DiMaggio--No, Not Joe--Goes Public to Capture Spirit of ’41

Dom DiMaggio, like his brother, likes his privacy.

So, when the book people called, he automatically said no.

“I always knew what they wanted,” he said. “They wanted something about Joe.”

One day, though, someone ran a different notion by Dom: A book about 1941.

If ever the major leagues had a magical, almost mythic year, it was 1941. There was Joe DiMaggio’s 56-game hitting streak. There was Ted Williams’ .406 batting average. There was the anticipated, but nonetheless gripping, death of Lou Gehrig. There was Mickey Owen’s dropped third strike in the World Series.

And beyond the outfield walls, there was a worried America, waiting and watching as World War II headed its way. Two months after the 1941 World Series, the Japanese planes attacked Pearl Harbor.

For a year that had begun so pleasantly, with Dom DiMaggio driving his new Packard cross-country to spring camp, 1941 took increasingly dramatic turns with every page of the calendar. With its 50th anniversary approaching, the summer of ’41 seemed a hell of an idea for a book.

But something inside Dom made him still say no. He didn’t want any of the attention, any of the notoriety, any of the publicity that such a book might bring about. He liked the quiet life he led in Massachusetts and Florida, liked the idea of keeping it that way.

“It nagged at me, though,” he said. “The more I thought about it, the more memories of 1941 came flooding back to me. I liked the idea better and better.”

After a couple of weeks, Dom called the book people.

“Still want the book about 1941?” he asked.

Luckily, they did.

It’s out now--”Real Grass, Real Heroes,” (Zebra, $18.95), a collaboration by DiMaggio and author Bill Gilbert that takes us back to a time unlike any other in American history, on and off the ballfields. And it is told through the eyes of one of baseball’s truly underappreciated players.

Dom DiMaggio did not have any 56-game hitting streaks, did not marry Marilyn Monroe, did not have any songs written about him, but he did make eight All-Star teams, did play alongside Ted Williams, did play a mean center field. He was a DiMaggio, all right.

In the field, he played shallow and daringly, the way Tris Speaker had before him or Paul Blair did later. Dom can still recall the dinner he had with his older brother in 1941, after they played on opposite sides when the Boston Red Sox came to Yankee Stadium.

“Do you always play that shallow?” Joe asked.

“Why?” Dom asked back.

“Well, you might want to back up a few steps,” Joe said. “The wind here is deceiving. The flags make it look like it’s blowing in, when it’s really blowing out.”

Good tip, Dom thought. Next day, he moved back seven or eight steps. And when his brother stepped up and hit one a country mile, Dom raced back and caught it, with barely a step to spare.

“That’s the last time I give you advice,” Joe said.

For the book, Dom DiMaggio sought no advice, did not disturb his brother. He did, however, go to see old friends such as Williams, Owen, Tommy Henrich, Ken Keltner and others, to jot down their recollections of 1941.

They all remembered not only the history-making developments on the field, but the subsequent rationing of food and fuel, the manufacturing of weapons and munitions at America’s factories, and the number of baseball players who, one by one, went off to serve their country.

Dom, doing his part, went down to the federal building in Boston and asked to enlist in the Navy. When his eyes were checked, he couldn’t see a thing without his glasses.

“The doctor said, ‘Move as close to the eye chart as you have to until you can read something.’ So, just to make a point, I walked right into the wall,” Dom remembers.

Eventually, he got his wish, serving in Australia and the Philippines. He even refused to play for the camp ballclub at one point unless he was guaranteed a chance to become a chief petty officer, after first being denied. The Navy caved in.

“You hear about guys holding out on their contracts,” Dom said. “I held out on the entire United States Navy.”

The majors had players coming and going during the war.

“Look at this ring,” Dom said, removing it from his finger. “We played an All-Star game in Cleveland with the active ballplayers against the guys who were in the service. I think they gave us a $25 war bond for it. The rings we had made ourselves.”

Huge contracts and rewards are just part of the changing game to DiMaggio, who detects a brashness in today’s players that did not exist in his day. He particularly liked the way Carlton Fisk of the Chicago White Sox got on Yankee Deion Sanders’ case for not running out a pop fly.

Pride is an important part of any player’s makeup, and it comes in many forms. For Dom DiMaggio, there is pride in the fact that he batted .298 lifetime, missed the All-Star lineup only when injuries affected his play, and still found time to serve his country.

His idea of a ballplayer is Ted Williams, the last man to hit .400, the man who homered in his last at-bat and never so much as tipped his cap on the way back to the dugout.

“That line from that (Frank Sinatra) song fits Ted,” Dom said. “ ‘I ate it up, and spat it out.’ ”

During part of DiMaggio’s career, sacrifice flies counted as official at-bats. One day Tommy Henrich ran back and caught one of Dom’s deep drives in the ninth inning, with no chance of throwing out the baserunner tagging up at third.

Years later, when Dom looked him up, Henrich said: “Did I cost you .300?”

DiMaggio said: “No, I’d have needed a few more hits for .300.”

“Good,” Henrich said. “It’s been bothering me.”