By HAL BOCK
AP Sports Writer
Near the end of his career, at a time when his body often
ached from nagging injuries, Joe DiMaggio was asked
whether he wasn't occasionally tempted to relax on the field,
to coast for a couple of innings.
His answer spoke volumes about the kind of player he was.
"Never," he said. "Somebody might be out there, watching
me for the first time."
Joe D. didn't want any fan, new or old, to feel disappointed.
The first time I saw DiMaggio in 1947, I was disappointed
so I booed him. Not because he didn't live up to
expectations. Quite the opposite.
He rattled a double off the left field wall at New York's Polo
Grounds, helping the Yankees beat my team, the New York
Giants, in the annual Mayor's Trophy game.
That did not sit well with this 8-year-old, seeing his first
major league baseball game.
So I booed perhaps the most graceful, classic player of his
time. Booed him good.
Years later, when I knew better, I felt guilty. Joe D. was not
to be booed. He was to be admired, not only for his skills,
which were plentiful, but for his style, which was special.
For one generation of New York fans, the debate raged
over baseball's best center fielder -- Willie, Mickey or the
Duke.
For the generation before that one, there was no argument.
It was Joe D.
DiMaggio played baseball with a sense of dignity. He rarely
showed emotion. He would never think of standing at home
plate, admiring his home runs. That would be showing up the
pitcher.
He would never preen and prance the way modern players
often do. There were no contrived gestures, no punching the
air, no pointing to the sky.
DiMaggio would simply put his head down and trot around
the bases, shake hands as he crossed the plate, and head for
the dugout. He was the quintessential professional, dignified
and gracious, a quiet hero.
He covered center field so effortlessly. He would glide after
the ball with long, classic strides, loping across the outfield
like a gazelle. Maybe that's why they called him the Yankee
Clipper. He was never out of position, never caught
napping.
None of this was a particularly big deal with him. He played
poker-faced baseball, effortlessly and expressionless.
The only exception was in the 1947 World Series against
the Brooklyn Dodgers, when he hit a ball to the deepest part
of left field at Yankee Stadium with two men on base. Al
Gionfriddo, a journeyman outfielder who had just entered
the game, ran it down and made the catch in front of the
bullpen, just as DiMaggio was reaching second base. Joe D.
kicked the dirt in disgust. It was a rare peek behind the
public facade.
Years after his record 56-game hitting streak, DiMaggio
revealed the pressure he felt. "I was able to control myself,"
he said. "That doesn't mean I wasn't dying inside."
He demanded that on Oldtimers' Day at Yankee Stadium,
he always be the last to be introduced, as a gesture to his
status. In 1968, the year Mickey Mantle retired, the club
chose to introduce Mantle last. DiMaggio viewed it as a
slight, and it strained his relationship with the front office for
years.
DiMaggio was a private man, on the field and off. At one
Oldtimers' Day at Yankee Stadium, many of his
ex-teammates gathered in a lounge near the clubhouse,
telling stories to and about one another. DiMaggio sat alone
at a corner table, a solitary figure.
And yet, his closest friend when he played was pitcher Lefty
Gomez, the perpetual life of the party. "I wish I could be like
Lefty," he once confided to restaurateur Toots Shor.
But he couldn't. It just wasn't in him.
If you gained his confidence, he could be a charming
storyteller. Once, when I asked him about his 56-game
hitting streak, DiMaggio lit up as he told an anecdote,
laughing as he recalled the details.
The only subject that was off-limits was his short, stormy
marriage to Marilyn Monroe.
Years after Monroe's death, DiMaggio came to the offices
of The Associated Press for an interview. When he arrived,
he saw a poster-sized picture of Monroe -- the famous AP
photo of her skirts billowing as she stood over a subway
grating -- hanging in the hall. Seething, he made an
immediate U-turn and left the building.
For DiMaggio, privacy was always hard to maintain.
In 1996, he was flying from Miami to New York to throw
out the first ball at the World Series. Arriving at the gate for
his flight, he was ushered across the hall, seated out of the
way at an empty gate, where he could remain fairly
undisturbed.
DiMaggio was recognizable, everywhere he went. Once, I
walked one block with him in Manhattan, heading from his
hotel to an appearance at Radio City Music Hall. In the
streets, he must have been stopped a half-dozen times by
vendors, cabbies, pedestrians, all calling to him, "Hey, Joe
D., how you doin'?"
And that was more than 40 years after he played his last
game.
DiMaggio responded with a wave and a smile. He enjoyed
the acclaim. Nobody deserved it more.
Hal Bock has covered baseball and other sports for The
Associated Press for 35 years.