for one Sunday one of them invited me to go with him to a double-header at Yankee Stadium. We sat in the 55¢ bleachers, where we couldn't see much of what was going on at home plate but had a good view of the great DiMaggio. His graceful fielding and his soaring fly balls hit deep into left field astonished me, and I was hooked. From then on I was a rabid fan, and every Sunday when the Yankees were playing a home game, I would walk forty-five minutes to the stadium to watch my hero work his magic. I had become an American in my heart, if not yet in the eyes of the Bureau of Naturalization.

At that time, the idea that I would one day be the Secretary of State of my adopted country was no more unlikely a dream than that one day I would meet and become a friend of Joe DiMaggio. But many years later a foot problem brought me to the office of Dr. Rock Positano, a well-known podiatrist and sports medicine specialist. Another of his patients was Joe DiMaggio, who happened to be there at the same time, and Dr. Positano introduced us. I admit to feeling like a star-struck adolescent again, but Joe was gracious and easy to chat with. It turned out that our appointments were often at the same hour, so we saw each other with some frequency and a friendship developed. We found we had much to talk about, for Joe was very interested in and knowledgeable about current affairs, and I loved hearing his baseball stories.

I remained a fan until the end of his life. When he died, I felt not only a personal bereavement at the loss of a close friend but the sorrow of a nation, which had lost an authentic American hero. By his example, Joe had taught two generations of youngsters the meaning of excellence, to do their best but to accept defeat with good sportsmanship, and that tomorrow was another day and another game in which to try again.

One of those kids had been me.

⊕

**DiMaggio: Setting the Record Straight**
**Foreword by Henry A. Kissinger**

My co-workers at the factory were mostly second-generation Italian-Americans, who seemed to have a passionate interest in a game called baseball and particularly in a player named Joe DiMaggio. Many things about America were still new and strange to me and, although I had been an avid sports fan in Germany, baseball was something about which I knew nothing. My lack of knowledge must have seemed equally strange to my new Italian friends, for one Sunday one of them invited me to go with him to a double-header at Yankee Stadium. We sat in the 55¢ bleachers, where we couldn't see much of what was going on at home plate but had a good view of the great DiMaggio. His graceful fielding and soaring fly balls deep into left field astonished me, and I was hooked. From then on I was a rabid fan, and every Sunday when the Yankees were playing a home game, I would walk forty-five minutes to the stadium to watch my hero work his magic. I had become an American in my heart, if not yet in the eyes of the Bureau of Naturalization.

⊕

Sir:

It appears that you would prefer *not* to contribute a foreword to the upcoming book, *DiMaggio: Setting the Record Straight*, after all. (I had sent the attached draft of Suzanne's to your apt. with your other work last week, but the draft was not returned to the office.)

If this is indeed the case, I should probably let authors Marv Schneider and Morris Engelberg know now, before it gets any later.

Tell them I have reconsidered and just do not have the time ______ Prefer:

tc

SUZANNE'S DRAFT

Foreword for DiMaggio: Setting the Record Straight

My co-workers at the factory were mostly second-generation Italian-Americans, who seemed to have a passionate interest in a game called baseball and particularly in a player named Joe DiMaggio. Many things about America were still new and strange to me and, although I had been an avid sports fan in Germany, baseball was something about which I knew nothing. My lack of knowledge must have seemed equally strange to my new Italian friends, for one Sunday one of them invited me to go with him to a double-header at Yankee Stadium. We sat in the 55¢ bleachers, where we couldn't see much of what was going on at home plate but had a good view of the great DiMaggio. His graceful fielding and soaring fly balls deep into left field astonished me, and I was hooked. From then on I was a rabid fan, and every Sunday when the Yankees were playing a home game, I would walk 45

At that time, the idea that I would one day be the Secretary of State
of my adopted country was no more unlikely a dream than that one day I
would meet and become a ~~close~~ friend of Joe DiMaggio. But many years
later a foot problem brought me to the office of Dr. Rock Positano, a well-
known podiatrist and sports medicine specialist. Another of his patients was
Joe DiMaggio, who happened to be there at the same time, and Dr. Positano
introduced us. I admit to feeling like a star-struck adolescent again, but Joe
was gracious and easy to chat with. It turned out that our appointments
were often at the same hour, so we saw each other with some frequency and
a ~~warm~~ friendship developed. We found we had much to talk about, for Joe
was very interested in and knowledgeable about current affairs, and I loved
hearing his baseball stories.

I remained a fan until the end of his life. When Joe was stricken with ~~terminal cancer, I went to see him several times. Even as ill as he was, he still had the dignity, courage and grace that had won the hearts of America.~~

FEB 0 6 2002

Theresa Cimino

From: gpbuzzy1@aol.com
Sent: Thursday, January 31, 2002 7:50 PM
To: tcimino@kmaglobal.com
Subject: Joe DiMaggio

Theresa Cimino:

This is the book's most prominent reference, although there is at least one more;
referring to the Time magazine dinner when Joe requested to sit next to Dr.
Kissinger (he wanted to avoid sitting with President Clinton) and he said he had a
wonderful time.

starting late Friday, I can be reached at 561-265-2212.

Marv Schneider

Another boost for DiMaggio's ego was his friendship with Dr. Henry Kissinger. Both were patients of Dr. Rock Positano, and they were introduced to each other in his office. They would seem an odd couple, but Kissinger said they always found plenty to talk about, and not only baseball. "He had his opinions about domestic policy and foreign policy, and we talked about that." Asked about those views, Kissinger was blunt if not diplomatic. "I'm not going to tell you."

When Kissinger arrived in New York as a teenager from Germany 1938, soccer was his sport, but the Giants and Yankees were the teams talked about in Washington Heights, a neighborhood of refugees near the George Washington Bridge in upper reaches of Manhattan. In 1941, Joe's hitting streak had Washington Heights and the country enthralled, Kissinger found his way to Yankee Stadium to see what the fuss was about. What did he know about baseball? "Nothing." What did he know about Joe DiMaggio? "Less." Soon, though, Kissinger knew about both, and when he met DiMaggio 40 years later, he did what everyone else did, he asked him to autograph a couple of baseballs.

The two sat together at Time magazine's 75th anniversary bash at Radio City Music Hall, and in April 1998, Kissinger was called on to introduce DiMaggio at the dinner of the American Sportscasters Association when Joe was honored as the group's Sports Legend. Kissinger had been made an honorary ASA member the previous year after confessing in a TV commercial that he always wanted to be a sportscaster, but was rejected because of his "New York accent."

2/5/2002

AUG 0 6 2001

# DiMaggio— Setting the Record Straight

by
Morris Engelberg
with
Marv Schneider

## OVERVIEW

Why another Joe DiMaggio book?

More than 30 biographies of this great figure of American culture have been published in the past 65 years. These were written for the most part by people who never met DiMaggio, or to quote Joe D., "Guys I never even had a cup of coffee with."

Morris Engelberg was with DiMaggio for much more than a cup of coffee. For 16 years he was DiMaggio's close friend, adviser and lawyer, and there were many days when they had breakfast, lunch, dinner and a late-night snack together. Engelberg was more than the attorney who negotiated the deals that made DiMaggio a multimillionaire and refused a fee because he couldn't take money from his childhood idol.

They shared countless hours in front of the TV sets in each other's den watching sports events, the news and movies and talking. They sat side by side on flights to DiMaggio's public appearances and memorabilia shows, with DiMaggio sharing his thoughts on Ted Williams, Mickey Mantle, his brother Dom, and even the President Clinton-Monica Lewinsky affair.

They lounged in their backyards, which were only yards apart on the Intracoastal Waterway in Florida, and DiMaggio spoke of things that were deep in his soul. He talked of his love for Marilyn Monroe and his anguish about how she died; his anger at Bobby Kennedy and JFK and about being betrayed by Frank Sinatra, who had been a friend; his feelings about his only

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©2001, Kroywen Associates, Inc.

son with whom he was estranged for many years, and his concern about how he would be remembered.

Engelberg was at DiMaggio's bedside during Joe's battle against lung cancer. He was there to say goodbye and to hear his friend's final words, "I'll finally get to see Marilyn again."

There are light moments, to be sure, such as DiMaggio's description of the time he and Yogi Berra occupied the same piece of Yankee Stadium grass under a fly ball, his parody of Jose Canseco getting conked by a ball he should have caught, and his story of how Lefty Gomez handed off a "hot potato" to Tony Lazzeri.

This is not a baseball book. It's not about games, seasons and statistics, though these are brush strokes in a portrait of one of the greatest centerfielders ever to play the game.

This, rather, is a book about a man who will be forever a part of America's memory of the 20th Century, the subject of song, literature and art. And it offers something none of the other books could: an insider's intimate look at Joe DiMaggio.

Engelberg once insisted he would take his recollections of those conversations to his grave. But then something changed his mind. He felt DiMaggio was being maligned in death.

"He made me promise that I would protect his name," Engelberg said. "I feel I must fulfill that promise."

# OUTLINE

## CHAPTER 1: Joe, My Idol

I shocked my mother when I was eight years old by telling her I wished Joe DiMaggio was my father. "Morris, don't even think such a thing," she said. "DiMaggio? He's Italian. You're a Jewish boy."

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But a Jewish boy without a father. He died of an aneurism three months before I was born. I desperately wanted a dad. Someone to be proud of. Someone to brag about.

Who better than Joe DiMaggio, the greatest baseball player in the world?

That's the way Morris Engelberg begins his story of how a successful probate and tax lawyer and Joe DiMaggio, a sports legend, became involved in each other's lives.

Engelberg recalled when, as a seven-year-old, he went to Yankee Stadium for the first time and saw the hero he had been admiring on TV.

As he grew older, he copied DiMaggio's batting style and moves on the field, the way he dressed and even the way Joe combed his hair with a pompadour. At 6-foot-5, though he was taller than DiMaggio, there was a physical resemblance.

Engelberg moved to southern Florida where his law practice and his family grew, but although he lived an upscale life, he felt something was lacking. He wanted to meet DiMaggio. Finally, a client set up a meeting, but when DiMaggio called to make the arrangements, Engelberg was so awe-struck, he couldn't talk. They met for breakfast the next day, February 1, 1983, and talked for five hours.

DiMaggio rarely did anything without a purpose. Three weeks after that first meeting, he asked Engelberg to try and save the Bowery Savings Bank as his prime source of income.

DiMaggio had been the icon of the bank's advertising campaign for 15 years, and now he was concerned that he was being phased out, his compensation reduced. Engelberg agreed to represent him, but told him he could never accept a fee. "Not from the man I once wished was my father."

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The two went to New York, and while DiMaggio waited in his hotel suite, Engelberg negotiated. The result was a new, three-year contract that increased DiMaggio's income three fold. He was worth $200,000-$300,000 in 1983. The new deal quickly put him on his way to becoming a millionaire.

As they munched on pickles and cole slaw in the Stage Deli, DiMaggio wrote out a check for $20,000. Engelberg gave it back to him. "No charge, and there never will be as long as I represent you." DiMaggio made millions upon millions in the deals and endorsements Engelberg negotiated in 16 years, and there was never a fee.

"Why? No amount of money could have bought what I gained through my association with DiMaggio," Engelberg said. "I lived a Yankee fan's dream. Walking into Yankee Stadium through the player's entrance with the greatest living Yankee and sitting in George Steinbrenner's private box chatting with Mickey Mantle, Reggie Jackson, Phil Rizzuto and other heroes."

## CHAPTER 2: Big Deals

At the start, DiMaggio negotiated his own deals with the shows' promoters. He didn't know what he was worth. He charged as little as $7,500 for four-hour appearances, and he got $10-$20 for signing a baseball. Engelberg took over the card-show negotiations in 1988. By the mid 1990s, DiMaggio was getting a $150,000 guarantee for each show and $150 for each autographed baseball. Fans waited in line four and five hours to get his autograph. His price was the benchmark for the industry. DiMaggio's signature became the highest price autograph for a living person.

Engelberg got DiMaggio $8.5 million for coming into the lawyer's office, The Yankee Clipper Center, a 10,000-square foot building in Hollywood, Florida, twice a month to sign bats

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and photos for a memorabilia company, Score Board. The company's stock tripled, but soon Score Board was borrowing to pay Joe. It could not sell the items as fast as DiMaggio was signing them.

In 1933, his first year in the minors, Joe made his first deal. It was with the Hillerich & Bradsby Company, manufacturers of the Louisville Slugger, for the use of his name for 20 years. He was given his choice: $100 or a set of golf clubs. In 1993, exactly 60 years later, DiMaggio signed another deal with H&B. This time it was to sign 1,941 bats, commemorating the year of his 56-game hitting streak. He was paid nearly $4 million.

DiMaggio's golden image brought him golden opportunities. People and corporations paid handsomely just to have him near. He lived free in a $650,000 luxuriously furnished apartment in Deering Bay, near Coral Gables, Florida, and he was paid well for living there. His only obligation was to play golf three days a month on Deering Bay's golf course. DiMaggio wondered if he could play 36 days in a row to fulfill his obligation. It was explained that the developer wanted to see him on the property at least three days a month.

A business executive paid him $48,000 to appear at a birthday dinner the man gave himself at the 21 Club in New York. DiMaggio was furious when he learned the host had secreted a tape recorder under the table and gave the guests tapes of DiMaggio's dinner conversation.

## CHAPTER 3: The Early Years

Vince, an older brother, opened the way for Joe to play for the Seals. The 17-year old DiMaggio joined the Pacific Coast League team for the last three games of the 1932 season as a shortstop. The following year, he signed for $225 a month and started on the road to baseball immortality. He hit in safely in 61 consecutive games as a rookie.

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The Yankees bought his contract in 1935 with the understanding that he would play for one more year for the Seals and report to the American League team for the 1936 season.

DiMaggio made his first trip to spring training in Florida the backseat of a car driven by two veteran Yankee players from San Francisco, Frank Crosetti and Tony Lazzeri. He couldn't help with the driving because he didn't know how to drive.

He knew how to hit, though, and he did it for the Yankees for 13 years. In that time, the Yankees made it to ten World Series and won nine of them. He became one of the greatest outfielders in baseball history. He batted .325 in those 13 years, hit 361 home runs, and struck out only 369 times. Only eight more K's than homers, an amazing tribute to his batting eye and patience.

Remarkably, he accomplished what he did despite a string of injuries that sidelined him for weeks at a time. There also was a three-year interruption while he was in the Army. He managed to win one of his three Most Valuable Player awards two years after rejoining the Yankees.

DiMaggio's most amazing feat was his 56-game hitting streak. In 60 years, no one has come close to matching it. America was caught up in the streak in that summer before Pearl Harbor.

"Did he get a hit today?" - "Does he still have it going?" That became the greeting of the day. No need to ask who "he" was or explain what "it" was.

Radios blared Les Brown and his Band of Renown's recording, "Joe, Joe DiMaggio, we want you on our side." Newspapers moved the streak to their front page.

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Despite his achievements, DiMaggio had to fight his way up the pay scale, using holdouts and threats of holdouts. In those pre-union days, the reserve clause gave players two choices, play for whatever the team offered or not play at all.

DiMaggio received contract advice from fight manager Joe Gould and baseball imortal Ty Cobb. But he was summoned by Commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis and told that agents and business managers would not be tolerated.

DiMaggio threatened to sit out a season and work in the family restaurant on Fisherman's Wharf. The Yankees owner, beer baron Jacob Ruppert, and general manager Ed Barrow played hardball and won every time. Joe capitulated in a telegram: "Your terms accepted."

DiMaggio did become baseball's first $100,000 player. But he never forgot his battles with the front office nor the times he was booed by fans for demanding a higher salary.

## CHAPTER 4: The Greatest Yankee

DiMaggio never let his bitterness interfere with the fiercely competitive way he played. "There may be someone in the stands who never saw me play before." He demanded the same of his intensity of his teammates. He was the "Big Guy" on the club and they listened to what he said and how he said it. Rookie Yogi Berra once failed to run out a popup and DiMaggio told him, "You're a Yankee now, and you run out everything."

The Yankees' organization also used DiMaggio's eminence to serve their purposes.

Manager Casey Stengel felt rookie Mickey Mantle was getting too much pressure from his father, so he asked Joe to fly to Oklahoma and have a heart-to-heart with Mr. Mantle. Mantle's dad was awed by the visitor, and got the message.

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(ll)

DiMaggio was a great team player, but with a few exceptions, the spirit ended when he left the field or clubhouse. Tommy Henrich complained that in all the years they were teammates, they never had dinner together. Phil Rizzuto, a DiMaggio favorite— although Joe thought he talked too much— offered to join him for a beer after the game in which the hitting streak ended. “I’d rather be alone,” said DiMaggio, who then went into a Cleveland bar packed with Indians fans.

Among the exceptions was Lefty Gomez, who roomed with Joe on the road. He and his wife often went out together with Joe and Dorothy when the Yanks were home.

Joe hardly knew Mantle because Mickey came up in Joe's final year. But he felt the rookie was heading for trouble because of his drinking. Mantle also irked DiMaggio because of his blatant womanizing and because he didn't dress the way Joe thought a Yankee should. When Mantle, by then retired, showed up for an Old Timers' Day in jeans and a golf jacket, disdain was written all over DiMaggio's face.

Ted Williams was another person Joe would not have invited to a party. He felt that Ted was too loud, too opinionated and, at times, rude. “He’s his greatest fan,” Joe said.

While he agreed that Williams was one of the greatest left-handed hitters of all time, he said, “tell him to hold up his fingers and see if he’s wearing a ring.” Williams never won a World Series championship ring. Joe had nine. That was his ultimate test of greatness.

Of the present day players, DiMaggio rated Ken Griffey, Jr. tops. He put Griffey on his all-time all star list.

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# CHAPTER 5: Living Legend

It is amazing when you think about it. Joe DiMaggio spent 13 years in the majors, and then was celebrated because of it for nearly 50 years. He played the role of a sports legend and gave command performances all over the United States, in Latin America, the Far East and Italy. Even when he was in his 80s, white-haired and bent with arthritis, he still was the heroic Yankee Clipper, a man who had been one of the greatest outfielders of all time. People who weren't even born when he retired, stood and cheered when he was introduced.

During DiMaggio's career, teammate Eddie Lopat said DiMaggio led the league in room service. Jerry Coleman, another teammate, explained that was because Joe could not go into a restaurant without being pestered for autographs, even when he had a fork with food poised in front of his mouth. His famous profile made him recognizable not only in New York, where he was a one-man traffic jam, but even in the jungles of Costa Rica. When a private plane flying him to a fishing trip landed at a small airport in that Central American country, a customs agent realized who the visitor was, and in minutes, workers from a nearby banana plantation surrounded the plane chanting DiMaggio's name.

When he retired as a player, the Yankees hired him as TV broadcaster. He had hoped for more, but Yankees owner Dan Topping said he never asked. That was DiMaggio. He wouldn't ask for anything, he had to be asked. He was repeatedly invited to be honored at Yankees Old Timers' games. "He was the biggest crowd draw, even into his 80s," said former Yankees public relations director Marty Appel. In 1991, at a ceremony marking the 50th anniversary of his 56-game hitting streak, DiMaggio was presented with a $75,000 luxury Mercedes in front of a

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(w)

lineup of envious former teammates. Mantle wasn't sure Joe would take it, "until he makes sure the gas tank is full."

Honors to DiMaggio were not confined to Yankee Stadium. He was called on to throw out the ceremonial first ball when the Florida Marlins made their debut as baseball's newest team. He worked painstakingly on a message to write on the historic ball and was taken aback at the Marlins owner's cavalier reaction, so he created another ball for posterity. DiMaggio was the honored guest at the 1995 All Star game, seated in the front row which he called the danger zone. Engelberg felt they were a buffer for the three men behind them, George W. Bush, Commissioner Bud Selig and Nolan Ryan.

The greatest honor, as far as Joe was concerned, was being honored at a state dinner by the Lotos Club in New York, a group of intellectuals, artists and theater people. Joe, concerned that his limited education would betray him, wowed his audience. He educated himself about current events by reading newspapers front page to back and by becoming addicted to watching all-news TV stations. He felt comfortable enough to discuss issues of the day with Dr. Henry Kissinger, whom he regarded a distinguished friend.

## CHAPTER 6: Marilyn Monroe

There were two words that would abruptly end a conversation with Joe DiMaggio and, in some cases, send him rushing out of room: Marilyn Monroe. He backed out of a $2 million deal for his autobiography after tossing and turning all night worrying about "Marilyn questions" he would have to answer during promotional tours.

When he felt the need to talk about Monroe, he did it with Engelberg, Joe Nacchio (his friend of nearly 60 years) and Martha Lee, one of Engelberg's secretaries with whom Joe had a special relationship. Their recollections, plus those of DiMaggio's son, Joe Jr., provided most of

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the material for this chapter along with interviews with one of her lovers in days immediately
after she met DiMaggio.

DiMaggio's first wife was show girl Dorothy Arnold. He met her during his second
season with the Yankees, on the set of Manhattan Merry Go Round, a movie in which he had a
small part. She was in the chorus. They were married for three years and had a son, Joe Jr.
DiMaggio blamed the divorce on Arnold's infidelity. "I found her in bed three times with guys,"
he said.

Marilyn Monroe was the only love of his life. There are at least three versions of how
they met. Marilyn had one, Joe had another and Norm Brokaw, chairman of the William Morris
Agency offered still another.

Joe wooed Marilyn with the same determination he showed on the baseball field, and she
confided to a woman who worked for her, "I've never loved anyone more." Was it his
conversation? He was never known for that. But he was known as a lover. "Nobody was as
good in bed as Joe," Monroe told Amy Greene, a close friend.

DiMaggio was a persistent suitor for two years. He did more than woo her. He told her
she was not being paid enough, and to reject roles "playing sluts and prostitutes." He talked her
into dropping from *Pink Tights*, a film about to be shot, because he didn't want her working with
the male lead, Frank Sinatra.

The couple married on January 14, 1954, in San Francisco. They honeymooned in Japan
where DiMaggio had a baseball deal waiting for him. Japanese fans, both baseball and movie
buffs, and the media gave the couple a tumultuous welcome.

An unexpected event led to their first quarrel as husband and wife. Marilyn accepted an
invitation to go to Korea and entertain the troops. When Joe saw the film of her sexy

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performance in Korea, he was extremely angry. "It's not much of a honeymoon with Marilyn in Korea," he complained.

A maid in their Tokyo hotel heard the couple shouting at each other and said she saw Joe slam his bride against a wall. "Never," DiMaggio said when Engelberg asked him in 1995 if he ever struck Marilyn. "Except maybe when I had to slap her out of drug daze, but that was many years after we were divorced."

Martha Lee, who helped Joe with many details of his life and business, told Engelberg that when DiMaggio learned she was being abused by her husband, he put his arms around her and said no man has a right to put a hand on a woman.

When Marilyn and Joe returned from Japan, they lived in the house in San Francisco that Joe had bought for his parents. Joe went to play cards with his buddies and Marilyn stayed home with his sister, Marie. Once his bride went to the game to lure him home wearing a mink coat and smelling of alcohol. When he declined to leave, she opened the coat and was wearing nothing underneath. He kept playing cards. They argued. She complained he was trying to isolate her from her Hollywood friends. Their disagreements seemed to evaporate when they were in bed.

Nacchio was in their living room watching television with the couple one evening. Marilyn started to cuddle with her husband, and Nacchio wondered if it was time to go. When Marilyn removed one of DiMaggio's socks and began sucking his big toe, Nacchio said his goodbyes.

Marilyn got pregnant. The euphoria didn't last long. She had a miscarriage. Monroe suffered from endometriosis and also miscarried when she was married to Arthur Miller. At one point, Joe and Marilyn talked about adopting a baby. They agreed the child would be blond and blue-eyed. "You know, in Northern Italy the Italians are blond and blue-eyed," he told her.

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(i)

Before long, it was apparent that their marriage was headed for the rocks, and in mid-September it slammed into those rocks. Marilyn was filming *The Seven-Year Itch*. Walter Winchell told Joe where the scene was being shot, and with the fascination of someone about to witness a train wreck, he suggested they go to watch. What they saw was the most famous pose of Monroe's career, the one in which she is standing on a subway grating and her skirt blows up, revealing her panties. It was a scene that angered DiMaggio even years later when he saw that famous photo.

Less than a month after that scene, a news conference in front of their Hollywood home, Marilyn announced she was filing for divorce. Whitey Snyder, her makeup man, said Marilyn called him before dawn and asked him to come to her house. She told him Joe had blackened both her eyes the night before and she needed a quick makeup job to cover the shiners before the press arrived.

The divorce by no means ended their relationship. Monroe and DiMaggio continued to see each other into 1962, and they planned to remarry on August 8th that year. That was the date Marilyn was buried. Cause of death: "acute barbiturate poisoning." Was it accidental or "possible suicide" as the death certificate read? DiMaggio believed she was murdered. He spoke about this with his son, and gave Joe Jr. an envelope containing details of what he knew of Monroe's death.

DiMaggio's opinion received strong support from Bob Slatzer, who studied the circumstances for years and wrote *The Life and Curious Death of Marilyn Monroe*.

Slatzer repeated in an interview in 2001 that Marilyn told him of an ongoing affair with Robert Kennedy, and said she was outraged when RFK failed to keep a date on what turned out to be the weekend she died. "If I don't hear from him over the weekend, I'm going to call a press conference Monday morning and blow the lid off." Marilyn told Slatzer.

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(c)

According to Marilyn, sex was a catharsis for RFK, and he would talk freely about his job as attorney general. At Slatzer's suggestion, Marilyn kept a diary during the affair. Marilyn also said she had sex with President John Kennedy.

DiMaggio's hatred of the Kennedy brothers never cooled. There was his famous snub of RFK at Yankee Stadium. Joe came onto the field, shook hands with the others, but walked past Bobby as if he weren't there. "I can never forget what they did to me. They murdered the one person I loved," he said. In the 1990s, Joe was in a New York restaurant when Caroline and John Jr. came in. DiMaggio's body tensed and he said he had "nothing against the kids, but I'll never, ever forget what their father and their uncle did."

Frank Sinatra also was high up on DiMaggio's enemies list. They had been friends. Joe was angry when Marilyn moved into Sinatra's home where she was drinking heavily, popping pills and walking around nude.

But, what really ended DiMaggio's friendship with Sinatra was Joe's belief that Sinatra shared the responsibility for what happened to Marilyn. Joe saw Sinatra as a pimp who set up Bobby and Jack Kennedy for sex with Marilyn. Sinatra expected favors from the Kennedys in return, some for his friends. Sinatra told his friends that the Kennedys had double crossed him. DiMaggio could not be dissuaded from his belief, as irrational as it sounded, that mob bosses put both Kennedys on a hit list. Sinatra was not allowed at Marilyn's funeral. DiMaggio was in charge and he barred many of Marilyn's friends. Joe was inconsolable, but he could not have been more grief stricken than Joe Jr., who arrived from his Marine base. Joe Jr. loved Marilyn as a friend and stepmother, and she loved him. He confided in her things he never discussed with his father. Joe Jr. was one of the last to speak with Monroe on the phone the night she died.

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# CHAPTER 7: Joe, Jr.

Other than Marilyn, the other major sadness of Joe's life was his son. Joe Jr. was born the year of his dad's 56-game hitting streak— 1941. Joe's joy at having a son, someone to whom he could teach baseball, someone to whom he would pass on his heritage, was tempered the following year when Dorothy Arnold filed for divorce. Visitation rights, child support and all the other problems that go with a divorce and children became part of DiMaggio's life.

When Joe Jr. was a pre-teen, his dad would take him to Yankee Stadium. Joe Jr. remembered those as the happiest days of his childhood. “I’ve been with presidents, emperors and prime ministers because of my dad,” he said. “He gave me the best of everything.” The best included private schools in California and New Jersey, and eventually Yale.

DiMaggio said his son was bright but “got in with the wrong crowd.” It started at Lawrenceville when the boy was a teenager. That’s when he began to drink. Drinking led to his difficulties at Yale and he dropped out.

"I love him," Big Joe said. "I reached out to him and I was rejected." Joe Jr. said, "I loved my father. We just came from different planets."

His father rarely said no to his son's requests. That included $75,000 Joe Jr. wanted so he could go into the trucking business. Joe Jr. wrecked the truck and suffered a serious head injury which had a lasting effect. He would ride around Martinez, California, on a bicycle until he collided with a van and broke his hip. He was charged with DWI on a bike, and from then on, he walked with a limp.

After not seeing his mother for about a dozen years, Joe Jr. reestablished a relationship. It didn't last long, maybe because both drank. Or maybe it was the embarrassment she caused

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him when he was a kid. Like the time she did cartwheels for his friend and wasn't wearing
panties.

Joe Jr. was living in a junkyard in the Bay area when Nacchio and Engelberg told him that his father had died. At 57, he was toothless, gray-haired with a ponytail, and looking like a wizen old man. Nacchio gave him $400 to buy clothes for the funeral. "He just beat you out of $400," said one of his cousins. Nacchio said he was certain Joe Jr. would be there. When Engelberg and Nacchio got to the funeral home the next day, Joe Jr. was waiting in a white stretch limousine. He was wearing a new suit, white button-down shirt, conservative tie, and wing-tipped shoes.

Joe Jr. accepted Engelberg's suggestion that he try living in Florida and he showed up carrying a small traveling bag containing his entire wardrobe. The suit and wing-tip shoes were gone. He was wearing a T-shirt, jeans and thong sandals. Twice during his stay, Joe Jr. suffered severe asthma attacks in the predawn hours and Engelberg took him to the emergency room. When summer came, Joe Jr. went back to the San Francisco area. Five months after his father's death, Joe Jr. died. He had again been stricken with an asthma attack, only time he could not be saved.

His survivors included two daughters, Paula and Kathy. He adopted them after marrying their widowed mother in 1968.

## CHAPTER 8: The Family

Joe Sr. wasn't too happy with his son's selection of Sue as a wife and he wasn't unhappy when they divorced six years later.

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But Joe Sr. was absolutely delighted to have two grandchildren. Suddenly, there was someone he could shower with love and affection. He became the doting grandfather, and later a great grandfather. Never mind that they weren't Italian and never mind they were not in his blood line. Minor details. The two, their husbands and their children were his family.

At his death, Paula and Kathy and their children inherited virtually all of his substantial estate with Paula receiving 70 percent. Interviews with the women and their husbands provide, for the first time, a view of Joe from inside his family.

Joe had an extended family of nieces and nephews from his eight siblings, but with one or two exceptions, they were ignored in his will.

He was on the outs with Dom, the third of three brothers to make the big leagues. Once, when Engelberg got off a hotel elevator with Joe, a man was waiting for an elevator going down. The two stared at each other but said nothing. "Isn't that your brother?" Engelberg asked. "What of it?" Joe said.

There was the usual sibling rivalry as the brothers grew up in Martinez and later in the North Beach section of San Francisco.

Their father, Guiseppe, made his living fishing in the Bay. He took his sons Tom, Mike and Vince with him on his boat named for his wife. When Joe went, it was with great reluctance. Dom, the youngest of the boys, eventually went, too. Dom would tease Joe when his older brother didn't answer the early morning call to rise and shine and head for the dock. Joe was hoping to escape the tedious routine and play baseball instead.

"Your brothers are fishermen, I'm a fisherman, my father was a fisherman, and his father, too," Giuseppe would say, tracing his Sicilian ancestry. "And you want to play with a ball."

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Mama Rosalie was more understanding. She knew how happy the game made Vince and Joe. When Vince brought home some cash for playing with the San Francisco Seals, his father asked, "Where did you steal this?"

## CHAPTER 9: Joe and the Presidents

DiMaggio knew all the presidents from Franklin D. Roosevelt to Bill Clinton. FDR stopped the presidential limousine as it left a ballpark in the 1936 World Series so he could congratulate Joe for a catch he had made. Clinton tried three times to talk with DiMaggio, and Joe refused. He despised the man he called "Slick Willie," for "being a liar" and for his sexual misconduct. When DiMaggio died, theFACTS expressed their feelings in a letter to his family.

Ronald Reagan invited DiMaggio to a state dinner for Mikhail Gorbachev, and got the Soviet leader to autograph a ball for him. Yet, Joe gave Reagan and his wife Nancy an embarrassing brush-off

Joe and Ted Williams were flown to the All-Star game in Toronto by George Bush in Air Force One. They signed a ball for the president and when George W. was in the White House he said that ball was one of his most cherished souvenirs.

## CHAPTER 10: Farewell to Yankee Stadium

Joe made his last appearance at Yankee Stadium on September 27, 1998. He was extremely ill that day. A capacity crowd was there to pay tribute to the Yankee Clipper. Owner George Steinbrenner arranged to have Joe presented with ten World Series rings, eight to replace the ones stolen from him, plus rings the Yankees had won in 1978 and 1996.

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DiMaggio had very carefully written a speech he wanted to be remembered for. He patterned it after Lou Gehrig's famous farewell—"I am the luckiest man on the face of the earth." But the microphone didn't work. DiMaggio was so angry he shook. Rizzuto handed him the rings at home plate, they shook hands and the two walked to the dugout together.

In the speech no one heard, DiMaggio said, like Gehrig, he was "the luckiest man on the face of the earth to have had the opportunity to play for the greatest franchise in sports history— the New York Yankees." He concluded with, "New York, thank you for the best 13 years of my life. God bless you all." Joe had barely enough strength to make it from the dugout to the elevator that would take him to Steinbrenner's sky box.

Two weeks later, on October 12th, DiMaggio was admitted to Memorial Regional Hospital to have a cancerous tumor removed from his right lung.

## CHAPTER 11: Fatal Illness

Five months earlier, DiMaggio complained of feeling weak and was coughing up greenish phlegm. Dr. Earl Barron said that's probably when the tumor began to form.

The bad news came just DiMaggio returned from New York. An hour after being told he had lung cancer, DiMaggio was on his way to keep a business luncheon date.

The next day, Frank Sacco, chief executive of the Memorial Regional Hospital, put together a team of doctors, to be headed by Barron, an internist-cardiologist. The team included a pulmonary specialist, a neurologist, a gastroenterologist, an anesthesiologist, a psychiatrist and a surgeon.

The post-operative news was not good. The tumor was removed, but the cancer had spread to the lymph nodes. The night before the surgery, Joe told Engelberg to tell no one of his

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illness and added, "No exceptions!" The Yankees were heading for the World Series and he
didn't want news of his illness to detract from their achievement.

But word quickly got around the hospital that DiMaggio was a patient. Not only was he
the most famous person in Hollywood, Florida, he was leading benefactor of the hospital, and
his picture and name were everywhere. It was only a matter of time before the media found out.
Engelberg had to lie to keep his promise to Joe, even knowing that before long, he would be
exposed as liar.

The Associated Press called from New York and asked outright if DiMaggio had lung
cancer. "He will likely die of pneumonia before cancer," Engelberg said, repeating what a doctor
had told him. DiMaggio did have pneumonia as well as cancer. Once the wire service put out the
story, hundreds of phone calls came to Engelberg's office, and the lawyer fabricated stories about
DiMaggio watching the World Series while enjoying pizza and Chinese food. He even brought
in empty pizza boxes and restaurant containers to support his lies.

The truth was that DiMaggio was heavily sedated, tubes protruding from his throat, nose
and arms, his mouth open, his eyes half closed. There were several crises as DiMaggio's condition
worsened, and as DiMaggio's health surrogate, Engelberg had to deal with all of them.

In mid-November, Engelberg was told DiMaggio might not survive. A priest was outside
the intensive care unit, wondering if he was needed to give Joe last rites. What to do? Joe was a
church goer, and considered himself religious. Engelberg feared, though, that if DiMaggio saw
the priest with his little black bag, he would have a heart attack. On the other hand, what if Joe
died without last rites? Would his soul be damned in hell, and Engelberg's as well by those who
would hold him responsible? The priest was told to come back later. He was very understanding.
Three months later, when Joe did die, he did so having had last rites.

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LLO

On November 25, 1998, DiMaggio's 84th birthday, Paula, Kathy and some hospital people gathered at Joe's bedside. The TV was on, and there was a bulletin. Joe DiMaggio had suffered a heart attack. Joe's face, already pale, turned ashen. It was difficult for him to talk because of the trach-tube in his throat, but he rasped, "What the hell is going on?" He was assured he hadn't had a heart attack.

Two weeks later, DiMaggio had a high fever, his vital signs were deteriorating and he was struggling to breathe. Doctors said it was time to detach life-support. Late that afternoon, Engelberg took DiMaggio's hand in his and spoke to his friend, although he could be sure he heard him.

"Joe, today is December 11th. You can't die on the same date as my father died. And we have a date on April 9th, Opening Day at Yankee Stadium." Engelberg told him to squeeze his hand if he heard him, and DiMaggio did. Barron said it could have been a reflex reaction to feeling Engelberg's hand squeezing his. Engelberg and Nacchio left the room in tears to pack for the trip to San Francisco and the funeral.

Five hours later, Barron called to say Joe was out of bed, sitting in a chair reading a newspaper. The doctor attributed the recovery to an antibiotic. Engelberg thought otherwise.

On January 19, DiMaggio went home to die. As they left in an ambulance, Engelberg saw the sign on the roof of the building next door: Joe DiMaggio Children's Hospital.

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# CHAPTER 12: Joe D's Children's Hospital

In 1992, Sacco asked permission to name the newly dedicated children's wing for Joe.

DiMaggio's first reaction was to reject the request, as he usually did, because he worried that his name would be used for commercial purposes. It was pointed out that in this case, if that happened, it would be for a good cause, to save children's lives.

The first year DiMaggio's name became associated with the hospital, its fund-raising figure doubled, and it has been going up each to where it has neared $1 million.

Before agreeing to the use of his name, DiMaggio insisted it would be on the condition that "no sick child ever gets turned away for lack of funds."

DiMaggio suggested the hospital adopt the slogan that no child would ever be turned away. That message now appears in the facility's elevators, lobby and in its mailings.

Joe took his association very seriously. He visited regularly, walking through the lobby, which looks like a stadium entrance, and through the corridors with its baseball motif, to talk with the children.

When the sign bearing his name was hoisted to the roof, DiMaggio pointed his finger at Engelberg and said, "I am counting on you to protect my name, now, and when I am gone." The attorney said that his been his mission, and he has been criticized for being so insistent on how DiMaggio's name is used.

# CHAPTER 13: The Final Days

Joe's home was reconfigured to make him as comfortable as possible for whatever time he had left. In addition to the hospital bed and medical equipment, there was an ample supply of videotapes of Western movies and major fights, his favorite at-home entertainment.

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The two nurses made sure he always was clean shaven, his nails manicured, his hair neatly combed. They prepared him the type of meals to which he had become accustomed. He was a restaurant guy, dining out seven days a week. Eating at home meant digging into the huge supply of doggie bags he had brought home and stored in the freezer.

Thousands of get-well cards and letters arrived, along with requests from old friends for visits to say goodbye. One was from Steinbrenner, who had also visited Joe in the hospital. He told Joe that as a youngster in Cleveland, he would always be at the train yards where the Yankee's train came in and rushed to carry DiMaggio's No. 5 bag to the team bus. Steinbrenner told DiMaggio to get his arm in shape to throw out the first ball on April 9th. "That job is yours forever."

The Yankees owner enjoyed DiMaggio's version of how he saw an NBC bulletin announcing his death scrawl across the television screen in his room.

I wasn't easy for Steinbrenner to have the last handshake with Joe, but he held back the tears until he left the room.

Dom DiMaggio usually visited Joe twice a week after his brother had gone home. The hadn't talked in five years before Joe fell ill. Joe was upset that his brother had used his picture on the cover of Dom's biography, *Real Grass, Real Heroes*, and he was furious when he saw that Dom had autographed a commemorative Joe DiMaggio baseball. Though Joe was ill in bed, he hurled the ball across the room.

Even their last time together was an embarrassment. It was about 12 hours before Joe died. Dom had announced earlier that he and his wife, Emily, would be in charge of funeral arrangements. There he was, 15 feet from his brother, talking about the funeral as if his Joe was already dead.

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(LC)

March 7th slipped into March 8th and DiMaggio had only minutes left. The way he looked, eyes shut, mouth open, those at his bedside thought he was unconscious. Suddenly he said, "I'll finally get to see Marilyn." A hospice worker said to Engelberg, "Did he say what I think he said?" Engelberg confirmed that, he too, had heard it. Joe died minutes later.

## CHAPTER 14: Rest in Peace

The funeral was at Saints Peter and Paul Church, where Joe and Dorothy Arnold had been married. Dom delivered the eulogy. In keeping with Joe's wishes, the number of people invited was limited, but not as limited as DiMaggio wanted.

On April 23rd, a memorial service was held at St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York. The most famous cathedral in the United States has become known as the Yankees' church. It was the setting for the funerals of Babe Ruth and Billy Martin and a memorial service for Roger Maris.

Even there, in the solemn, celebrity-packed cathedral, there was an uneasy moment. Cardinal John O'Connor asked the congregation to pray for DiMaggio's soul, which he said was in purgatory, between heaven and hell. "Joe DiMaggio had made two mistakes," the Cardinal said, apparently referring to DiMaggio's divorce from Dorothy Arnold and his marriage to Marilyn Monroe. "It is our purpose to pray that Mr. DiMaggio's soul will go to heaven."

Bobby Brown, a DiMaggio teammate, former president of the American League and a cardiologist in Houston, was the first of two speakers. Mayor Rudolph Guiliani was the other.

"I know that Joe DiMaggio is in heaven," Brown began. Bobby, one of Joe's best friends, probably had the words written long before the Cardinal delivered his remarks, but it seemed like the makings of a theological debate.

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Controversy over the use of DiMaggio's name continued long after his death. The one that drew the greatest publicity was the furor over a suitable memorial to DiMaggio in San Francisco. In June 1999, Engelberg received from Gavin Newsom, of the city's board of supervisors, a list of suggestions for such a memorial. Number four on the list was renaming the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge for Joe. Number seven was renaming the San Francisco International Airport. Heading the list, which Newsom said was his favorite, was the North Beach playground, a broken down concrete park in the area where DiMaggio had grown up.

Engelberg picked the bridge and the airport over the playground, explaining that it seemed an obvious choice. Yet, he was attacked for being too demanding. Finally, after the city promised to rehabilitate the playground, and not to charge admission for the swimming pool, agreement was reached.

"It wasn't our choice, but we established that there can no be unauthorized use of DiMaggio's name," Engelberg said.

The lawyer vowed to continue to fulfill his promise to DiMaggio when Joe pointed his finger at him and said "Morris, you better protect my name."

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CHAPTER 1: Joe, My Idol

"Morris, don't even think such a thing," she said. "DiMaggio? He's Italian. You're an
orthodox Jewish boy."

But a Jewish boy without a father. At least, not one I ever knew. My father died of an
aneurism three months before I was born. I was named for him. Having a son with the same
name as his father is rare among most Jews because the tradition among Eastern European Jews
is not to name children after living relatives. My mother, Pauline, did a marvelous job of raising
two sons, but I desperately wanted a dad, like everyone else in the apartment house in Brooklyn
where we lived, and like everyone in the Yeshiva, the parochial school I attended. Someone to
be proud of. Someone to brag about.

Who better than Joe DiMaggio, the greatest baseball player in the world? The Joe
DiMaggio who glided across the 11-inch TV screen in our apartment to the outermost regions of
Yankee Stadium where he effortlessly caught fly balls and the DiMaggio whose heroics were
lavishly described on the sports pages of seven newspapers on the racks at the corner candy store.
I read every story about the Yankees every day.

My mother's four brothers rooted for the Yankees and Giants, even though, they too lived
in Brooklyn because they were raised in Manhattan, on the Lower Eastside. Their discussions
of DiMaggio's heroics no doubt accounted for my interest. No. 5, the number on Joe's uniform,
was pasted on my t-shirts and jackets.

When all the other kids on the block went to the beach to escape the heat of July and
August, I sat alone in our non-air conditioned apartment to watch the Yankees and DiMaggio.

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(10)

Even before I was seven years old, I could re-compute Joe's batting average after every at-bat. That's probably why I became a whiz at mathematics, which came in handy when I became a tax attorney.

A teacher told my mother it was a waste of time sending me to school during the World Series. My mind was not in the classroom but in Yankee Stadium or wherever the game was being played.

Burned into my memory was the sixth game of the 1947 World Series. It was the end of sukkot, a Jewish holiday, and in my religious home it was forbidden to turn on the television set or anything else requiring electricity. But five blocks away was Red's saloon, where I knew the TV would be tuned to the Series. After all, this was Brooklyn and the Dodgers were playing the Yankees.

A seven-year old could not get into Red's, but I pushed a milk bottle crate up to the window and stood on it to watch the game as the smells of beer and cigars and sound of men cheering provided an ambience I can recall even today. DiMaggio came to bat in the sixth inning, just after the Dodgers had scored four runs to take an 8-5 lead. Two Yankees were on base, so a home run by Joe would tie the score. My silent prayer appeared to have been answered. DiMaggio took a mighty swing at a pitch from Joe Hatten and drove the ball 400 feet toward the left field bullpen at Yankee Stadium. But, Al Gionfriddo raced to the waist-high fence, reached up and made the catch.

The guys at the bar let out a shout of joy and threw their arms into the air. DiMaggio was almost at second base by the time Gionfriddo made the catch. When he saw that the ball had been caught, Joe kicked the dirt in the base path, a rare if not his only display of emotion on the baseball field. I got off my crate and kicked it. The Yankees lost the game, 8-6. It was a long, sad

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walk home and once I got there, I could turn to no one for solace. I couldn't tell anyone what I had seen because they would know I was off watching a game through a saloon window on a holiday. I wasn't sad for long because the Yankees won the Series the next day.

The following year I had a day never to be forgotten. My uncles Leo, Mac and Morris took me to Yankee Stadium for the first time, and I saw him, Joltin' Joe DiMaggio. No one has ever seen God, not even Moses, who had to settle for a burning bush. But I saw Joe DiMaggio taking batting practice, running out to the greenest grass outfield I had ever seen, and then at bat in a game against the Detroit Tigers. There he was, in living color, live and in person: that picture-book wide stance, that perfect swing and that all-out sprint to first base. I felt so lucky to be there, and I kept visualizing what I had seen all the way home on that long subway ride back to Brooklyn.

What I saw that day intensified my worship of that idol in a pinstripe uniform. As I grew older I copied his batting stance, his running style and the way he caught a ball. Even the way he combed his hair into a pompadour.

Toward the end of the 1949 season, I watched Joe DiMaggio Day on TV as Joe was presented with a Cadillac, a speedboat, two television sets, and much more. Joe's mother was there, and because the Yankees were playing the Red Sox, so was his younger brother Dom, Boston's center fielder. But what I remembered most was DiMaggio's son, Joe Jr., who was eight years old, a year younger than I. He was on the field with his father. How I wished I was in his place.

When DiMaggio retired after the 1951 season, it became my mission to keep the DiMaggio style alive on the baseball diamond and off. As I grew older, and went to college and law school, I emulated his style of dress. Conservative three-button dark suits, white shirt, red or blue tie.

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I grew to 6-foot-5, even taller than DiMaggio, and moved to southern Florida in 1969, but I was still the Brooklyn kid who never forgot him.

My law practice grew, with offices in Palm Beach and Hollywood, Florida, and I became quite successful. My family grew. We lived in a beautiful home, far removed from the fourth-floor walk-up where I grew up. By the time I was 40, I had accomplished a great deal, and I was proud of it. At 41, I ran and completed in the first of my five marathons, three in New York and two in Miami. After the first, I had a marvelous feeling of accomplishment as I carried my 210-pound weary body across the finish line in Central Park to a recording of Frank Sinatra singing "New York, New York." One of my uncles was in there congratulate me, and he said, "Well, now, you have accomplished everything." I told him, "No I haven't, I still haven't met Joe DiMaggio." I was serious.

Not that I didn't try to meet him. Clients who might have had any possible links to my hero were asked to help me in my quest. It became a joke among my friends and office staff.

Then, south Florida builder and philanthropist Cal Kovens retained me for a legal project. He said it should take ten to 20 days to complete, but sleeping in my office and working virtually around the clock, I did it in three days.

An appreciative Kovens asked if there was anything he could do for me. He knew I was a sports fan. "How about tickets to a game?"

Two members of my staff replied with the standard request. "He just wants to meet Joe DiMaggio."

"DiMaggio?" said Kovens. "That schmaggegie? We just took a steam bath together this morning. He's staying at a place I own. He'll call you tonight and you can set up an

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appointment to meet. What's a good time for him to call?" I really didn't expect that to happen, but half-jokingly I replied, "Around eight o'clock."

Precisely at eight on January 31, 1983, the phone rang. My wife, Stephanie, put her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, "It's Joe DiMaggio." This was the moment I had envisioned and rehearsed in my mind for 36 years, and now, like in a nightmare, I was paralyzed. I couldn't move to the phone and if I could I wouldn't have been able to speak. "Tell him I'll call him back. Take a message," I managed to get out.

DiMaggio's message was that he would meet me for breakfast the next morning in the coffee shop at Koven's Boca Teeca.

I was up at 4 a.m. and left my home at 5:15 for the 25 minute ride on I-95 to Boca Raton and the 8 a.m. appointment. I told Stephanie to be prepared to rush out of the house if I should call that my car had broken down. It never had before, but who knows what might happen? I took my portable phone, which in those days was a foot long and weighed about five pounds.

It was barely 5:45 when I drove up to Boca Teeca. I was dressed in my DiMaggio uniform: dark blue three-buttoned suit, white button-down shirt, red tie and Allen Edmond black wing-tips, which were polished to a mirror-like shine.

I sat on a leather couch in the empty lobby to wait out the two hours. My emotions wavered between worry and anticipation. How could I be certain that was DiMaggio on the phone with Stephanie? Suppose someone was playing a practical joke? If Joe DiMaggio did indeed walk into that lobby, how would I react. What would I say? I began to sweat and I felt my clothes sticking to me. What would DiMaggio think of a man in a wrinkled shirt?

The clock in the lobby had reached a quarter to eight when I heard the man at the front desk talking with DiMaggio on the phone. Joe was canceling the appointment, I was certain,

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(u)

especially when the hotel manager approached me. Thankfully, I was wrong. Mr. DiMaggio
wanted me to know he had overslept and would be five minutes late.

I had no way of knowing then, but when I got to know DiMaggio, I realized that I had
no cause for worry. With him, an appointment once made was an appointment kept. I never
knew him to cancel one, including one he kept 30 minutes after he learned he had lung cancer.

At exactly 8:05, Joe DiMaggio came into the lobby wearing a white shirt, red tie, a wine-
colored sweater and a dark blue blazer. I introduced myself. His facial expression was stern and
he said, "Mr. Engelberg, I am sorry that I am five minutes late." "Mr. DiMaggio," I replied, "I
waited nearly 40 years to meet you, and I would have waited five more hours to shake your
hand." He smiled. He told me later that he got a big kick from that remark, a 6-foot-5 well-
dressed lawyer acting like a little boy. Of course, he thought I was well dressed. I had patterned
my wardrobe after his. I know now that he did a quick study of what I was wearing, and had I
been dressed in chinos, a colored sport shirt, open at the neck, and jacket, there would have been
no invitation to breakfast. Appearance was everything to him.

I never carried my business cards from the first day I went into practice. However, I have
them in my office for my staff to use when exchanging addresses and phone numbers with other
attorneys. But on this day, I took a business card with me and extended it to Joe and said, "Mr.
DiMaggio, I would really appreciate it if you would acknowledge that I met you by signing the
back of my card. Otherwise, none of my friends or relatives will ever believe that I shook your
hand."

Completely ignoring my outstretched hand, he put his arm around my shoulder and
invited me to breakfast. Certainly no one was going to believe this! We were joined by Nick
Nicolosi, a Kovens' aide, who was a buffer and companion for DiMaggio in south Florida. As

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we crossed the roadway to the restaurant, a car sped toward us, and we had to trot to get out of
the way. DiMaggio broke into a gallop that I thought incredible for a man 69 years old. He had
that same graceful stride that he had used to chase down fly balls as a player.

As we walked into the restaurant, the golfers who were having breakfast stood up and gave DiMaggio an ovation. As we made our way to our table, he was greeted with handshakes and pats on the back. That was my introduction to being with DiMaggio in a public setting, something I would experience for the next 16 years. I realized that just being around DiMaggio made you feel important. In our years together, I saw that no matter where we went and what other celebrities were there, DiMaggio's presence was overpowering. All eyes were on him. This was true no matter who was watching him. Doctors, lawyers, diplomats, construction workers on a sidewalk or guys in a restaurant kitchen cooking or washing pots all became kids awed by his presence.

At our first breakfast, DiMaggio studied the menu. Over the years, he would invariably do that, no matter how often he had been in that restaurant. His purpose, I believe, was to check the prices, even though he almost never paid. There was little other reason for him to check out the menu because, depending on the restaurant, I could predict with 98 percent certainty what he would order. "Mr. Engelberg, what are you having?" he asked. I thought I had best keep it simple, so I ordered decaffeinated coffee, half a grapefruit and a sliced banana. "I'll have the same," he said.

Of the thousands of breakfasts, lunches and dinners we had together during our friendship, we usually both ordered the same things. Sliced turkey, chicken, fish, pasta and soup were the staples. Once in a while, Joe would grant an exception for stone crabs, shrimp or steak.

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(i)

The breakfast that day, which should have lasted 45 minutes, continued for nearly five
hours.

DiMaggio was amazed how much I knew about him, including his neck and shoe size.
We talked about games he had played when I was a youngster. He was astonished at how many
details I remembered.

For example, his final game was the sixth game of the 1951 World Series against the New
York Giants team that had beaten the Dodgers in the National League playoffs on Bobby
Thomson's home run. In his last at-bat in the eighth inning, with the Yankees leading 4-1,
DiMaggio doubled but later was thrown out at third on a fielder's choice.

I told him that I would never forget the ovation he received as he walked across the
diamond to the dugout when the crowd realized this would be the last time he would play at
Yankee Stadium.

"Mr. Engelberg, I did not walk from third base across the diamond. I ran because I was embarrassed."

Aside from being able to quote most of his statistics, I told him that I had used his Yankees
uniform number on my basketball jerseys at Brooklyn College, either 5 or 55, and I used
significant years in his career as the numbers for the combination locks on my lockers, 1936,
when he made his big league debut, and 1941, the year of his 56-game hitting streak.

When the check for breakfast came, he could have signed the tab since he was a guest at Boca Teeca, but I took it and paid in cash. I didn't ask for a receipt because I didn't want him to think I would use him as a tax deduction.

Throughout that first meeting, DiMaggio called me Mr. Engelberg. It was his practice to use Mr., Miss or Mrs. at least for the first two or three meetings. This was his way of saying

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"you're not my friend or buddy, yet." It was a wall he put up to keep out those who would invade his privacy.

When we left the restaurant, I thanked him for the time he had spent with me, but I was too embarrassed to try and give him my business card again. I reasoned that to ask a second time for an autograph not only would jeopardize any future meeting, but would also diminish the good feeling of our first meeting. With the exceptions of the births of my daughters and grandsons, no event in my life was more exciting than that breakfast.

But as far as DiMaggio was concerned, that first meeting was not quite over. He put his arm around my shoulder and invited Nicolosi and me to his room. He said he had something to give me.

He opened the huge Samsonite suitcase with which he always traveled until his final trip in 1998, although it had long since gone out of style and was held together with tape. He took out two 8 x 10 photographs, one depicting his famed swing and the other a promotional portrait from the Bowery Savings Bank of New York in which he wore a blue suit, white shirt and red tie, similar to what I was wearing. Without hesitation, I selected the portrait. "Good choice," he said.

He sat down and, using a dark blue Sharpie pen, autographed the photo, "Morris— A real pleasure to sit and have a lengthy conversation with an old time fan. Best always, Joe DiMaggio."

I drove back to my office with that photo on the front seat next to me, glancing at it from time to time as if to convince myself that I really did have that meeting. I called all my relatives and friends in New York to tell them, and I had the feeling not all of them believed me. That night, I invited a whole crowd of friends to my home to see the autographed photo and hear the story of how we trotted across the road together, then sat and talked for so long. I spared them

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no detail, even describing his broad shoulders and thick, powerful looking wrists, and what he
wore.

The blue ink of DiMaggio's autograph has since faded to green, but the memory of Joe
giving me that very special photo remains as it was on that magical day in 1983. It was a day that
not only made my dream come true, but also changed my life and the life of my family. Not even
in my most optimistic fantasy could I have imagined the friendship that would grow from that
meeting, and that 16 years in the future, this American legend, my childhood hero, would die
with me holding his hand.

Later, I realized that DiMaggio rarely did anything without a specific purpose, and that
was true of our first meeting.

Through Kovens he had learned of my reputation as a lawyer and of my roster of clients,
which included Mrs. John Paul Getty, the Revsons, Senator George Murphy, and Bert Parks, as
well as a list of clients ranging from $25 million to $200 million in net worth. He checked me
out.

About three weeks after that first breakfast, DiMaggio called me. He was concerned about
his future with the Bowery Savings Bank in New York, for whom he had become the centerpiece
of their advertising campaign. He said he had been told the bank was having financial difficulties
and was likely to be taken over by the FDIC or a group of investors. His information was that
the new investors would either phase him out after 15 years or seek to reduce his compensation
below $100,000. He told me that either possibility would be disastrous because he needed the
money. Commercials for the Bowery and Mr. Coffee were his prime sources of income.

At our meeting, we had discussed certificates of deposit and money market funds and he
asked my opinion of each. He told me that he had his life savings in "a few CDs" at the Bowery

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and at a California bank and brokerage house. From this conversation, I estimated that he probably was worth a few hundred thousand dollars plus his home in San Francisco.

I also realized how unsophisticated he was about finances, and it dawned on me that in 1983 I had a lot more money than this man who had been an American sports hero and still was one of the world's most recognizable personalities, even more than 30 years after he had retired. He always had been shortchanged, both as a player and as celebrity businessman. In the latter case, it was because he had a low opinion of his value in that role. He told me that he constantly worried about running out of money. Such feelings were not unusual among people who went through The Great Depression as Joe did.

Amazingly, after DiMaggio played his last game in 1951, he had less $50,000 to his name. Joe always complained that taxes drained his income and of how difficult it was for him to save money, even though he was an exceedingly careful debtor. Dorothy Arnold, his first wife, primed the siphon by going to the courts to press her demands for more alimony and child support.

Now, approaching age 70, he was worried about what would happen to his income from the Bowery commercials. I agreed to represent him, but told him I could never accept a fee. We flew to New York separately. He stayed in what is now the Sheraton Hotel on Seventh Avenue, pacing through the rooms of his Joe DiMaggio suite and sipping diet soda while I negotiated with the Bowery's brass.

I had laid the groundwork for my talks by putting the bank's officials on notice that unless we could come to terms, we would entertain offers from other financial institutions which wanted Joe and for substantially more money than they were paying. I threw out several impressive names, and so what if not all of them were actually interested? Also, the Bowery

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people were warned to consider the ramifications of firing a man who was still regarded a hero by a substantial number of their depositors, especially their large Italian clientele. The image they had created by using DiMaggio as their spokesman would be lost along with their sizeable investment in him.

Once we got to the table, I ended my presentation by telling the Bowery representatives there were three things you do not do to Joe DiMaggio: "You don't embarrass him, you don't trade him, and you never cut his salary. He is a Yankee."

Joe liked that. He was proud of being a one-team man because loyalty was a big part of his makeup. He told me he had rejected offers of more money from other financial institutions, including brokerage firms, that wanted him as their spokesman, because he considered himself to be a member of the Bowery team, just as he was a member of the Yankees team for his entire big league career.

When the talks ended, I called Joe and told him to meet me at the Stage Deli. "What happened?" he asked over the phone. I told him he would have to wait until lunch to find out. Of course, he created a stir at the landmark Seventh Avenue restaurant, where New Yorkers usually strive to give the impression that they barely notice celebrities. Not so when DiMaggio walked in. Heads turned, the lunch hour-buzz was punctuated with loud whispers of "Joe D., Joe D." Even the nonchalant waiters were excited. Being at DiMaggio's side amid the excitement made this Brooklyn boy feel like a big shot. Whenever I had eaten in the Stage I invariably found myself looking at Joe's unsigned photo on the wall. Now, I was staring across the table at the real thing.

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The news I had for DiMaggio was better than good. It was fantastic. The new contract with the Bowery was for three years with a substantial payment if the bank chose not to renew for a fourth year. DiMaggio's income would be as much as three times higher.

The deal would put him well on the road to becoming a millionaire, but more important, it was the first financial victory of his life. He gained confidence in himself and knew that I was his man from that day on. Oh, how important that was to me! I felt like a son pleasing his father.

Impressed by what I had accomplished, he stopped chomping on the pickles and cole slaw and asked how much I would charge for representing him that morning and in the future. I had told him in Florida there would be no charge. Why did he ask again? Possibly, he wanted reassurance, or maybe he was embarrassed that I was even paying my own air fare and hotel expenses.

"No charge, Joe, it was my pleasure to represent you today, and to get you what you deserve," I said. "And there will never be a charge for representing you."

DiMaggio took a checkbook from his inside jacket pocket and wrote me a check from Yankee Clipper Enterprises for $20,000. The check was made out to me, not my law firm, so it would have been all mine. I gulped, looked him right in the eye, folded the check and handed it back. It wasn't because he had misspelled my last name.

How could I take money from a man I had idolized almost all my life, a man I had once wished was my father?

He chuckled and obviously was embarrassed. To ease his discomfort, I told him, he would have to pick up the tab for our corned beef sandwiches. But this once-gifted athlete whose reflexes still were pretty good never did master the quick moves needed to pick up a check. I paid, which I did for the rest of his life, not only for what we ate in restaurants, but also for the

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food in Joe's refrigerator, repairs to his car, his dry cleaning and his haircuts. I considered it a privilege and, in return, I got the pleasure of being with him and speaking with him daily..

What about my promise never to charge him for representation? People seem shocked when I tell them that although I negotiated millions upon millions of dollars in deals for DiMaggio in 16 years, I never took a nickle from him. As executor of his estate, I could have collected a seven-figure fee, but I didn't. I waived it.

"The guy has to be lying," people have said. "Is he a nut?" Neither.

I also could have filed a claim against his estate in the Probate Court for all disbursements I made on his behalf, and for being his agent for 16 years. The claim would have been in excess of $6 million and more than 60 percent of it would have been a tax deductible item, so the IRS would have essentially paid for it, not the estate. I had lived up to my promise while DiMaggio was alive, and wanted to continue to do so after he died. I go to bed at night feeling pretty good about it.

Why? No amount of money could have bought what I gained through my association with DiMaggio. I was transported from the mundane life of a probate, estate and tax lawyer to an exciting new world. I lived a Yankee fan's dream. Walking into Yankee Stadium through the players' entrance with the man regarded as the greatest living Yankee. Sitting in George Steinbrenner's private box and talking baseball with the Yankees owner, along with Reggie Jackson, Phil Rizzuto and the others who showed up at Old Timers' games and other special occasions.

There were more practical advantages. I became known as the man who represented the Yankee Clipper and "The man behind the Great DiMaggio." Many of my clients or their heirs were from the Northeast and some expected to find a Florida lawyer who was a hick in polyester.

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Instead, when they walked into my office they found a museum of DiMaggio memorabilia and framed photographs of Joe and me with sports greats they immediately recognized. Sometimes, they even found Joe in the office. He liked to sit around watching television and chatting with my staff and clients.

Even though DiMaggio had a reputation for trusting no one, I felt he had a certain degree of trust in me from the beginning. That faith grew over the years and eventually I was handling all of his investments, all of his business decisions and his checkbook. More importantly, I kept DiMaggio informed of everything that was happening with his finances whether or not he wanted to hear about it or understand it. I introduced him to the financial and money-making world on a level much different from any to which he had ever been exposed. The income that resulted stunned him.

In 13 years with the Yankees, including 10 in which he received a World Series share, his compensation barely reached a total of $500,000. Sometimes, he would earn that much in a single day by signing memorabilia in my conference room.

I have resisted answering questions about the amount of money DiMaggio earned from memorabilia signings, personal appearances and endorsements in the time I represented him.

Joe Nacchio, DiMaggio's friend and confidant for nearly 60 years, said Joe told him it was $80 million. I laughed and reminded Nacchio what his old buddy would often say, "Yes, but what about the taxes?"

Turning DiMaggio into a money-making machine was not terribly difficult. His name and image were golden marketing tools. What astounded me was that Joe never realized this. He felt inadequate when it came to the business world, and for many years, memorabilia dealers and card show promoters played on this inferiority complex to make a lot of money at his expense.

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The most difficult aspect of representing DiMaggio was protecting his name and making sure he was rewarded with the big money he never made as a player. This meant being tough and showing no mercy with the scoundrels who sought to take advantage of his image and name. I became the bad guy with a lot of people, but that was not my concern. My concern was making sure they did right by DiMaggio.

There were times when I said, "Joe let's not do this deal. It's risky and you don't need the money." He would reply, "Morris, it's not a need for money that drives people, it's the want."

One of my cautions had to do with an offer DiMaggio received in 1997 from a big time business executive who wanted Joe to appear at a birthday dinner he was throwing himself at the 21 Club in New York. Including expenses, Joe would get $48,000. He thought it ludicrous that someone would pay him that kind of money just to show up, but he considered it an offer he could not refuse, especially when the host said Joe could invite a couple of his friends. DiMaggio saw that as an opportunity to repay some buddies who had taken him to dinner at the 21 Club.

When Joe returned from New York, he was furious. The host had secreted a tape recorder under the table and planned to give his guests tapes of DiMaggio's dinner conversation. Joe felt he had been taken advantage of and he blamed me.

"Morris, why did you ever let me go up there? I was setup," he complained. He didn't buy it when I reminded him that I had urged him not to go. "You should have insisted." he said.

We received offers from all over the world every day. I carefully picked the ones I thought would produce the most income, would take the least amount of time and would expose DiMaggio to the least amount of risk. With all those deals that Joe became involved with over the years I represented him, he was never sued. What judge or jury would ever rule against him anyway?

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After Joe died, we found some notes he had written. In one dated in March 1990, he listed his schedule for the next few days. The man was 75 years old at the time.

"On Friday I will make a presentation of a scholarship in my name to a Mike Garafalo for education. Scholarship first of its kind from Italian American Foundation which was established at Dinner in Washington, D.C. where I was honored for achievement award last October. Presentation will be made in Palm Beach, - On the 10th. I will appear at the Charity golf tournament - "Boys Town of Italy" at their annual affair. Will also make an appearance at Engelberg's 50th surprise birthday party. Ed Liberatore [Philadelphia promoter] will be in town from Pennsylvania, and we have several business things to talk about."

Also included was a reference to a 9 a.m. visit to my office the next morning "to go over the 40 or so deals he has received for me. Probably 'taboo' all of them."

Joe's personal appearance calendar was a crowded as he wanted it to be. He was grand marshal of parades ranging from the Orange Bowl to Columbus Day celebrations in Chicago and New York, the featured speaker at dinners, the prime attraction at celebrity golf tournaments and the most sought after pitcher when it came to throwing out the ceremonial first ball at parks all over America.

In addition to a sizeable fee, he was paid airfare and hotel expenses, which by the mid-1990s reached $3,000 per trip. Sometimes, two or three promoters each paid him $3,000 for the same trip to New York. We considered it payback for past injustices.

When he went to a fund raiser for charity, he waived the honorarium and the expenses, and only charged for the air fare. I know of only one exception to his practice on charities. DiMaggio was a guest speaker at the hugely successful Cedars of Lebanon-Sinai Hospital dinner in Los Angeles in 1994, and the event drew 1,200 people. He charged for that appearance.

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"They're raising millions of dollars," he explained. "And besides, I have my own hospital." By then, he was deeply involved in the Joe DiMaggio Children's Hospital in Hollywood, Florida.

On the other hand, there were exceptions when Joe would waive his fee for non-charitable events, as he did when the American Sportscasters Association gave him its 1998 Sports Legend Award at a dinner in New York.

"Not only wouldn't he take an honorarium, he refused expense money," said Louis O. Schwartz, the organization's executive director. "He said, 'You've given me this very special honor, why would you pay me on top of it?'"

What Schwartz didn't know is that DiMaggio had learned the organization was having a rocky time because of negative publicity in two New York newspapers. Joe's appearance packed the Marriott Marquis' main ballroom.

He would fly cross-country from a personal appearance to memorabilia show and stay for hours, signing items and shaking hands.

I asked him once, "Why are you working so hard? You don't need or even want the money?" He replied, "It's the only way I can keep score."

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# CHAPTER 3: The Early Years

No one is quite sure where Joe DiMaggio first swung a bat at a ball. That moment is lost among the myths, half truths and facts that grew with the Joe D. legend in the North Beach neighborhood. There was a story, but not from Joe, that he and his friends used a boat paddle to hit a cloth ball tied with string. There was no question in the neighborhood, though, that when the DiMaggio kid did get a bat in his hands, he could hit. He regularly put the ball over the fence at the North Beach playground. "Hit the car," the other kids urged him whenever the Powell Street cable car clanged by as Joe was at bat. Supposedly, he did hit it at least once. He later played at the Funston playground, which had a bigger outfield and there was less of a danger of losing those precious baseballs.

Joe talked about playing in the rocky lots where a dairy kept the horse-drawn wagons that delivered the milk door-to-door each morning. He said he played in the infield because he didn't have a good enough arm or strong enough legs to play in the outfield. He had no glove because he couldn't afford to buy one, and if he couldn't use someone else's, he played bare-handed. "I had a real scatter-arm," he said. "Even later on when I was trying to play shortstop for the San Francisco Seals, I made a lot of throwing errors. My teammates kidding me that it was dangerous to sit behind first base when I played short. After a while, my arm got better and my legs came around, too." He also said he had some kind of a problem with his legs that forced him to wear braces on his knees as a youngster. By the time he was in Francisco Junior High, and had grown taller and stronger, that problem no longer bothered him.

DiMaggio's jump from the sandlots to minor league ball was accomplished with the help of his brother Vince, who was two years older and playing for the Seals. The money that Vince

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brought home from the Seals convinced their father there might be something worthwhile in baseball after all. To Poppa DiMaggio, an immigrant fisherman, baseball was a game, and not something you did when you were supposed to be working or at school. Guiseppe wanted his sons, Joe included, to be fishermen, but his opposition to Joe bumming around the ball fields was not only because he wanted the boy in the boats with him. He also felt his son should have stayed in high school at least for another year or two because the hard working father of nine had become convinced that education was a key to making good in America. Vince's real contribution to Joe's baseball career, in addition to showing Poppa the money, was in recommending his brother to Seals manager Ike Caveney.

Joe acknowledged that his brother helped launch his pro career, but he said he was not an unknown to the Seals. "A fellow named Spike Hennessey had seen me play at Funston and he was a friend of Charlie Graham who owned the Seals," DiMaggio said. "He told Mr. Graham about me, and took me to see him. So when Vince told Ike about me, Mr. Graham knew who I was." That fateful recommendation took place just before the last weekend of the 1932 season. Augie Galan, who became a major leaguer, was the Seals shortstop and he had chance to play some exhibition games in Hawaii. Since the Seals were in last place in the Pacific Coast League and only three games remained on their schedule, Galan was given permission to leave. That's when Vince said he had a brother who was playing shortstop with semipro teams in town and could fill in for Galan.

Joe was a couple of months from his 18th birthday when he made his pro debut on a Saturday afternoon at Seals Stadium. He hit a triple in his first at-bat, speeding around the basepath in that long stride for which he became famous. That hit and a couple of outstanding

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running catches in short left field were the extent of DiMaggio's heroics that day and in Sunday's doubleheader, but his experience left him with a lasting memory: "I didn't get paid."

Galan came back to the Seals in 1933 and again was the shortstop, but the Seals invited Joe to try out in preseason workouts. They were impressed enough to offer him a contract. It had to be Joe's hitting that caught Caveney's attention because Joe said his throws still were atrocious. Also, Hennessey was a big DiMaggio booster, and Graham valued him as an exceptional judge of talent. Enter Tom DiMaggio, the oldest of the brothers and "the brains" of the family. He negotiated for Joe and since his brother was only 18, a member of the family had to witness the contract signing. Tom did that, too, but not very well. He didn't notice that Joe signed the document as "De Maggio." More important to Tom were the numbers on the agreement, $225 a month, about double what most PCL rookies were getting.

Joe started the season on the bench, but he wasn't there for long. He was sent in as a pinch hitter for the right fielder in one of the early games and he walked. When the inning ended, Caveney told him, "Go out to right." DiMaggio was jolted. "I had never played the outfield before." He was no overnight sensation, nor was he anything more than a green over-anxious teenager the first two months. But on May 28, DiMaggio went on a 61-game hitting streak, the likes of which had never been seen before or since in the PCL.

Many years later, Joe described it as very different than his major league record 56-game hitting streak in 1941. "No pressure, no big crowds, no reporters following me around. Yet, newspapers in PCL cities did report that fan interest generated after the streak got into the 40s, and crowds were larger than usual, especially in San Francisco where many Italian-Americans who had never been to a baseball game turned out to see their paisan. To most of the writers, he

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was still "De Maggio," and that's the way his name appeared in stories and most box scores, but
on July 24 when he signed a 20-year bat endorsement contract with the Hillerich & Bradsby Co.
for $100, his signature was Joe Di Maggio. Not Joseph, and there was a space between the Di and
the Maggio. Graham was confused. When the streak ended he asked DiMaggio for the correct
spelling so the name could be engraved on a watch that was to be presented to him to
commemorate the feat. "You can spell it any old way," DiMaggio told him.

PCL seasons were endless in those days. Joe played 187 games that first year, batted .340 and drove in a league-leading 169 runs. In the process of becoming the right fielder, he pushed Vince out of a job. The publicity from the hitting streak and his statistics had major league scouts poised for the 1934 season, and it couldn't come fast enough for the Seals. The club was on the verge of bankruptcy and Graham needed a big offer for DiMaggio from a major league team. The figure he had in mind was $75,000. Tom DiMaggio had his own visions of sugar plums for his brother, and told Graham that Joe would have to be cut in before going along with any deal. The Yankees and Red Sox were among those interested. But after a Sunday doubleheader early in the season, Joe got out of a jitney van on his way to dinner and he stepped on everybody's dreams. He tore cartilage in his left knee.

That might have been enough to scare off any potential suitors. DiMaggio's reputation
was so great, however, the Yankees decided he might be worth the gamble. Joe always credited
a scout named Bill Essick with keeping the Yanks interested in him. Essick had lived in North
Beach and the hero of the neighborhood rocklots had caught his attention even before Joe's
sensational rookie year with the Seals. Together with Joe Devine, who scouted the Bay area for
the Yankees, Essick convinced general manager Ed Barrow and owner Col. Jake Ruppert that the

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kid was young enough to bounce back from the injury. The Yankees had doctors check the knee, and they agreed. Barrow whined about damaged goods and drove down the price to $25,000 plus five players from the Yankees farm system. Graham felt he should have something extra in return for taking so little money, and he asked to hold onto DiMaggio for one more year. Joe's hitting streak had made him a West Coast celebrity, someone who could pull people into parks and keep the financially shaky Seals afloat.

DiMaggio said that part of the deal was a big break for him because the Seals hired Lefty O'Doul as their new manager. He had been DiMaggio's hero before leaving San Francisco for the majors, but more important, he was an excellent batting instructor. Joe said he taught him a lot about hitting that year and in the years that followed when Joe would come home after a season with the Yankees. DiMaggio credited O'Doul and his friend, Ty Cobb, with having a lot to do with his success. Cobb, who lived in Burlingame, California, was around Seals Stadium a lot and always had hitting advice for the kid. Joe hit .398 in his final year and led San Francisco to the pennant.

Cobb also helped DiMaggio negotiate his first big league contract. "Remember, Joe quit high school in his first year, and he wasn't what you would call a literary giant," his longtime friend, Joe Nacchio said. "He wanted to include a letter when he sent back the unsigned contract, but he didn't know what words to use. So, Cobb dictated a letter and told Joe to put it in his own handwriting. When Barrow received Joe's rejection, he sent another contract, but it still it wasn't what Joe wanted, so he went back to Cobb and Cobb dictated a stronger letter."

That got the salary up to $8,000 and Cobb told him he was sure he could get an additional $500 with another letter. "We better leave it at that," Joe said, "or they are liable to trade me to

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the St. Louis Browns,” perennially in last place. In a couple of days, Barrow called Joe and told him, “I’m going to give you a good raise, but you tell that son-of-a-bitch Cobb to stop writing your letters.”

A couple of months later, DiMaggio headed for spring training with the Yankees in St. Petersburg, Florida, on a journey that provided him with an after-dinner speech topic for the rest of his life.

The Yankees' double play combination of Frank Crosetti and Tony Lazzeri lived in San Francisco and Essick prevailed on them to take the rookie to camp in Laser's new Ford. Cracidae and Laser sat up front and shared the driving, while the 21-year-old rookie sat in the backseat taking in the sights on his first trip beyond the Rockies. As DiMaggio told it through the years, with very little variation, Crosetti said after breakfast one morning that he was tired of driving. Lazzeri said he was, too, and they agreed that it was time for the rookie to drive. "I told them I would be happy to drive, but I didn't know how, and had no license" DiMaggio said.

The trio arrived at camp early, with the pitchers and catchers, and DiMaggio was assigned to share with Crosetti room 819 in the St. Petersburg Hotel. Crosetti told the rookie that women usually were not allowed to visit in the room, but if one should find herself in there with Joe, he was to slip the "Don't Disturb" sign under the door to let Crosetti know. "The kid blushed, and told me, 'You bet,'" Crosetti said. DiMaggio was also assigned a nickname. "We called him Dgo," Tommy Heinrich said. Lazzeri and Crosetti were Big Dago and Little Dago, so DiMaggio became just Dago. Political correctness had not yet been invented, and Heinrich insisted that the rookie did not seem offended. "Hell, they called me Krauthead." Fourteen years later, when Billy Martin joined the Yankees, DiMaggio called him Dago.

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The press made a big deal over his Italian heritage and mentioned it in ways that today would prompt letters of protest. DiMaggio's family was described as the "San Francisco DiMaggio by way of Sicily." Dan Daniel, who covered DiMaggio and the Yankees for the World Telegram, called him Guiseppe in stories. Joe was the olive-skinned Italian, the Italian sensation, the San Francisco Italian and, at least once in a New York newspaper, "The Big Wop." Rather than take offense, Italian-Americans were delighted at the association, and exceedingly proud.

The press had been waiting for this "next Babe Ruth" and they found him a wonderful source for training camp stories. Phenoms that grow in the spring, tra la, fade when the pitchers start throwing curves, but not this one, the writers promised. As shy as he was, he proved to be a good interview. He spoke in the cliches in which they wrote, though some writers did not restrict themselves by using exact quotes and made even their most inarticulate subjects sound like eloquent statesmen. But the microphone told it like it was, and DiMaggio responded to a newsreel interviewer, "Yes, one day I hope to break Babe Ruth's record of 60 home runs."

Everything was going well for the rookie until, as happened throughout his career, injury intervened. Someone stepped on his left foot in an exhibition game. "I thought I was spiked, but there was no blood, just a bruise," DiMaggio said. "The next morning the foot was swollen so I went to see Doc Painter." Earle Painter, the Yankees' trainer, put Joe's damaged foot into a diathermy machine, and went about his other business. "I felt it burning, but I thought that's what it was supposed to feel like," DiMaggio said. "Then it really began to hurt, but I didn't want to complain." By his silence (he wanted to be the macho Italian Stallion) the shy rookie let Doc Painter cook his foot. That was on March 22, and the treatment ended Joe's exhibition season.

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Joe DiMaggio limped into New York not quite the conquering rookie hero the writers had portrayed him to be. The team still was making its way up the Atlantic coast and DiMaggio arrived alone. He made it to the Hotel New Yorker, two blocks from Penn Station, and waited for the team to arrive and his foot to heal. Joe took the subway to the Bronx to see Yankee Stadium for the first time, but never went in. He traveled with the team to Washington where President Roosevelt threw out the first ball, but he did nothing more than take batting practice. Even that was too much because he reinjured his left foot and did not play in his first big -league game until May 3. About 30,000 fans showed up for that Sunday game against the St. Louis Browns, the largest crowd at Yankee Stadium since Opening Day.

Manager Joe McCarthy had DiMaggio in left field, batting third. He wore No. 9 on his flannel uniform jersey. If he was nervous, he didn't show it. He began his career with a single, triple, single and the Yankees won 14-5. DiMaggio did very well in those opening weeks and he won rave reviews at home and away. In Detroit, manager-catcher Mickey Cochrane said he had never seen a batter with a better free swing. Giants manager Bill Terry predicted the kid would be the best of the Yankees, if he wasn't already (Remember, Lou Gehrig was on the team) and umpire George Moriarity declared that DiMaggio was the "most remarkable" rookie he had seen in 30 years. The message got across to the ticket-buying fans and they chased each other through the turnstiles. True, Italian flags showed up in the stands in Boston and Chicago and a band of Italian funeral musicians in Detroit serenaded DiMaggio with tarantellas, but most of the spectators drawn to the parks wouldn't know a canoli from a calzoni. They were there to see the rookie sensation for themselves, and DiMaggio put on a good all-around show for his growing audience, at the plate and in the field.

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As great a team as it was, with six future Hall of Famers, the players had to adhere to McCarthy's strict code of dress and conduct, which included a smoking ban during games. But the manager, who also made it to the Hall of Fame, granted special dispensations to DiMaggio and Gehrig. Because he didn't want them "flipping their lids," they were allowed to smoke in the runway between the dugout and the clubhouse, and since they batted third and fourth, they usually went back there together. What did those two baseball greats talk about during those intimate moments? "Not much, we just smoked," said DiMaggio, who was a three packs a day man.

Early in June, a trade opened the way for DiMaggio's move to centerfield. Ben Chapman, who had been the center fielder, was sent to the Senators. McCarthy insisted it had nothing to do with his desire to move Joe to centerfield, but rather Chapman's attitude, which McCarthy found surly and disruptive. "Chapman did not like Jews, and the Yankees were nervous about that getting out," DiMaggio told me. "Too many Jewish and Italian fans." McCarthy tried DiMaggio in rightfield for a while and then moved him to the position for which he became famous.

Joe's fame took a big jump later that month in Chicago, and Colonel Ruppert was there to see it. The precocious rookie hit two home runs in one inning and had two doubles. By then, DiMaggio was leading American League outfielders in voting for the All Star Game, a remarkable feat for a rookie.

DiMaggio started in rightfield and batted third, ahead of Gehrig, in that game which was played in Boston. As far as he was concerned, the least said about that day, the better. He went 0-5, failing even to hit the ball out of the infield, made an error and played a single into a triple.

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"I was overconfident and I embarrassed myself," he said. His best memory? "Joe McCarthy tapped me on the shoulder in the locker room and said, 'Don't let it get you down.'"

Obviously, it didn't. DiMaggio went on a hitting tear right after the All-Star break, and finished the season with a .323 batting average and 125 RBIs. The Yankees won the pennant by 19 and a half games with 102 victories. It was their first pennant in four years, and while DiMaggio's presence played a major role, he would laugh whenever someone said they won because of him. "That was the greatest team I ever played on," he would say whenever he studied a picture of the 1936 Yankees on my office wall, and he looked at it often. More than once, I saw the supposedly unemotional DiMaggio get teary eyed when he looked at the photo. "There's Gehrig, Dickey, Tony (Lazzeri), Goofy (Lefty Gomez). What a great bunch of guys. Look at all those Hall of Famers on one team." Six of the regular starters batted over .300, led by Bill Dickey at .362. Five of them drove in more than 100 runs, led by Gehrig's 152.

Another photo on my wall showed Joe leaning against a fence with Lazzeri and Crosetti and looking relaxed, like he belonged. He told me it was taken soon after the three had arrived at training camp that spring. I wondered how he could look so at ease as a rookie in camp. His expression grew very serious and he said, "Morris, I knew I could hit major league pitching."

The Yankees played the Giants in the Nickel World Series (five cents was the subway fare, compared with $1.50 at the 2000 Subway Series) and the American League champions won in six games. Joe got the first of his nine World Series rings, the one he cherished most until the very moment he died. He made the cover of Time magazine, and later was a cover boy for Life and Liberty. If there was a Pursuit of Happiness, he would have made that, too. When he went home to San Francisco DiMaggio used his World Series share as a down payment on a house he bought

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for his parents on Beach Street.

DiMaggio spent his first big league off season being a celebrity, speaking to youth clubs, Rotary Clubs and to his buddies in the North Beach pubs. But he also listened, getting advice from O'Doul and Cobb, the angriest man ever to play big league baseball. Spikes high on the basepaths, Cobb had few if any friends, and he was a racist. But he won the American League batting title 12 times in a stretch of 13 years. He had a 24-year batting average of .367, and he was a tough guy to strike out.

"Don't be too anxious on a 3-2 pitch. If it's not good, lay off it," he told Joe.

He also recommended that DiMaggio start the season with a 40 ounce bat, and switch to a 37 or 38 ounce bat after August first. "You will be tired by then." Also, Cobb told him that at the height of summer it was ridiculous to waste energy under a hot sun shagging fly balls. "You already know how to catch, so quit after a couple and sit in the shade."

Cobb, who was 51 that winter, showed up at spring training, with some more hints. He told DiMaggio to take his time about leaving the park after a game. "Cool down good before you take your shower, and then sit around some more after your shower. If you are still sweating when you leave the park, you could catch cold." DiMaggio, throughout his career, usually was the last player to leave the park.

Cobb's advice continued through the years, but after that winter, his lectures were given over lunch or dinner at the Joe DiMaggio Grotto on Fisherman's Wharf, which was being built. I think it was from Cobb that Joe got the idea that he didn't have to pay for restaurant meals.

Even after his sensational rookie year, the Yankees offered DiMaggio the same salary he received as a rookie, but quickly went to $10,000. Joe asked for $17,500. He signed for $15,000.

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The 1937 season began for the Yankees as did the previous year, without DiMaggio. He developed a sore arm during the exhibition season and doctors determined that his problem was in his throat. His enlarged tonsils were removed and he was in bed eating ice cream when he should have been in center field. His right arm still bothered him when he did come back May 1, but he was OK at the plate. At the All Star break, DiMaggio was hitting .346 and had hit 20 home runs. He finished the season batting .346 and led the league with 46 home runs.

It was in 1937 that he first faced Bob Feller, an 18-year old who threw a 100 mph fastball. Joe introduced himself at Cleveland's Municipal Stadium by hitting a single, double and bases-loaded homer, and that set the pattern for their careers. Joe hit two homers in a game against Feller and was almost embarrassed by how well he did against him. "I put him in the Hall of Fame," said the Indians right hander, who was one of baseball's greats. Ted Williams said Feller was the toughest pitcher he faced, and he marveled at the way DiMaggio hit him.

DiMaggio told Nacchio the secret of his success against Feller. "I counted the stitches. When it was a curve, the stitches and the ball revolved. When it was a straight fastball, the stitches didn't revolve, so I knew what was coming."

Joe had a wide stance and strong wrists, so he could swing late, and by that time, he knew if he was getting a fastball or a curve, and he hit curves better than fastballs. "I never guessed what pitch was coming no matter who was pitching," DiMaggio said. "I always looked for a fastball, and if it was something else, I adjusted."

DiMaggio, like Williams, had exceptional eyesight. "We were across the street from a movie theater one night and I wondered how much the admission was," Nacchio recalled. 'It's 75 cents,' Joe told me. He had read the sign in the box office window. I just barely made out that

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there was a sign in the window. I said, 'Joe, look through the wall and tell me what the movie is about.'"

DiMaggio played in his second straight World Series in 1937 and his father was there to see him bop his first Series home run onto the left field roof at the Polo Grounds. "That was a special thrill," Joe said. "When I was a kid, the used to put a big board on one of the newspaper buildings to show what was happening at the World Series. Light bulbs would show men on base and what the batter did. I used to stand there and dream of hitting a home run in the Series at Yankee Stadium or the Polo Grounds, where the Yankees played before the Stadium was built. My dream came true that year."

That year also was special for another reason. DiMaggio got a bit part in a movie, *Manhattan Merry-Go-Round*, and on the set he met Dorothy Arnold, a beautiful blonde dancer, who he wooed and married two years later.

He also met Joe Gould, man about town and manager of heavyweight champion Jimmy Braddock. Gould is credited with introducing Joe to New York night life, although DiMaggio had many willing tutors when it came to that. George Solotaire, one of Broadway's biggest ticket brokers, was one and Bernie Kamber, a publicist, was another. Supposedly, they lined up women for Joe.

Kamber laughed when asked about that some 60 years later. "He did all right with the ladies, he didn't need any help. He would get the women, and the ones he didn't want, he would give to George."

Gould introduced Joe to Toots Shor even before New York's most famous saloon owner opened the restaurant that Joe helped make famous, or as Toots would say, "vice-worsa." That

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two-story brick building across 51st Street from the stage door at Radio City Music Hall became a sports bar before there were such things. But rather than Joe Fan, the place attracted big time baseball and football players, jockeys, actors, press agents, sports gamblers and the big byline sports writers. Joe became the prime attraction. He would be seated where supposedly he could see who was there but not been seen by those who were there. But it became a ritual among the regulars to check out his table when they arrived just to see if the big guy was sitting there cutting into a steak. It made them feel good while they were standing around the highly polished dark wood bar just to know he was in the house. DiMaggio's aura even pierced the bricks and penetrated into Hamburger Mary's, next door where the less affluent ate. "He's in there with Dorothy Arnold," or "Joe just went in with Hemingway," were among the updates that circulated in Mary's.

Toots Shor's remained Di Maggio's home away from home during his career and in retirement, and through two wives, Dorothy Arnold and Marilyn Monroe. Both women were disparaged a various times by the uncouth Shor, a big man with a round face, leading to fractures in his relationship with DiMaggio. "But he never got booed in my joint," Shor reflected years later, when Joe no longer showed up.

That was a reference to the boos Joe heard after his infamous holdout in 1938. There had been holdouts before, but none that attracted as much attention as DiMaggio's that year. It took place after his first two years, during which the Yankees ended a three-year run without a pennant by winning two straight World Series. No one had ever had two first years in the majors like DiMaggio. Those were solid points for DiMaggio. On the minus side for him and every other player, was the reserve clause which protected the owners and gave a players two options, play

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for the team that owned his rights for life or stay home and milk the cows or work in a factory.
The problem was there was very little work in factories or anyplace else. The Great Depression
still had America by the throat.

So, when DiMaggio asked for a raise that would boost his salary to $40,000 from $15,000
while men were selling apples on street corners for a nickel or trying to borrow a dime for
something to eat, he had a tough sell. The Yankees knew it. Reportedly, it was Gould who
devised the strategy that he ask for $40,000 and then magnanimously agree to play for $30,000.
Barrow, in their opening discussion, showed amazement at DiMaggio's demand. "You know,
young man, it took Lou Gehrig 15 years to earn the salary you are asking for, and you have been
with the Yankees only two seasons. What would you say if I told you that Lou Gehrig is not
making $40,000?" Joe said he looked Barrow straight in the eye and told him, "I would say Lou
Gehrig is highly under paid."

DiMaggio also was being advised by his brother, Tom, and while this was going on, Joe
worked in the restaurant. He posed in a chef's hat for newsreel cameras stirring pots of pasta and
vowing to spend the baseball season in the kitchen. Finally, on April 20, DiMaggio capitulated
in a telegram which read, "Your terms accepted." Ruppert continued to play hardball and told
the press that DiMaggio's salary would not begin until manager McCarthy deemed him in
condition to play. As the writers quaffed beer and ate corned beef sandwiches in the bar room
at the colonel's brewery, Ruppert told them, "I hope this young man has learned his lesson. His
pay will be $25,000, no more, no less." So, Joe did get a $10,000 raise, but he missed another
opening day and he incurred the wrath of the fans.

When he made his 1938 debut 12 games into the season in Washington, he was booed. He

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also wound up in the hospital because he collided with the club's new second baseman, Joe Gordon, as they converged under a pop up. Both were knocked out and bruised. DiMaggio's ego was bruised for a long time afterward as he was booed at Yankee Stadium and on the road. He never forgot that. He told Joe Williams of the World Telegram, "I woke up in the middle of the night hearing the boos. I got up, smoked a cigarette and walked the floor." He said the booing made his insides turn over. "You keep saying you will get used to it, but you never do. I stuffed my ears with cotton, but nothing helped."

What amazed me was that despite that booing which hurt him deeply he never lost his affection for his fans, and he even in his final days he talked about how much they meant to his career.

While that 1938 holdout was the most bitter, others followed because his whole personality was to be a holdout. If I would say, "Joe, we've got $3 million" in a memorabilia venture, he would say, "Another $200,000?" His first reaction was to say "no," and then after he thought about it, he said "OK" but he wanted more money. He always thought he was being short changed.

The Yankees won their third straight pennant and their third straight World Series and it was another big year for DiMaggio. He batted. 324, drove in 140 runs and hit 32 homers.

Joe made up his mind that winter that he was going to change and smile more. "I didn't like being called a sour puss," he said. "I wanted to put that holdout and the boos behind me, and the injuries, too." No doubt being in love helped, and he was in love with Dorothy Arnold. As for his conditioning, Cobb had told him that walking was the best exercise he could do in the offseason, so he put on hunting boots and walked up and down the hills of San Francisco. He

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also spent a lot of time in the restaurant, where business was very good.

Joe took what he was offered in 1939, $25,000, and he dealt solely with Barrow. Ruppert, who took pleasure in humiliating DiMaggio the previous spring, died in January at age 71. Left behind was a photo taken at Yankee Stadium after the great holdout. Ruppert, wearing a suit and vest, a bow tie and a fedora, has his arm around a very young looking DiMaggio. Both men are smiling. Joe autographed it for me with the legend, "The hand on my shoulder was not always that friendly, especially during contract negotiations."

DiMaggio was in the lineup for the first time in his four Opening Days and he got off to a fast start. But his luck ran out seven games into the season when his spikes caught in the dirt as he chased a fly ball and he ripped a muscle in his right leg. The injury kept him out for more than a month. But DiMaggio's injury was made insignificant by what happened the following day. Gehrig took himself out of the lineup and ended his record consecutive game playing streak at 2,130. The disease that would kill him, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, had advanced to the point where he no longer could fight it. DiMaggio lined up with his teammates on July 4 when Gehrig made his famous "Luckiest man on the face of the earth" speech.

Nothing on a baseball field ever affected DiMaggio more than that speech and it stayed with him for the rest of his life. At his farewell appearance at Yankee Stadium, on September 27, 1998, he patterned his speech after Gehrig's. To DiMaggio, Gehrig was the greatest Yankee. "Look at his RBIs, Morris, that's the key," he said. Gehrig drove in at least 107 runs in each of his 13 full seasons in the majors.

DiMaggio had promised Dorothy that he would hit a home run for her in the All Star game, and he did, at Yankee Stadium as the American League won 3-1. That propelled him into

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a great second half of the season. He drove in runs and hit homers at a merry clip and was batting .400 late in the season. Then, he woke up one morning with an infection in his left eye. The eye was swollen and hurt, but he said nothing to McCarthy, again the macho Italian Stallion was going to tough it out. He thought, though, that McCarthy would take him out of the lineup, but it never happened. The managert told him, If I take you out of the lineup so you can hit .400, you will always be considered a creampuff." Joe said, "It wouldn't have been so bad if was the right eye, but it was the front eye as I stood at the plate, so I couldn't see the ball until it was passed me." He finished the season with a .381 average and won the American League batting title. He also won the first of his three Most Valuable Player awards, and the Yankees swept the Cincinnati Reds in the World Series. "It was a wonderful year, but hitting .400 would have been nice," DiMaggio said. After the Series, Joe took Dorothy to San Francisco to meet his family, and on November 19 they were married in the biggest wedding North Beach had ever seen.

Joe's marriage had nothing to do with it, but he told the Yankees he wanted $40,000 in 1940. He used his batting championship and MVP award as his main arguments, and backed them up with his 125 RBIs and 30 homers. Barrow was impressed enough to give him a hefty raise to $35,000, which DiMaggio accepted. The newlywed admitted he had not thrown a ball or lifted a bat since the World Series, and he and his bride motored to spring training at a leisurely pace. When they got there, they stayed at an out of the way place, about a 10 miles from the field.

Joe's euphoria ended suddenly on the Ebbets Field basepath in Brooklyn. He slid into second base on a double in an exhibition game against the Dodgers and injured a knee. So, for the fourth time in five years, DiMaggio missed the Yankees' opener. A month later, he had a

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different kind of a problem and was called to Commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis' office. The Yankees were disturbed by persistent reports that Gould was DiMaggio's agent, and getting a percentage of Joe's salary. Agents were forbidden. Club owners did not want people stirring up their players and telling them how much pay they should demand. In Gould's case, the Yankees made sure Landis also knew that this man not only was a boxing manager, but he also was reported to have connections to unsavory people, including but not restricted to gamblers. They figured that would get the Commissioner's attention since he was hired to clean up baseball after the Black Sox betting scandal. The Yankees said they were not concerned about any other deals Gould was doing for Joe, such as lining up product endorsements, radio shows or movie appearances, only his baseball contract. DiMaggio denied that Gould was involved in that, and he got off the hook.

DiMaggio missed 22 games because of his bad knee, and when he came back he was slowed for a while longer both in the field and on the bases. At the end of the season, he had a .352 batting average and 31 homers and won his second straight batting championship. But for the first time in his five years as a big leaguer, he had no place to go but home. The Yankees did not get to the World Series.

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CHAPTER 12: Joe's D's Children's Hospital

People forever were trying to name things for Joe, from buildings to pomodoro sauce. Someone even had the bright idea of designating a Manhattan intersection, Fifth Avenue and 56th Street, as DiMaggio Way. Fifth Avenue was for Joe's No. 5 New York Yankees uniform jersey, and 56 was for his 56-game hitting streak. DiMaggio got a laugh out of that, but his response was the same as it always was to requests for his permission, "no."

He finally relented when it came to a children's hospital in Hollywood, Florida. Not only did that decision wind up giving DiMaggio a great deal of pleasure, but he insisted that having his name on the Joe DiMaggio Children's Hospital meant more to him than being elected to baseball's Hall of Fame "It's easier getting into Cooperstown," he said. "Not too many ball players have hospitals named for them."

The request to name the pediatric facility for Joe came in the spring of 1992 in a letter from Frank Sacco, chief executive officer of the South Broward Hospital District. It must have made an impression on DiMaggio because he read the letter three times before giving his usual answer.

"I do not like to give my name out for anything, Morris," he said. "Somehow, they always find a way to commercialize it and abuse my name. I don't want my name ever being abused."

I had heard that song before, but because he had read the letter with more than his usual disinterest, I saw a chance to go a little further.

"So what if they do commercialize your name? It's a good hospital. If the use of your name puts the hospital in position to save the life of one child, it would out weight anything that could possibly hurt your name," I said. I also explained that I could draft an agreement that

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would prevent the hospital from using his name for other purposes without his permission, for
example, putting it on gift shop items.

He agreed to meet with Sacco, and the first thing he wanted to know was, "What do you want from me?" Sacco told him, "Your name," and he assured Joe, "we will never embarrass it."

Three hospitals and a nursing home were in Sacco's jurisdiction, and one of them, Memorial Regional Hospital in Hollywood, was expanding its pediatric unit. The hospital had been sending kids who required surgery to Miami Children's Hospital, and were paying the bills for patients whose parents had no health insurance and were indigent. Surgeons, anesthesiologists and nurses had to be paid, operating room expenses had to be covered and the Miami facility was unable to absorb the costs. About 20 patients a year were in that category. At Sacco's recommendation, Memorial decided that instead of paying Miami Children's Hospital, it would hire a pediatric surgeon of its own.

That decision began a further growth of the pediatric unit. Cancer treatment and orthopedic surgery were added, and soon the 50 beds that were located on a single floor of an older building were no longer enough. Sacco told DiMaggio the pediatric section was ready to play an even bigger and better role in the community. But that would require a more prominent identity and a greater fund-raising effort. That's where DiMaggio would come in.

DiMaggio listened intently to this explanation, and had more questions than I had ever heard him ask about any subject, including the stock market, one of his favorite topics.

Why name the hospital for a ballplayer rather than someone like Jonas Salk, who had developed the polio vaccine, or some other scientist who had made a notable contribution to saving children's lives?

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"Kids and sports, especially baseball, go together," was the answer. "It's a natural word association."

"Why pick Joe DiMaggio, who had been retired for more than 40 years, even before most of the parents of the potential patients were born?" Because Joe's image was squeaky clean. Unlike some other sports heroes, DiMaggio's name was not tainted by scandal, there were no DUIs, no drugs, no paternity suits, and because he was 77, there was unlikely to be any problem.

Two years later, I was wondering what would have happened if a hospital somewhere tied its reputation to O. J. Simpson. His murder trial would have all but wiped out its image and fund raising.

What caught DiMaggio's attention was Sacco's statement that the Miami hospital would not admit poor kids for surgery unless Memorial Hospital paid their bills. He told Sacco that if he did agree to the use of his name, it would be with the understanding that no child would denied treatment because his parents were unable to pay. "No problem," Sacco told him. "That's the way we operate now." Joe wanted it in writing. He suggested the slogan, "Whether rich or poor, no child will ever be turned away." Corny, maybe, but those words are now part of the hospital's credo and appear in the lobby, the elevators and in its promotional material.

DiMaggio learned of cases in which the pledge he sought had opened the doors for youngsters to be treated, but none pleased him more than a letter he received from a Hollywood couple whose two-year old son, Joey, was seriously ill with what the parents described as flu-like symptoms. The father wrote that because of a recent job change, there was a three-day gap in insurance coverage for his family. That proved to be a major problem when he called three other area hospitals. Since Joey was not a trauma victim, the parents were told they would have to pay

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the emergency room fee and at least $1,000 before the boy could be admitted. The father, a police officer, said when he called the pediatric emergency room at the Joe DiMaggio Children's Hospital, he was told to bring in his son immediately and not to worry about the money. The father went on to extol the ER physician who determined that Joey had a brain tumor, which was removed within hours. The youngster was in a coma for eleven days, and was still in the hospital when the parents wrote glowingly of the care and treatment their son was receiving.

"You can be proud of this institution that bears your name," the father said, and Joe indeed was, especially that lack of finances where not a problem when the boy was admitted. Unfortunately, this particular story did not have a happy ending. Joey died two years later.

The admission policy was only on aspect that Sacco was quizzed on by DiMaggio. Joe also asked about the staff and medical facilities that were available. Typically, Joe took nothing for granted. "He came out here, he walked through the hospital, he checked things out, and he checked us out to make sure we were legitimate," Sacco said.

Joe's fondness for Hollywood also played a part in his decision. Though he was strictly a New York and San Francisco type of guy, he enjoyed the environment and the people in the smaller Florida city, south of Fort Lauderdale and north of Miami. There was a sizeable Italian-American population and that meant good Italian restaurants. The mayor was Maria Guilanti and he liked her. He was a popular figure, and he got a kick out of the horn-beeping salutes he would get when people recognized him.

His popularity was evident in the enthusiasm that followed Sacco's recommendation for naming the hospital in his honor. The hospital district's board and Broward County's political

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leaders gave their unanimous approval. The dedication ceremony on September 17, 1992, drew
a huge crowd and was a major event in south Florida, one that Joe never forgot.

He made a speech in which he spoke about how touched he was to have the hospital
named for him, and he said he regarded what went on in the hospital as his responsibility. He
ended by turning to Sacco and saying, "Mr. Sacco, I will be watching you." Most of the audience
chuckled, Joe didn't. He was very serious.

I searched the crowd that day for an anonymous young lady who I believed may have been
responsible for DiMaggio's association with the hospital. Early in 1992, a woman approached
Joe and me as we were leaving a restaurant after lunch. She asked DiMaggio to autograph a
baseball cap, which she told him would be sold at Memorial Hospital's annual fund raising
auction. I'm sure she had no idea that in those days DiMaggio would not autograph baseball caps.
Maybe it was her naive enthusiasm or maybe it was because the cap had a Memorial Hospital logo
rather than a baseball team's, but Joe made an exception and he signed the cap. He was ever the
skeptic, though. When she walked away, he said, "I'll bet it's for her boyfriend."

He was wrong. The cap did turn up at the auction, and the excitement it generated that
night may have inspired the idea that Joe DiMaggio's name was just what the hospital needed.

A day before the dedication ceremony I drove him to the hospital in my Dodge Caravan
which had a "DIMAG 5" license plate and a customized rear spoiler on which was painted "The
Yankee Clipper" and a No. 5 logo. Joe, as private as he preferred to be, gave me permission to
do this, and I know he took delight in seeing the reaction of people who spotted him being driven
around Hollywood.

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As we approached the hospital, I saw something that gave me goose bumps. A sign reading "Joe DiMaggio Children's Hospital" was being hoisted to the top of the building. I pulled to the curb and parked and we sat there for nearly two hours, watching that sign go up.

"Look at that, Joe! This is your legacy to your family and your heritage." Joe was not one for sentimentality, even at moments like that. He pointed his finger at me, and said, "Forget about my heritage, Morris. You better protect my name when I am alive and when I am not here someday." He was not letting his guard down even then.

I learned that the hospital had rejected a multi-million dollar offer from someone who wanted the pediatric facility named for him. Sacco, who Joe called the Commander-in-Chief, had realized that DiMaggio's national recognition would mean much more over the long run. How right he was.

It didn't take long for the power of DiMaggio's name to become apparent. Dr. Joel Martin, who was on the hospital's staff, told me that one of his patients, an elderly man of Italian background, had asked him if the name on the sign was same "DiMaggio who was the Italian baseball player." When he was told that it was indeed the very same Joe DiMaggio, the man wrote a check for $1,500 for the hospital. On his next visit, the man handed Martin another check, for $5,000. Martin sent both checks to our office DiMaggio was so pleased, he wanted to meet the guy, who was also named Joe. Arrangements were made for lunch at the hospital, where DiMaggio had a special fondness for the linguini and pomodoro sauce. The two toured the hospital together and then sat down to a pasta lunch. The other Joe speaking in Italian, discussed the pros and cons of various pasta sauces. I wasn't sure DiMaggio understood everything because he wasn't fluent in Italian, but he nodded and smiled as if he did. When they had finished eating,

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the man took out his checkbook and wrote a third check, this one for six figures. "Take this. This is for you," he said in a heavily Italian-accented English, and he attempted to hand the check to DiMaggio. Joe put his two hands in front of him. "You've got the wrong guy," he said. "Please give it to Frank Sacco."

Joe did not consider himself a fund raiser, and his role in that capacity was passive, but very effective. A friend at the Presidio Club in San Francisco asked him to sign some baseballs, and, to show her appreciation, she sent a check of more than $1,000 to the hospital. There were many similar donations from people who wanted to show their affection for DiMaggio. Joe wanted every contributor to get a thank you letter, so I asked the hospital to send us a copy of each note so Joe could see them. That lasted only a few months until Joe finally was satisfied those letters were going out as a matter of form, or, more likely, he got weary of going through the stacks that piled up in his office. I finally told the hospital, "Enough already, Joe believes you."

The hospital's major fund raising event had been a weekend long Memorial Classic. It started Friday night with a silent auction and cocktail reception, followed by the Legends game on Saturday, in which retired ball players and celebrities did their thing, and a golf tournament on Monday. Joe showed up at all of them. He would tell some of his baseball stories at the reception, throw out the ceremonial first pitch and make a speech at the game and play in the golf tournament.

His last tournament was in February 1998, and although he was aching and bent with arthritis and a degenerating disc in his vertebrae, he played the full 18 holes.

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DiMaggio became so involved in the weekend, he would invite his celebrity friends to play in "my tournament" and "my game."

He enjoyed the ball game because it gave him a chance to see his old buddies like Phil Rizzuto, Stan Musial and Ralph Branca, and mingle with celebrities like Tom Selleck, Michael Bolton and Senator Robert Graham. He sat in the dugout at old Yankee Stadium in Fort Lauderdale schmoozing with the players during batting practice and then, after making a speech at home plate, he would climb up to the antiquated press box to watch the game with the local media. Anticipating a post-game crush, I would start trying to get him out of the press box in the fifth inning. But, he usually stayed until the ninth, and his departure would set off an awesome ovation as he walked through the stands with a police escort. He would stop to shake hands and thank people for coming to the game.

Joe's involvement gave a tremendous boost to the fund-raising. Before the hospital was named for him, about $150,000 came in during that Memorial Classic weekend. At his death, the figure was approaching $1 million. DiMaggio's touch did wonders for the entire fund-raising effort. Even after his death, the children's hospital was attracting more than $2.5 million a year in donations. Before DiMaggio got involved, the annual contribution was less than $500,000.

I was surprised when he accepted an invitation to attend a Comic Relief concert at Bayfront Park in Miami, but when I learned that a $100,000 contribution was being made to the hospital, I understood why he was willing to participate. Anything for his hospital.

It was at that concert that he began a friendship with singer Michael Bolton. DiMaggio even agreed to umpire a game of the Bolton Bombers when singer's touring softball team was in California. He once gave Bolton, who played third base on the team, a batting tip. "You have

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to get under a softball, Michael. Hit it up in the air." A couple of hours later, I received a cell-
phone call from Bolton. He was disappointed that he couldn't locate Joe, who had gone to
dinner. "Tell him I hit a home run," he said excitedly from the dugout. "My first!"

A lot of money from that Bayfront Park concert was directed to a part of the facility DiMaggio was very proud of, the Visitors' Clubhouse, which is directly across the street from the children's hospital. Parents and siblings of the long-term pediatric patients stay free so they can be with the ailing child during hospitalization. The 17-room facility which looks like a first-rate motel has fully equipment kitchen where meals can be prepared so families can eat together in a homey looking dining room, and a laundry room with washers and dryers. The idea is to keep the family together and in a home-like environment during an especially trying time.

Bolton is on the board of the foundation which supports the facility, and together with DiMaggio, he helped attract benefactors. The George Steinbrenner Foundation sponsored one of the rooms in the Visitor's Clubhouse.

After DiMaggio died, major leaguer Jeff Conine became a major force in the facility and took over as sponsor of the Memorial celebrity golf tournament, which raised more than $1 million in 2001.

DiMaggio helped get Conine involved in that project and the hospital, which wasn't hard after Conine toured the hospital with him. "Joe's way with the kids is what impressed me about his dedication to the hospital," Conine said. "It was obvious that he cared about them, and they related to him, though I guess most of them weren't quite sure he was. They knew he was famous, but he was so friendly to them.

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(10)

"I know he had a reputation for being tough to get along with, although I never saw that part of him, but with those kids, he was the nicest, friendliest man. I have wonderful memories of him and the kids in the hospital."

DiMaggio visited the hospital at least twice a month. He regarded that as a responsibility because the hospital was named for him. He always felt comfortable with kids and he would stop and talk with them on his tours. It wasn't just a "how you feeling?" conversation, but he would ask the boys about whether they played baseball and how they did. He would see a doll or a stuffed animal in a child's room and that he would ask about.

Before leaving for San Francisco to be with his grandchildren at Christmas, he would go through the hospital pushing a shopping cart filled with teddy bears. He went into each room to hand out the bears one by one and speak with the children, many of who were desperately ill.

I remember accompanying DiMaggio and Governor Lawton Chiles on one of those Christmas-time tours, and Chiles was amazed at the ease with which DiMaggio talked with the patients. "He has such wonderful rapport with those children," Chiles said, "Frankly, I find it difficult, some of them are so ill, but not Joe. He's having a fine time."

Just about then, one of the kids threw a baseball at DiMaggio. As surprised as he was, and as old as he was, he still had the quick reflexes to make a basket catch and toss the ball back to the kid, laughing like a kid joy. DiMaggio's love was Marilyn Monroe but his weakness was children.

Only some of the youngsters may have known who he was, but they were aware he was famous and they would shout, "Joe DiMaggio, Joe DiMaggio" as he walked through the halls.

He always managed to get to the kitchen to talk with the chef. Invariably, he stayed for lunch. "How about some linguini?" he asked. "Not too al dente. Pomodori, OK? No garlic, but

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onions are all right." He would tell anyone who would listen that there were a lot of upscale
Italian restaurants that didn't have linguini as good as that chef made, with Joe's helpful advice,
of course.

The hospital's colorful and cheery decor has a baseball motif, and was designed to eliminate, or least minimize, the fear the young patients brought into the hospital with them. The lobby resembles a stadium entrance, highlighted by a bright-colored mural of a ballpark and a couple of seats from Wrigley Field in Chicago. Step on one of the bases painted on the floor, and it sets off a broadcast of a baseball game. The place has become a baseball museum with showcases of memorabilia, including autographed balls, uniform jerseys and bats, plus scores of baseball photos and posters. Much of the collection came from my office and home, donated by my family. Included among the rare items is a bat signed by DiMaggio in 1992, a year before he broke his self-imposed restriction on signing bats. The inscription he wrote makes it really special, "To all the children at the Joe DiMaggio Children's Hospital, for a speedy recovery." The date inscribed on the bat, 9/19/92, marked the dedication of the wing. The collection of baseballs could give memorabilia collectors weak knees and sweaty palms because in one small area are baseballs bearing the autographs of Ted Williams, Stan Musial, Nolan Ryan, Reggie Jackson, Muhammad Ali and a former Yale player, George Bush. One ball has a rare double signature, Bob Feller and Brooks Robinson.

Among the photos displayed was one of the 1936 World Champion Yankees, Joe's favorite team. There were photos of DiMaggio and Casey Stengel and Joe with Mickey Mantle. There's even a 1940s photo of Joe, wearing pajamas and sitting in a hospital wheelchair, surrounded by kids, no doubt taken during after one of his heel operations.

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