NOTES #126

NOTES FROM THE SHADOWS OF COOPERSTOWN

Observations from Outside the Lines

By Two Finger Carney (carneya6@borg.com)

#126 MARCH 23, 1996

GONE FISHING

“‘I would like to take the great DiMaggio fishing,’ the old man said. ‘They say his father was a fisherman. Maybe he was as poor as we are and would understand.'”

I enjoyed reading that famous Hemingway fish story The Old Man and the Sea , and several others of Mr H’s novels. One of my college profs worshipped Hemingway, virtually forcing me into the Devil’s Advocate role in class — no Hall of Fame should have a capacity of one, especially a Literary one. I became a Yogi Berra of sorts, who once asked Hemingway, “What paper do you write for, Ernie?” And would you like my autograph?

“You always get a special kick on opening day, no matter how many you go through. You look forward to it like a birthday party when you’re a kid. You think something wonderful is going to happen.” — Joe DiMaggio

It’s Opening Day 1996, and we are all boarding the fishing boat of Baseball once again. Fishing can be honest work, and it can be pure fun. In the ocean that Baseball sails, we are certain that there will be some terrific catches in the months ahead. But we have no idea where or when. Like the kid headed off to the party, clutching his gift-wrapped something, we look forward to the games, to seeing other kids, to the singing and cheering.

Hell, sometimes the best catch at a game is made by a fan like us, or a vendor. You never know.

But it’s Opening Day, we launch out, mentally dressed for the long haul. Today’s catch is something, but we will be sailing into October, and we can’t react to every nibble as if we’ve landed a Marlin.

I would like to take the great DiMaggio fishing. I’m getting some help this O-Day from that son of a fisherman Joe D. (and David Nathan’s little McFarland book of Baseball Quotations ) in getting this issue into the water, for a couple of reasons. One is that I like the spirit of his quote, above. Yeah, a birthday party. Same time next year.

So grab your rods and gear, take a light jacket for the spring and fall and the night games, don’t forget your scorebook (to record what we haul in), and fill your rootin’ mugs with hope. It’s O-Day, anything can happen, spin the bottle , light the candles, make a wish , the snows of winter are as doomed as frosting on the cake, may you have many more.

BASEBALL IS FATHERS AND SONS.

Football is brothers beating up each other in the backyard, violent and superficial. Baseball is the generations, looping backwards forever with a million apparitions of sticks and balls, cricket and rounders and the games the Iroquois played in Connecticut before the English came. Baseball is fathers and sons playing catch, lazy and murderous, wild and controlled, the profound archaic song of birth, growing, age, and death. The diamond encloses what we are.” — Donald Hall

Joe DiMaggio is also a personal symbol of whatever it is that fills “the generation gap.” Why DiMaggio? Why not Pittsburgh legend Ralph Kiner? I’ve told some of the story here before, but here’s the rest.

I think Joe was still married to Marilyn Monroe when I first heard of him. I think that’s what he was primarily known for at the time. (“It proves no man can be a success in two national pastimes,” wrote Oscar Levant when Joe and Marilyn split.) He was an American celebrity , a fellow whom you could look up someday in the Encyclopedia. Not just Macmillan’s, any encyclopedia.

Joe’s place in the sports pages had been taken over by Mickey Mantle, but he somehow retained a place in the sport. He did not force himself into this place, like a loud Reggie Jackson crashing the TV booth. He had been a hero for my father’s generation, and that generation knew how to treat its heroes. They were given space, respect, almost reverence. DiMaggio was the America who had its life brutally interrupted by a World War, had lost some of its best summers to hard times in a different uniform, but had come back, stronger than ever. DiMaggio was injured, but never defeated. Come October, he’d be there.

My Dad passed on no DiMaggio stories to me. He had none. If he saw Joe play at all, it would have been on TV, the grainy black-and-white of early video days. I don’t think interleague play would have made it any different for my Dad, either. He didn’t go to Forbes Field much in Joe’s era — oh, maybe a game here and there, to see Kiner. My Dad would rather spend his evenings reading or — fishing. He would be reborn as a baseball fan in the mid-fifties, when his kids were born — as fans.

I must have been intentionally naive about DiMaggio from the beginning. Just as Ruth or Gehrig were never Germans , DiMaggio was never Italian — he was a Yankee . (This trait is apparently genetic. My own kids never guess at ancestry, based on surnames. You’ve got to be carefully taught? (South Pacific)

“Italians, bad at war, are well suited for milder competition…. Although he learned Italian first, Joe [DiMaggio], now 24, speaks fluent English without an accent and is otherwise well adapted to most U.S. mores. Instead of olive oil or smelly bear grease he keeps his hair slick with water. He never reeks of garlic and prefers chicken chow mein to spaghetti.”

So wrote Life magazine in 1939. Tough times for Americans with roots in Italy. In one of the odder coincidences in my life, I happened to be sharing a hospital room with an older Italian fellow, the night that what is “war” today broke out in the Persian Gulf. My roommate was saddened — any war would have done it. “I went to Italy to fight against Fascism, but got drafted into Mussolini’s army and was captured by the Russians. I spent most of the war in Siberia, losing toes to frostbite. When we were packed onto trains and taken to Europe, we were certain we were going to our death.” His voice was tired, but full of emotion.

“DiMaggio seldom showed emotion. One day, after striking out, he came into the dugout and kicked the ball bag. We all went, ‘Oooh.’ It hurt. He sat down and sweat popped out on his forehead and he clenched and unclenched his fists without ever saying a word. Everybody wanted to howl. But this was the god. You don’t laugh at gods.” — Jerry Coleman

My first memory of DiMaggio has him on the other end of that rainbow that ended in Al Gionfriddo’s glove, game six of the ’47 Series. Oh, Doctor! But it was years later that Red Barber joined the memory. Our 8 mm projector was silent … sort of (it’s motor was actually pretty noisy!) We owned Gionfriddo’s catch, so every family movie night — and these happened a few times a year — here it comes again .

More than the hit, I remember the little kick of dust that Joe makes, approaching second, when he realizes that he’s been robbed. A show of emotion , and it’s newsreel-worthy, something to pass down to the next generation, because for Joe, this is a rare show of emotion. In the games I played at the time, it was rare when anyone failed to show their feelings! We tossed our bats, filled the air with expletives, slammed down our caps. Wasn’t that baseball?

[The first birthday party that I attended was about five doors down “the alley” (which is what we called our neighborhood), for Anna May Ferrara. Her family sometimes spoke Italian, and no one seemed to mind. The Ferraras grew tomatoes, and besides their small black shaggy dog Pokey — families were known for their dogs, don’t ask me why — I best remember their house for the terrific aromas that always seemed to be wafting out their back door from their kitchen.]

DiMaggio, the first Italian superstar, was under the same pressure to break a stereotype as Jackie Robinson. He could have shouted at Gionfriddo, raised his arm or finger. But no, Joe just kicks up a little dust. Tomorrow’s another day, another game.

“A TOWER OF EFFORTLESS GRACE”

I know some folks react to the over-use of the word “class” or “class act” in sports. But I don’t recall anyone ever objecting to the adjectives when applied to DiMaggio. The over-use has eroded the words of their meaning. We need new words today. But let DiMaggio keep the old ones.

“I’m responsible for Joe DiMaggio’s success. They never knew that he could go back on a ball until I pitched. All I ever saw was the back of his uniform. I wouldn’t have known what he looked like, except we roomed together.”

— Yankee pitcher Lefty Gomez

When I think of a ballplayer without “class,” I think of Pete Rose. But that’s probably only because I’ve read books about Pete Rose that could never have been written about DiMaggio, if he did half the things Rose did. DiMaggio inherited something besides pinstripes from the Babe. Crude language was laundered and hung up white, like last night’s bedsheets. Whisper about who else was at the table, but let the gossip columnists handle it, keep the sports pages safe for the fans. Mantle was already in a different era of media handling. Pete Rose was far, far too late. Rose and DiMaggio played in different countries.

“At my age, I’m happy to be the greatest living anything”
— Joe D., named baseball’s “Greatest Living Player,” 1981

I turn fifty this year. When I was about twelve, I learned that Willie Mays and I shared the same birthday, May 6. It made Willie special to me, even if he wasn’t a Pirate. Nobody’s perfect. I found it hard to imagine myself being older then, as old as Willie, or my Dad. Hard to imagine making it to 54 , when the century will turn. If I was a ballplayer, my career would be over by then for sure. (As a writer, I’m in prime time.)

“I will always feel connected to Joe DiMaggio. I was born in the spring of his rookie year, 1936. In researching his spring training of that year, I found that a heat treatment to his injured foot caused a serious burn. That accident, which sidelined him until May 3rd, took place on March 23rd, the day I was born.”

— Mike Schacht in FAN

Spring 1991 Issue, a tribute to Joe D.

When my son was born in 1981, I noticed that Patrick shared his birthday with Joe DiMaggio. At the same moment, I realized that Joe was born the same year as my father, 1914. This made Joe a special link for me, even though my Dad probably never rooted for him, and my son’s knowledge of Joe will be limited to the poems of his father and Paul Simon.

YANKEE CLIPPER

Joe D. was born in 1914

Same as my Dad

Who’s long gone now.

Joe’s still with us

Although that song keeps asking

Where he’s gone

As if he has —

As if we’d ever let him

Be lost to memory.

Joe D. played center stage

Center city

When baseball was center sport.

There his style and class

Refracted the limelight

Like a perfectly cut diamond.

The Streak

Was like that final burst

Of color and illumination

At the finish

Of a 4th of July fireworks show,

Perfect for timeless association

With Mr Consistency.

Joe D. was born on November 25

Like my Little Leaguer son.

Any father would be proud

To see DiMaggio’s thing reflected

Even a little

In his offspring —

Not the numbers

But the consistent effort

Poise in the noise,

Uncommon grace

Presence

Old-fashioned pride

In his work.

One of 125 poems in ROMANCING THE HORSEHIDE

“Did you know that if I got a hit tonight I would have made $10,000? The Heinz 57 people wanted to make some deal.”– Joe DiMaggio, 7/17/41 the day before he began a 16-game hitting streak

For a brief time, America knew Joe DiMaggio as Mr Coffee. Which is better than Mr Ketchup, I guess. But I’m glad Joe gave up the TV commercials. They were, you know, too commercial , and had Joe out of his place.

“Because there is always some kid who may be seeing me for the first or last time. I owe him my best.” — Joe DiMaggio, on why he played so hard every game

This is another reason why I picked Joe to help me launch the 1996 season. Wouldn’t it be great to see this attitude in ballplayers — I mean from Little League on up! Give it your best.

Robert Ruark once described Spring Training as “the one perfect time in sports… the never-never land when every man is Alice, and the looking glass is there for all to step through.” Step? Anchors aweigh!

At last year’s SABR convention, I listened as a well-respected historian questioned Joe DiMaggio’s Streak. When I cornered him after the talk, he insisted that the scorers at the Stadium had given Joe some breaks early on.

I haven’t the interest to track this down. Hitting in 50 out of 56 games is still impressive, and part of the fun of baseball is arguing, from our seat in the grandstand, with the invisible source of the “H” or “E” that appears on the scoreboard. DiMaggio has The Streak, but DiMaggio doesn’t need The Streak to be DiMaggio. Can the same be said of Cal Ripken, Jr? Save it for next year’s Hot Stove!

EYEWITNESS TESTIMONY

October 8, 1936. “Already baseball men accept the loose-limbed Italian as the best centerfielder in baseball, and he has been in the league only one year. ‘I think he’s as good as Speaker ever was right now,’ said Clark Griffith, of the Washington club.”

October 6, 1947. “[The Gionfriddo Catch] was indescribable, so why be stupid and try to describe it?

… A few words about DiMaggio. These other fellows who pose as Yankees ought to bow deep as they pass this man today. He is so much the best. So much the best in all baseball. The supreme artist. You’ll never hear of him making a great catch for the simple reason that he doesn’t know how to make a catch look great. Or even difficult. The ball is in close. DiMaggio is there to take it. It’s hit nine miles away. Somehow DiMaggio is there to get it.”

— both, from The Joe Williams Baseball Reader

May 3, 1936. “Joe D. was my first hero. We started our careers together at the Stadium, May 3, 1936. The first major league game he played. The first one I saw. He hit a triple that day. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had witnessed in my eight-year old life. It’s still in my top five.”

— William Sommer, in Fan #5

1941 . “He started baseball’s famous streak / That’s got us all aglow,/ He’s just a man and not a freak,/ Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio./ Joe Joe DiMaggio,/ We want you on our side….

“Our kids will tell their kids his name….

“He’s glorified the horsehide sphere….”

— Alan Courtney, Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio

[I’m guessing here. “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” was written by a fellow who had never been to one.]

1948 . “Suddenly, I understood everything the announcer was saying. While I listened, the woman unfolded an ironing board and began sprinkling liquid from a bottle over a rumpled shirt. The man lit a cigarette, leaned back, and inhaled deeply. The radio announcer — Mel Allen — said that Feller was being taken out and a new pitcher brought in, Bob Muncrief. Soon it was DiMaggio’s turn at bat again.

“‘What if…?’ ‘Shhhhhhhh … listen.’

“It was more than curiosity I was feeling now. I was aware of my heartbeat, and there was pressure in my throat. My mind was racing ahead to the fulfillment of a wish. The extraordinary act, if accomplished, would belong to me alone.

“‘… swings and it’s going deep! If it stays fair … and it’s going, it’s going, it’s GAH-OWN. Another home run! Joe DiMaggio has just hit his third straight home run, folks. Three straight home runs for the Yankee Clipper. How a- bout that!’

“‘My God, he did it! He did it!’ I wanted to embrace the man, who was slapping his knee repeatedly and saying softly, ‘Hey! Hey!'”

— Christopher Lehmann-Haupt, Me and DiMaggio

[ An accomplice story, as well as one about Getting Hooked]

KNOWN FOR

Lots of people in the country of baseball are known for something. Johnny Vander Meer, for throwing back-to-back no-hitters, which must rank among the least-likely-to-be-topped baseball feats. Bill Mazeroski, arguably the game’s best-ever glove man, is ironically known as the guy who hit the homer to beat the Yankees in the 1960 Series. The family album is full of Bucky Dents and Al Gionfriddos , Wambsgansses and Reggies, Gehrigs and now Ripkens, all known for something.

Sometimes, the thing eclipses the person. We might remember Vander Meer if he hadn’t delivered twins, Bucky if he hadn’t Dented the Red Sox dream. But fewer of us would remember. On the other hand, Reggie and Gehrig — take your pick of known fors .

Joe DiMaggio is best known for his streak, but he scarcely needed it to become a superstar. He was already there . Pretend there was no streak, and what might Joe D. be known for ? Lots of World Series time, and All Star limelight. For a career of heavyweight slugging, punctuated by those always in position catches. And perhaps, for a triptych of box scores, strung together in June, 1949.

Halberstam has written the book about that summer. The significance of Joe D’s deeds, June 28-30, only became legend after the summer ended, and fans could look back, and see that those games were a crucial turning point in the marathon, won by the Yankees by one slim game. Had the Sox won the pennant, the triptych might still be remembered, but only as the story of how DiMaggio came off the DL to slow down the BoSox express.

Joe had indeed been hobbled that summer. The mythology has it that he woke up June 28 and found the pain in his heel miraculously gone — perhaps struck healthy by the Curse of the Bambino. He rose to rally his team to three wins at Fenway, homering in each game, driving in nine runs with five hits.

Interviewed in Me and DiMaggio , Joe recalls, 36 years later, that the Yanks had been in a slump. “… that’s when I decided I was going to play because I didn’t want to miss playing at Fenway Park in Boston. Because of that short left-field wall, of course. I’d missed playing there twice already that season … So having that friendly fence there resolved it, not to stay away from the plate. That would have been a terrible thing. So under any conditions, I had to take a shot at it. So I did play, and I got lucky, as you know.” Yes, he had been taking batting practice.

The Red Sox and Yankees have been dueling partners in many a summer, but in the forties, there was another dimension added. Joe DiMaggio vs. Ted Williams. The Streak vs. .406 … the slugging Italian from San Francisco, Rocky Balboa , vs. Teddy Ballgame from down the coast, the lean, mean hitting machine. Ironically, both condemned to the “wrong” ball parks!

SITTING FIRESIDE WITH DIMAGGIO

Fans are not the only ones who have used Joe D. as a historical marker:

“Mr Leroy (Satchel) Paige … cast a startled glance at Joe DiMaggio during an all-star charity game in Hollywood a while ago. Before his eyes, the 37-year old Clipper, who had come out of retirement to make one last appearance at bat, took a couple of swings in an elderly fashion, then popped out feebly to short. The sight absolutely dismayed Mr Paige.

“Back in 1926, when Paige was pitching for the Chattanooga Black Lookouts, in the Negro Southern Association, DiMaggio was a San Francisco schoolboy of eleven. In 1935, when Paige was a 10-year semipro veteran and already a legend in the land, DiMaggio was still a year away from the Yankees. Thirteen years later, when Paige was just breaking into the majors as a Cleveland rookie, sports writers were calling DiMaggio the Yankees’ grand old man. Now, when Paige was being hailed as one of the best relief prospects in baseball, DiMaggio was bowing out of the game.”

— Richard Donovan, The Fabulous Satchel Paige in THE FIRESIDE BOOK OF BASEBALL

May I have the envelope, please? And the winner, in the category of Dramatic Achievement and Consummate Showmanship, is:

“Joe DiMaggio did it again for the third consecutive day, in Boston. The still convalescent and as yet unconditioned outfielder tore the Red Sox apart with his home-run power. Once more Joe’s flaming spirit, his flair for coming through against the odds, his penchant for dramatic achievement and consummate showmanship, were stressed….”

— Dan Daniel, Sport Magazine , in THE SECOND FIRESIDE BOOK

Talk about pressure. Ruth had to hit homers to cure kids. But if DiMaggio went o-fer, there was starvation in all the Little Italys:

“It all began for Nick [Testa] on the same Bronx sandlots and at the same time it began for Rocky Colavito and Frank Malzone, who did make it big. Nick’s parents came to New York from Italy during World War I. Nick’s father was drafted on arrival and only afterward did he begin building a family. The Testas raised four children within a mile of Yankee Stadium and the Polo Grounds. ‘Papa was never a baseball fan,’ Nick said. ‘But Mama was and still is. She used to root for the Yankees, for DiMaggio and Crosetti and Lazzeri. If DiMag had a bad day, she wouldn’t give us our spaghetti for supper.'”

— Bill Libby, Portrait of a Baseball Failure in THE THIRD FIRESIDE BOOK

“Some of the old fishermen who have known DiMaggio all his life remember him as a small boy who helped clean his father’s boat, and as a young man who sneaked away and used a broken oar as a bat on the sandlots nearby. His father, a small mustachioed man known as Zio Pepe, would become infuriated and call him lagnuso (lazy) meschino (good-for-nothing) but in 1936 Zio Pepe was among those who cheered when Joe DiMaggio returned to San Francisco after his first season with the Yankees and was carried along the wharf on the shoulders of the fishermen.”

— Gay Talese,”The Silent Season of a Hero” in Esquire (1966) and THE FIRESIDE BOOK, Vol. IV

NOTES FROM A LEAGUE OF MY OWN

Somebody out there must be anxious to see how my APBA leagues turned out, so here is the bulletin you have been waiting for.

Opening Day seems so long ago, by October. My leagues’ O-Day was in November 1994 (you could look it up in Notes #90 ). Remember? The sixteen original franchises, stocked with their best 25 players, each with the potential for their peak season. Sixteen-plus months and over 1200 games later, the season has ended.

My last report here, in #123, had the Cardinals coasting home the last two weeks. That didn’t quite happen. They slumped, and the Phillies revived, and the Magic Number froze — for quite a while, it was an agonizing one . But on October 1, the Phils were shut out by Noodles Hahn and the last-place Reds, 2-0, to give the Cardinals the NL pennant, with just 87 wins. The Giants streaked to the finish line, past the Cubs and Dodgers, to finish third.

In the AL, the Athletics led practically wire-to-wire, but stumbled in the final week. On October 1, the next-to-last day of the season, they were KO’ed by Ty Cobb’s Tigers. The Yanks swept their final three series, including seven games from the Red Sox, to soar into the Series by three games. An incredible finish. The Tigers and Indians both snuck past the BoSox and into the first division, with strong finishes.

I had a Babe Ruth card based on his 1921 summer, and to put it mildly, the Bambino overachieved: 73dingers! His potential for the long ball was not much different than Mantle, who also saw the dice roll his way — 69HRs. Foxx, who had the best power card in either league, managed “just” 51. (Hack Wilson had that 56-HR potential, but stroked a mere 42. (Mays and Aaron were more notable under-achievers.) I cannot explain the phenomenon of Hot Dice, I can only report what happened. Spooky, beautiful.

When I tell you that Gehrig hit 57 HRs and DiMaggio 41, you might think that the Yankees just bullied their way past the A’s, but in fact, their pitching got hot at the end. Unlikely ace Bob Shawkey won 20, but Gomez and Ford and Chesbro and Red Ruffing all won in crucial spots, the final weeks. And the A’s pitching somehow crumbled; Catfish Hunter, a stopper out of the pen all season, sprung leaks. Bender went down with another injury (he had one last April, those of you with good memories will recall.)

Cobb finished with 31 triples and 100 stolen bases. Sisler’s .368 and Hugh Duffy’s .383 led their leagues. In general, the quality pitching shaved off fifty points from the hitters’ BA, while the constant flow of Hall of Famers to the plate, day in and day out, raised the pitchers’ ERA’s by about two runs.

No, I’m not starting up another season after the Series. I will write some more here about the season just completed, later. It was an amazing journey. Exhausting, exhilarating, over.

A SLIGHTLY-OVERDUE BOOK REVIEW

HONUS WAGNER

by Dennis DeValeria
and Jeanne Burke

Henry Holt & Co, 1996

I noticed that one of the recent Emmies, I think, went to a group selected as “Best Cast.” What a great idea — after all, when we recall M*A*S*H and The Bob Newhart Show (and the list could fill a page), we talk about the cast , how they interacted and played off each other. Sure, the characters were unique, and they all “starred” from time to time. But the cast is a team , and it struck me that baseball really has no special awards for teams , except those who win pennants. And they may not be the “Most Exciting to Watch,” or “Most Hustling,” or “Best at Last-Ditch Rallies” — fans’ teams.

Reading Honus Wagner is like watching a Best Cast ensemble perform, within the familiar flow of the seasons of baseball. Sure, Honus is the main actor, his legs bowed, his enormous hands choking dead balls and heavy bats, his personality winning the respect of players and the lasting admiration of fans. But his times provided Honus with a great cast , too, and we get to know them as Hans comes to life. And the plot is thick with events, some famous, some not so well known, from the days when the country was infatuated with the game.

A cast of characters . I have long suspected that the ballplayers (and owners and umps) of Honus’ era were more individual , more personally interesting, than later breeds — and Honus reinforced this suspicion. Fred Clarke and Tommy Leach, Babe Adams and Deacon Phillippe, rivals John McGraw & Matty, Frank Chance and his Cub dynasty, all book-worthy folks, are among The Dutchman’s significant contemporaries.

And the setting of Honus’ story is no fluffy sit-com: baseball was in rapid evolution, from being a violent sport to a civilized one, finally winding up under a Commish’s thumb. But to visit Honus’ times is to watch baseball learn its manners, learn its economics. It is to see the rules change, ever so slightly, almost every spring. And it is to feel the heat of battle, the war between rival leagues, the rebellion of players that culminated in the Federal League. This long-time Pirate fan learned how the Bucco dynasty at the century’s turn, ruled at least partly because of player raids by the league that emerged as the A.L. — the Pirates just happened to be least ravaged. And, they held onto Wagner.

The ball was dead, but baseball was alive with growing pains. The research for Honus is obviously thorough, and well-presented. (Dennis and Jeanne’s presentation on Honus won the top award at last June’s SABR Convention, and the book is SABR-quality, too.) I know how the 1909 season is going to turn out before I start the chapter, but the train ride is too much fun to pass up, and there are stories in every city where we stop.

Naturally, we look back from the present, and can’t help notice how much things have changed — and remained the same. Forbes Field and Fenway and Wrigley all rise up, and other cities feel pressure to get with it , go with brick and steel. Owners worry about the silence of the turnstiles, about how to keep their players out of trouble and out of their pocketbooks. Honus is a biography long overdue, and one worth baseball’s wait.

IN-SEARCH-OF DEPT.

After my St Patrick’s Day issue [#125] was in the mail, I got curious about just where I heard or read that Babe Ruth’s mother Kate was Irish. I started rooting through my books for the source, and quickly became very frustrated. Very little on Ma Ruth. I have a reprint of The Sporting News of August 25, 1948, a tribute issue following Ruth’s death, and Fred Lieb wrote in the lead story, “Like his fellow star Lou Gehrig, Ruth was of German descent on both sides.” Lieb adds that Ruth may have signed his first International League contract “George H. Ehrhardt,” but “Babe always insisted the German family name was Ruth.”

I finally went to the library, to see what Creamer and other biographers had to say. They wrote that Ruth, when he talked about his mother — which wasn’t often, no love lost there — he said she was “Irish, or mostly Irish.” And as best they could track it down, Kate Schamberger (that spelling might be a letter off) was indeed part Irish — but we will probably never know exactly how much green blood she passed on to little George Herman. (Ruth’s sister also thought Mom was part Irish.)

Ruth also thought that he was born in 1894, by the way, and not ’95. It seems that the Babe really never cared much about where he came from or exactly when he came. He was having too much fun.

If I find out that DiMaggio’s mother was Irish, I will let you know. (It’s not at all far-fetched, I know a number of Irish-Italian marriages that have worked out well.) Let me start the rumor right now, Joe signed his first contract “O’Dimagg!”

EXTRA INNINGS

For a while, it looked like this issue was going to be ten or twelve solid pages of Joe DiMaggio. Notes has never focused on a single player before, although I’ve done some theme issues. But why not let Joe kick off another year of Notes ? But then I started feeling anxious about letting you know how my APBA leagues turned out, and I promised a review of Honus Wagner five issues back.

I don’t know if I’ll watch Opening Night , March 31, from the Kingdome. I guess MLB figured it could pick up where we heard the loudest ovations last October, and everyone wants to see Griffey, right? (so do we need Interleague Plague after all, after television?) I have nothing against Junior, but I’m already tired of Nike commercials, here in March .

I will close this Opening Day special by predicting the Pirates will take the Series. I do this every year. But if you didn’t know that, and if the Pirates indeed go on to win it all, my reputation is secure. We all like to follow winning teams, but there are seasons where we need to just follow the game (a.k.a. “rebuilding years”) … so keep in mind, every game you watch this season, you will see exactly one win and one loss. A bad team will get the L 6 out of 10, a good team will get the W that often, and most teams will be right around .500. April thru October. The difference between 4 out of 10, and 6, is 2, and two is a pretty small number to get all excited about. But hey, it’s Opening Day — go ahead, get excited!