Handing the Bat to Joe DiMaggio
Steve Amoia
August 31, 2009
An American Cultural Icon
If you ever played baseball, the mystical name of DiMaggio was as familiar as the crack of the bat, or the thud of the ball hitting the back of the catcher's mitt. Just like cold beer, hot dogs, and the seventh inning stretch, Joe DiMaggio was an integral part of American baseball tradition and lore.
Giuseppe Paolo DiMaggio was born in Martinez, California, on 25 November 1920, and died on 08 March 1999 in Hollywood, Florida. He was the eighth of nine children born to Giuseppe and Rosalia, who were immigrants from the Sicilian island of Isola della Femmina (Women's Island). His father was a fisherman; however, young Joe did not like the rigors of Fisherman's Wharf. He preferred to play on the sandlots of North Beach, which was and is an Italian neighborhood of San Francisco. His father thought that Joe was lazy, and hoped that the allure of baseball would soon leave his son. Young Joe was not an avid student, and at the age of 16, he dropped out of Galileo High School, and worked various laborer jobs for the next few years.
He played semi-professional baseball for the San Francisco Seals, and after hitting in 61 consecutive games, his star rose in the direction of the New York Yankees. He was scouted and later signed by the Yankees. His career with New York spanned from 1936 to 1951, and included a three year break during WWII. Two of his brothers, Dominic and Vincent, also played professional baseball, respectively. Interestingly, all three played the position of center field.
In an era without television and mass communications, he became an American cultural icon. Mostly due to radio broadcasts, magazines, and newspapers. To Italian-Americans, and other new immigrants, he represented much more than the perfect swing, the graceful strides, his devotion to Marilyn Monroe, or "The Streak" (he hit safely in 56 straight games in 1941) that would make him immortal. Mr. DiMaggio exemplified that a first generation American could assimilate, and become a reference point in the nation's most popular game of baseball.
Rare Childhood Opportunity
My father, Michael Amoia, had a rare opportunity as a child. His family lived near Griffith Stadium, which was at that time the home of the Washington Redskins and Senators. In 1965, the stadium was torn down, and now is the site of the Howard University Hospital. My father was very athletic, and competed in baseball and football for his high school, McKinley Tech. Somehow, and it remains a family mystery, my father obtained a job working for both the Redskins and Senators. My grandfather was not a sportsman, and one can imagine that few adolescents would have been brave enough to walk into the administrative offices of Griffith Stadium to ask for a job.
The ironic facet of this story was that few of his old friends knew about this part of his life. When I mentioned the experience during his eulogy, some of his friends approached me later with seeming disbelief. It was a memory from my father's life that was very private, but one that always fascinated me.
During his life, he would mention DiMaggio on occasion. I had an older cousin, Robert, who had heard the story in more detail. My father worked in the clubhouse for the Redskins, and was a batboy for the Washington Senators, where his assignment was the visitor's dugout and clubhouse. He handed Joe DiMaggio his bat on several occasions. My father was able to observe Mr. DiMaggio both on and off the field, and the experience was imbued upon his memory.
Personal Reflections by Michael Amoia
Dad, what was he like?
"He was a very quiet and private man. In the clubhouse, he didn't say much, and the other players left him alone. But you knew he was their leader. He had custom-made suits, and always looked sharp. He even looked good in those baggy uniforms they wore back then. He used to drink coffee and smoke Chesterfields between innings, and a few times we had to run out to by him smokes. You were told by the Senators to treat all the players the same, but with Mr. DiMaggio, it was a different story. After the games, he used to sign balls for me. I sold them outside the stadium for $1. That was a lot of money in those days. That's how we were paid. We had to ask the players to sign balls or broken bats."
What made him great?
"Instincts. He always seemed to do the right thing. You never saw him out of position in the outfield. He was quick as a cat. Strong arm. Didn't miss cutoff men. At bat, you never saw a smoother or quicker swing. Only Ted Williams was a better hitter. He could hit for power and for a high average. He was very graceful for a big man, and ran the bases very well. He played each inning as if it were his last. I never saw him get angry."
Few of us could have such a childhood memory. It is said that youth is wasted on the young; however, in my father's case, I would beg to differ.
"Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?
Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you."
Paul Simon, "Mrs. Robinson."
If you ever played baseball, the mystical name of DiMaggio was as familiar as the crack of the bat, or the thud of the ball hitting the back of the catcher's mitt. Just like cold beer, hot dogs, and the seventh inning stretch, Joe DiMaggio was an integral part of American baseball tradition and lore.
Giuseppe Paolo DiMaggio was born in Martinez, California, on 25 November 1920, and died on 08 March 1999 in Hollywood, Florida. He was the eighth of nine children born to Giuseppe and Rosalia, who were immigrants from the Sicilian island of Isola della Femmina (Women's Island). His father was a fisherman; however, young Joe did not like the rigors of Fisherman's Wharf. He preferred to play on the sandlots of North Beach, which was and is an Italian neighborhood of San Francisco. His father thought that Joe was lazy, and hoped that the allure of baseball would soon leave his son. Young Joe was not an avid student, and at the age of 16, he dropped out of Galileo High School, and worked various laborer jobs for the next few years.
He played semi-professional baseball for the San Francisco Seals, and after hitting in 61 consecutive games, his star rose in the direction of the New York Yankees. He was scouted and later signed by the Yankees. His career with New York spanned from 1936 to 1951, and included a three year break during WWII. Two of his brothers, Dominic and Vincent, also played professional baseball, respectively. Interestingly, all three played the position of center field.
In an era without television and mass communications, he became an American cultural icon. Mostly due to radio broadcasts, magazines, and newspapers. To Italian-Americans, and other new immigrants, he represented much more than the perfect swing, the graceful strides, his devotion to Marilyn Monroe, or "The Streak" (he hit safely in 56 straight games in 1941) that would make him immortal. Mr. DiMaggio exemplified that a first generation American could assimilate, and become a reference point in the nation's most popular game of baseball.
Rare Childhood Opportunity
My father, Michael Amoia, had a rare opportunity as a child. His family lived near Griffith Stadium, which was at that time the home of the Washington Redskins and Senators. In 1965, the stadium was torn down, and now is the site of the Howard University Hospital. My father was very athletic, and competed in baseball and football for his high school, McKinley Tech. Somehow, and it remains a family mystery, my father obtained a job working for both the Redskins and Senators. My grandfather was not a sportsman, and one can imagine that few adolescents would have been brave enough to walk into the administrative offices of Griffith Stadium to ask for a job.
The ironic facet of this story was that few of his old friends knew about this part of his life. When I mentioned the experience during his eulogy, some of his friends approached me later with seeming disbelief. It was a memory from my father's life that was very private, but one that always fascinated me.
During his life, he would mention DiMaggio on occasion. I had an older cousin, Robert, who had heard the story in more detail. My father worked in the clubhouse for the Redskins, and was a batboy for the Washington Senators, where his assignment was the visitor's dugout and clubhouse. He handed Joe DiMaggio his bat on several occasions. My father was able to observe Mr. DiMaggio both on and off the field, and the experience was imbued upon his memory.
Personal Reflections by Michael Amoia
Dad, what was he like?
"He was a very quiet and private man. In the clubhouse, he didn't say much, and the other players left him alone. But you knew he was their leader. He had custom-made suits, and always looked sharp. He even looked good in those baggy uniforms they wore back then. He used to drink coffee and smoke Chesterfields between innings, and a few times we had to run out to by him smokes. You were told by the Senators to treat all the players the same, but with Mr. DiMaggio, it was a different story. After the games, he used to sign balls for me. I sold them outside the stadium for $1. That was a lot of money in those days. That's how we were paid. We had to ask the players to sign balls or broken bats."
What made him great?
"Instincts. He always seemed to do the right thing. You never saw him out of position in the outfield. He was quick as a cat. Strong arm. Didn't miss cutoff men. At bat, you never saw a smoother or quicker swing. Only Ted Williams was a better hitter. He could hit for power and for a high average. He was very graceful for a big man, and ran the bases very well. He played each inning as if it were his last. I never saw him get angry."
Few of us could have such a childhood memory. It is said that youth is wasted on the young; however, in my father's case, I would beg to differ.
"Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?
Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you."
Paul Simon, "Mrs. Robinson."
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